The Oxygen Murder: A Periodic Table Mystery [NOOK Book]


New York City welcomes Gloria Lamerino and her husband, homicide detective Matt Gennaro, in The Oxygen Murder, the eighth installment in Camille Minichino’s acclaimed Periodic Table Mystery series.
Gloria and her best friends, Rose and Frank Galigani, are on vacation in the Big Apple. They plan to visit Matt’s niece Lori Pizzano, a documentary filmmaker, and enjoy the holiday sights together: shopping on Fifth Avenue, dining in Little Italy, ...
See more details below
The Oxygen Murder: A Periodic Table Mystery

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK 7.0
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK 10.1
  • NOOK HD Tablet
  • NOOK HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK eReaders
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook - First Edition)
$7.99 price


New York City welcomes Gloria Lamerino and her husband, homicide detective Matt Gennaro, in The Oxygen Murder, the eighth installment in Camille Minichino’s acclaimed Periodic Table Mystery series.
Gloria and her best friends, Rose and Frank Galigani, are on vacation in the Big Apple. They plan to visit Matt’s niece Lori Pizzano, a documentary filmmaker, and enjoy the holiday sights together: shopping on Fifth Avenue, dining in Little Italy, and honoring ancestors at Ellis Island, while Matt attends a conference with the NYPD.
Unfortunately, Lori’s documentary on ozone and environmental issues has deadly fallout. Gloria stumbles over the body of Lori’s scheming camerawoman in a Times Square loft, and, once again, she is thrust into some dangerous sleuthing.
With suspects ranging from a disapproving brother to a smooth-talking PR administrator to a self-protecting private eye, Gloria tracks a killer through an intricate landscape of colorful neighborhoods and famous landmarks.
Taking us on a trip from the city’s tallest building to its grand park, from its crowded ice rinks to a lonely corner of its two-million-square-foot museum, The Oxygen Murder is as exciting as a ride over New York City in a helium balloon.

Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
In Minichino's eighth chemistry-themed mystery (after 2005's The Nitrogen Murder), Gloria Lamerino, a physicist, and her new husband, homicide detective Matt Gennaro, head to New York City for a much-anticipated Christmas holiday. But Gloria gets sidetracked from shopping and sightseeing when she discovers a murdered woman in the apartment of Matt's niece, Lori Pizzano, a documentary filmmaker. The victim is Lori's camerawoman, Amber Keenan, whose ambition and schemes could have provoked a number of suspects. Lori and Amber had been working on an environmental sciences documentary film about the ozone layer, and had encountered corporations that could be ignoring governmental safety regulations and using strong-arm tactics. Is Lori in danger, too? But Amber's other gig was as a photographer for a PI, and she may have aggravated more than a few questionable characters with her snooping. Cozy fans will find this a breezy summer read. (Aug.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
New York City has many problems. Trust a tourist to bump into the worst of them, a dead body in a relative's home. While her friends Rose and Frank are off sightseeing and her new hubby Matt Gennaro is attending a police conference, Bay State physicist Gloria Lamerino must return a pair of sunglasses to Matt's niece. Lori, a documentary filmmaker, isn't at her loft, but her camera operator Amber is, and won't be leaving. Gloria, no stranger to crime (The Nitrogen Murder, 2005, etc.), promises not to snoop, but it's so much more interesting than shopping and museum-hopping that she can't resist. Did someone mean to kill Amber, or was Lori the real target? It's hard to tell because the gals doubled as blackmailers. Gloria asks whether their filming proved evidence of ozone depletion via the use of banned CFCs bubbling out of Blake Manufacturing and Curry Industries. Of course, the Big Apple has problems beyond murder, blackmail and pollution, including misuses of the Postal Service. On the plus side are all the great restaurants in Little Italy, where Gloria, Matt, Rose and Frank can retreat to talk over the crimes. As her author masters the light touch, Gloria becomes ever more appealing. Now it's time for Minichino to upgrade her plotting, which has deep holes even Gloria can't charm away.
Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781429907217
  • Publisher: St. Martin's Press
  • Publication date: 4/1/2007
  • Series: Periodic Table Mysteries , #8
  • Sold by: Macmillan
  • Format: eBook
  • Edition description: First Edition
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 256
  • Sales rank: 608,525
  • File size: 515 KB

Meet the Author

Camille Minichino has been a regional president and board member of the Mystery Writers of America, the California Writers Club, and Sisters in Crime. Like Gloria Lamerino, the author has a Ph.D. in physics and a long career in research and student instruction. She currently teaches physics at Golden Gate University in San Francisco. She also instructs on writing fiction and works as a scientific editor in the engineering department of Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory. Ms. Minichino lives with her husband and satellite dishes in Castro Valley, California.
Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One
You'd think it would be impossible to find yourself alone in New York City. Especially on a bright Sunday morning in December, only a couple of blocks from the dazzling supersigns of Times Square.

A short distance away, elbows and shoulders overlapped at crowded intersections. Couples and families had to hold hands to stay together. Holiday shoppers, packed as close as particles in a nucleus, strained their necks toward the glittery, animated ads for cameras and underwear, baby clothes and whiskey, surround-sound systems and Dianetics.

But here I was, the only person in the tiny, dark lobby of a narrow brick building, about to enter the smallest, oldest elevator I'd ever seen. Picture a dusty reddish-brown box with metal construction on three sides and a rickety accordion gate on the fourth. I hoped the indentations peppering its walls were only coincidentally shaped like bullet holes.

The blast of heat, comforting at first after the near-freezing temperature and gusty wind outside, now added to the swirls of dust around my nostrils.

I stepped inside the cage and pulled the squeaky gate across the opening. In the back corner, a janitor's bucket and mop took up a quarter of the floor space. The smell of chlorine tickled my nose.

I could hardly breathe.

I looked up at the dented metal ceiling. Too bad there were no oxygen masks, like those demonstrated by our flight attendant on the plane from Boston's Logan Airport.

I was no stranger to creepy environments--hadn't I lived above my friends' funeral parlor for more than a year? Done my laundry a few meters from their inventory of preservative chemicals and embalming fluid? Still, an uneasy feeling crept over me in the unnatural quiet of this space. I hunched my shoulders and pushed a scratched button with a worn-down label. Number 4, I hoped. I worked my jaw to loosen it.

The elevator jerked into motion.

I longed for a sign of life, some sound other than the creaking machinery of the old cage. Where were the alleged eight million citizens of the nation's largest city? Not to mention the hundred thousand or so tourists supposedly passing through JFK every day. Where were the blaring car horns, the noisy taxis, the thundering buses? Where were the sirens of the famous NYFD? The old building seemed soundproof, leaving no noise inside except that of the whirring, rasping gears taking me upward toward . . . what?

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Four of us had flown into La Guardia two days ago, but everyone else was too busy for this errand. My best friends, Rose and Frank Galigani, were having breakfast with relatives, the parents of their daughter-in-law, Karla, who was originally from New York. My husband of four months, homicide detective Matt Gennaro, was tied up, so to speak, at a police conference, which is what had brought us all to New York City in the first place.

So it had fallen to me to go to the home-cum-workplace of thirty-something Lori Pizzano, Matt's niece. His late wife Teresa's niece, more accurately. We'd had dinner with Lori last night, and she'd left her prescription sunglasses at the restaurant. As the only one of us truly on vacation this morning, I'd offered to return them.

I'd pictured something more exotic when Lori gave me directions to her "film studio in Times Square."

The old elevator took forever, fitting and starting its way up, past two other red metal doors, each with its own blend of scuff marks. I saw graffiti-lettered fagettaboudit twice and wondered what daredevil wrote it, swinging around, hovering over the open shaft. Here and there bleached-out streaks hinted at unmentionable stains.

At the fourth floor, the cage jerked to a stop, landing me across a narrow hallway from the threshold to Lori's apartment, the large metal door of which stood wide open.


I checked my watch. Quarter to nine. I was cutting it close. Lori had said she usually went ice-skating around nine on Sunday mornings. Surely she couldn't have gone already, leaving her door open for me? My stereotypical New Yorker used two dead bolts and a chain to secure her door even when she was home.

From my place in the elevator I scanned the area, noting an eclectic blend of work and living furnishings, with an occasional partition in the form of a standing screen, a drape, or a curtain. Easy chairs in muted colors mixed with high-tech-looking worktables and computer stations.

"No more cutting room floor," Lori had told us last night, expertly twirling spaghetti in a half-indoor, half-outdoor Little Italy restaurant. She'd worn a purple scarf, a lacy knit that seemed to offer no warmth against the cold air coming under the door from Mulberry Street but had much to recommend it as a fashion statement. "It's all videocam to computer or TV screen, direct. The editing is all done electronically, and the product is a videotape or a DVD."

"Imagine," said Rose, my lowest-tech friend.

"I have to admit, though, I have a soft spot in my heart for film," Lori said. "As far as prints go, you can't beat the resolution of fine-grain film. I still have a little darkroom in my studio."

I'd enjoyed hearing Lori talk about her latest success, winning an award for a short film on September 11 families. "Not that it translates to a lot of money," she'd said. "But I love my work, and there's always that huge grant out there waiting for a documentary filmmaker."

Her Uncle Matt seemed proud, and I guessed that at times like these he thought of his first wife, Teresa, Lori's aunt. Judging from photos in Matt's albums, there was a striking resemblance between Lori and the young Teresa, both petite in stature but with soft, round features, both with an intense and confident air.

I realized I'd been standing in the stopped elevator, going nowhere. I grasped the metal slats of the accordion door, unwilling to leave what had come to feel safe. The cage. The yellow mop and me.

"Lori?" I squeaked.

No answer. Except for a slight scratching sound. Mice? I felt a deep shiver and looked around me, as if someone might have managed to slip in beside me during what had seemed a long ride.

I shifted my body and stuck my head as far through one of the diamond-shaped openings as I could. My feet seemed glued to the tacky floor.

One more time, a little louder. "Lori?"

No answer, until--a siren, finally, from the street. The blast of noise shook me out of my inertia. I took a breath. All I had to do was enter the loft, deposit the glasses on a table, and make my exit. Nothing to it. Nothing to be afraid of. Maybe I'd take the extra minute to leave a note, that's how unafraid I was.

I pulled Lori's glasses, encased in hard plastic, from my purse and tapped twice on a metal slat.

I sang out a warning. "Hi, Lori. It's me, Gloria. I have your glasses." I'd been going for light and cheery but instead heard strained.

Finally, I pulled at the elevator's rusty door: I'm coming in. Mice beware.

Only four steps into the apartment, long before I reached the small wooden table, I saw her. The glasses fell from my hand and crashed to the floor.

A woman was sprawled on the bare wooden floor, in front of a rack of electronics. A soft upholstered couch had been overturned, its flowery pillows scattered near her body.


My heart jumped and my pulse raced. The light was dim, blocked by a neighboring brick building not five feet away from the window, but I could see the woman's hair: an unusual color, almost gold, closer to amber.

A wave of relief went through me.

Not Lori's tight dark curls. A large frame, not Lori's petite shoulders and short legs.

Not Lori, but still a woman in trauma.

I felt, rather than saw, a figure at the far end of the loft, leaving by the window.

I hurried toward the woman, skirting around one of the loft's many posts, at the same time pushing 911 on my cell phone.

Rumble. Crash. Crash.

Loud noises from outside sent an adrenaline rush through me. The noise was close--too close. And too many decibels for mice. I stepped back, hovering between wanting to help the woman and longing to rush back to the elevator and flee the building.

I heard a moan from the woman. I leaned down to say something soothing. More likely, something foolish, like Are you okay? I touched her rich golden hair and shrank away from the stickiness. I smelled her blood. There was a large pool of it under her head, or maybe a small pool, I couldn't tell, but it was enough to make me woozy.

Help her, I told myself. But I was unable to move.

I clung to the cell phone as if that in itself were productive.

Finally, the dispatcher's voice came over the line. "What's your address, please?"

I took a breath and rattled off the West Forty-eighth Street address.

"Yes, they're already on their way," the dispatcher said. "Please don't hang up this time. Now, is anyone else there with you?"

"I didn't hang up." I said. "This is my first call to you."

Had I given the wrong address?

I could already hear the ambulance stopping at the entrance four floors down.

So this was what they meant by a New York minute.

Copyright © 2006 by Camille Minichino. All rights reserved.
Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 5 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star


4 Star


3 Star


2 Star


1 Star


Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation


  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
Sort by: Showing all of 5 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 2, 2007

    Murder On Vacation

    Gloria Lamerino, a retired physicist, and her fiancé, Homicide Detective Matt Gennaro, head to New York City for a vacation with their best friends Rose and Frank Galigani before Christmas. They plan to visit Matt¿s niece Lori Pizzano, a documentary filmmaker. Rose plans to shop and take in shows and to get Gloria to participate with her as much as possible. Matt is there to attend an NYPD conference. Lori is doing a documentary on ozone and environmental issues. When Gloria goes to her apartment, she stumbles over the body of her camerawoman, Amber Keenan. Later Gloria learns that Amber had been scheming, and there is an abundance of suspects. Can Gloria enjoy her vacation while finding a killer? And can she help Lori stay safe in the process? Before I read my first book in this series, I worried about it being full of science jargon. It¿s not. The author has done a great job of presenting needed information without taking you out of the story. And all the technical data is in layman¿s terms. I really like Gloria and Matt. They are a great couple with real problems and issues to deal with. The New York location of this book adds to the story and provides great ambiance. I highly recommend this book and the whole series.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    fun scientific cozy

    Four months married physicist Dr. Gloria Lamerino accompanies her husband Boston homicide detective Matt Gennaro to New York City where he is attending a police conference and when he is free they plan to enjoy the Manhattan Christmas season. While Matt attends a conference session, Gloria visits his niece, award winning documentary filmmaker Lori Pizzano on West Forty-eighth. However instead of Lori being there, to her shock, the scientist discovers the corpse of camerawoman, Amber Keenan and she believes the culprit just left via the window. --- Gloria worries about Lori¿s safety when she learns that she was collaborating with the victim on a new project about the ozone layer that has led to threatening encounters with corporate suits who allegedly are ignoring governmental environmental regulations. She begins investigating and learns that Amber also worked as a photographer for Tina Miller, Private Investigator. Gloria ponders whether one of Miller¿s targets killed Amber or was it one of the suits that had her murdered. --- The eighth Periodic Table Mystery is a fun cozy in which scientific sleuthing is combined with tours of New York City. The story line is fast-paced as Gloria takes Manhattan while Matt and NYPD plead with her to not provide the Lamerino solution. THE OXYGEN MURDER is a fabulous whodunit that will send newcomers searching for the backlist gas tales and long time fans looking forward to The Fluorine Murder. --- Harriet Klausner

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 23, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted August 16, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted July 24, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

Sort by: Showing all of 5 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)