A Draw of Death (Helen Binney Mysteries Book 3) (10 page)

"Judging by the million-dollar mansion, which rumor says was bought with cash, Vic had enough net worth that even leaving a small fraction of his estate to the cat would be a lot of money to some people, especially if the money could be used to pay for the caretaker's time, not just things like food and vet bills.

Tate turned off the space heater and thought for a moment. "Depending on the terms of the bequest, the caretaker might be able to claim some compensation for himself in addition to the expenses. It seems unlikely as a motive for murder, though. Especially given how vicious this particular cat is rumored to be. The caretaker could be on the hook for a lot more money than whatever he gets from the bequest if the cat bites someone. Stevie had to insist that it be locked up whenever her crew was on the property. It hates everyone, according to her. Everyone except Vic, of course."

"And me," Helen said. "It came over and sat on my lap for a while on Sunday when I was waiting for Peterson to interview me."

"Two cranky peas in a pod."

"Or two reasonable creatures who are treated badly and lash out with good justification," Helen said. "Whoever named it Broadway ought to be shot. It's an invitation to break out into song, and most of the time the singing must be excruciating to a cat's heightened sense of hearing."

"I suppose you've got an operatic-quality singing voice?"

"Not even close," Helen said. "But I have enough sense to refrain from singing at the cat. It must have appreciated the peace and quiet while sitting with me."

"How come you never leave me in peace and quiet?"

Helen nodded at the lathe. "You don't like quiet."

"I suppose you're right." Tate rummaged through some clutter on his workbench before coming up with his eye and ear protection. "Just for the record, I'm pretty sure Vic was the one who named the cat, so you might not want to talk about shooting its namer, at least until his actual killer is caught. And it wasn't a tribute to the famous theater street. In poker terms, a broadway is a specific type of winning poker hand: a straight of five consecutive cards, any suit, starting with a ten, through the jack, queen, king and ace. Vic won a major tournament with one early on in his career. At the time, he'd been on the verge of giving up on the idea of becoming a full-time player, and that success convinced him to stick with it."

"Still, it's not a very good name for a cat," Helen said. "If Vic actually cared about the animal, he'd have named it something that reflected its personality, not something to glorify himself. Maybe then the cat wouldn't feel the urge to act out."

"So what would you do?" Tate said. "Name it after yourself since you're so alike?"

"I might have. It's smart and curious and anti-social, like me." Helen thought she heard a car coming up her gravel driveway. "On the other hand, if it was witty and pessimistic and obsessed with scratching perfectly good bits of wood into smaller bits, I'd be tempted to call it Ambrose."

"No one—man or beast—deserves that kind of abuse."

"Ambrose is a perfectly fine name." She heard the distinctive sound of two car doors slamming shut. Jay and Zee would wait as long as Helen wanted them to, but Terri was another matter. Helen slid off the director's chair and brushed at the sawdust on her casual pants. "I'll leave you to your peace and noise. Terri Green is expecting me. Are you sure I can't tell her you've agreed to speak at the library in January? She might forgive me for the fiasco with Vic if she knew you were his replacement."

"Not if you're right about the limited appeal of a speech on woodworking." He slipped his goggles on and then raised them again. "Just one thing before you leave. I'm going to be too busy making sure Stevie isn't charged with a crime to also watch over you until Vic's killer is apprehended. I'd appreciate it if just this once you'd avoid making any waves. That means no more controversial speakers for the library and no name-calling of cats, their dead owners, or police detectives."

Jay and Zee dropped Helen off at the top of the uneven concrete path to the annex and left to park on the other side of the library where they could play games on their phones while they waited.

Marianne was on the lawn outside the door to the annex. She was running back and forth among three teens who were tossing a cardboard box about the size of a packet of copy paper in an apparent game of keep-away. Two of the teens were significantly taller than the third one, who was closer to Helen's height. All three wore dark, androgynous outfits consisting of hoodies and oversized shorts that hung down to mid-calf. The hoods were up, throwing shadows on their faces, making a fashion statement and, probably as the least important consideration, protecting them from the cold wind that whipped around the building. To one side of the concrete path was a jumble of three skateboards, suggesting the teens had been on their way to the park about a block away on the street behind the library.

The three skaters were chanting "Mari-anne, the Library-Anne."

Poor Marianne ran from teen to teen like an eager puppy, never coming to close too retrieving her box but convinced that if she just tried hard enough, she'd actually catch it.

"Gentlemen." As she approached the annex's door, Helen finally got a good look at the face of the smallest teen. "And lady."

The tallest of the trio held the box under his arm as if it were a football, safe from Marianne's attempts to tug it away from him. He turned to face Helen, and the other two came over to flank him. The apparent leader narrowed his eyes at Helen, probably dreaming up some new game to play.

She knew she had even less chance than the nimble Marianne to physically retrieve the box that presumably didn't belong to the teens. That didn't mean Helen was helpless. "Seriously?" Helen said to the apparent leader. "You can't find something better to do than to tease a defenseless street person? You think that's worth getting dragged down to the police station?"

"No donut shop is going to catch us," the leader said. "No way, not while we've got our boards."

"You really haven't thought it out, have you? There are video cameras all over the library building." At least, she hoped there were, but she didn't dare look now. "You can't out-skate a camera. The thing is, if you're going to risk annoying the cops, it really ought to be for something more important than a few minutes of fun while teasing someone who can't really fight back. Either go big, or go home."

"She's right, bro," the girl said, taking the box from the leader's arm and holding it out to Marianne. "You gotta bust diamondz or bail. Otherwise, you're no better'n a pusher."

Before Marianne could claim the box, the shorter of the two boys grabbed it out of the girl's hands, pulled off the lid, and tossed it into the air, where it spun in a graceful loop. The papers inside caught the wind and dispersed in even more impressive tricks. Marianne began pouncing on the ones that fell closest to her.

Watching his handiwork, the teen crossed his arms over his chest and said, "Now
that
was diamondz. What does an old geezer like you know about jail anyway? Bet you've never done anything even a little bit sketchy in your whole, overly long life."

The girl slugged him in the arm. "You idiot. She's the lady who almost got killed while investigating a murder. That's about as rad as it gets."

"Are you really that old biddy?" the tall leader said in an awestruck tone.

"It's Binney, and I'm not old," she said. "Now, either help Marianne pick up her papers or move along before I call the police."

The shorter boy grumbled, "This is so lame," grabbed his board and jogged in the direction of the skate park. The girl mumbled "Sorry" at Marianne, and then she and the taller boy went over to the fence to pick up the papers that had collected there.

Marianne didn't seem to notice the apology or the assistance. She was on her knees crawling from paper to paper, mumbling something over and over, as if trying to make sure she wouldn't forget it.

"Can I help?" Helen said to Marianne. "If you give me the box, I'll hold onto it for you. You're better at chasing down the papers than I am, but I can keep them safe so they don't fly away again."

That seemed to get through Marianne's obsessive focus on the papers. She stopped mumbling and glanced over her shoulder, revealing a black eye so impressive that Helen couldn't believe she'd missed it until now, even with most of her attention on finding a way to end the teens' cruel game.

The black eye couldn't have been the teens' fault, at least not due to anything they'd done today. Helen knew from personal experience that to be that colorful, the injury had to have happened at least twenty-four hours ago. She'd once smacked herself in the face with a car door when the wind blew it out of her hand and had woken up the next day to a glorious bit of bruising. She hadn't been able to leave the private areas of the governor's mansion for two weeks after that for fear that some less-than-reputable media outlet would claim her husband had assaulted her. 

Helen pointed at the swollen, bruised area on Marianne's face. "What happened?"

Marianne raised a hand to brush gingerly at her upper cheek. Her half-gloves were missing, and there were lacerations on both hands, visible even through the accumulated grime and windburn. Her knuckles were bruised as if she'd punched something.

She glanced briefly in the direction of the street and then whispered, "The Lennias. They're gonna cause the world to end. Starting wi' me."

"Why would they want to hurt you?"

"I know who they are," she said, looking at the street again. "I saw 'em meeting o'er there, talkin' 'bout death 'n destruction."

Helen knew it was unlikely, but she had to ask, "Did you tell the police?"

"I fill out a report every Monday. This week, I made a new flyer with m'latest sighting 'n gave 'em to everyone in the station." She shook her stack of papers and handed them to Helen. "These're left over. You can keep one."

Detective Peterson and his cronies had undoubtedly circular-filed theirs, probably without even waiting for Marianne to leave the station. Helen couldn't be that cold-hearted. Besides, she was curious what the flyers said. Maybe they actually explained what a Lennia was. Having a copy would also remind her to ask Geoff what he knew about Marianne and whether there was anything that could be done to help her. The woman was obviously tough, but this winter was already promising to be harsher than usual. The weather was a much bigger threat than any imaginary doomsday cult.

"Thank you. I'd like that." Helen kept one of the newsletters and added the rest to Marianne's collection.

Marianne's smile lit up her dirty, reddened face, making her look younger and less confused. The black eye ruined the picture, though.

"Have you had your injuries looked at by a doctor?"

Marianne's smile faded, and she shook her head nervously. "Can't. Too many Lennias at the hospital. They'd finish the job."

"Do you have anywhere safe to go? A shelter, perhaps?"

Marianne shook her head.

"Lennias there too?"

"You've seen 'em?" A mixture of surprise and hope filled Marianne's eyes.

"No, I was just guessing. I can't spot a Lennia the way you can."

Marianne nodded solemnly. "Takes lotsa' practice."

"Just be careful," Helen said, wishing there was something more she could do. She didn't have the skills to help the poor deluded woman, and she couldn't think of anyone who did. The police generally didn't have the right expertise to deal with law-abiding homeless people, and there couldn't ever be enough social service programs to help everyone, especially the ones who wouldn't acknowledge that they needed help.

Helen fumbled in her yarn bag for one of her business cards and handed it Marianne. "If the Lennia come back to hurt you, promise me you'll go to the police station and call me from there. I'll worry about you otherwise."

"I will," Marianne said. "Cops're okay. Let me use their copy machine sometimes, 'n I haven't seen any Lennias there."

Helen felt a little better knowing that Marianne was willing to go to the police for help. That was more than Helen herself was usually willing to do. Of course, she didn't have any world-ending conspiracists trying to kill her.

Marianne took back her box and started toward where the two teens had almost finished collecting the papers near the fence. After a few steps, she looked over her shoulder at Helen and said, "You be careful too. The Lennias talked about you. They're coming after you next."

*   *   *

The door to the library annex was locked, so Helen used her cane to rap on it. A minute later, Terri Greene peered through the small security window, and then the door swung open.

"Sorry," Terri said. "Reporters have been bugging me for an interview, and I'm doing whatever I can to stay out of their sight. Things are bad enough without them reminding everyone in town that the library was Rezendes's last public appearance. I'm afraid someone's going to start thinking that correlation is the same as causation and he was killed because of the event here."

Helen followed Terri down the hall to the meeting room, where books were being sorted for the library's biggest sale of the year, to be held on the first weekend of December. "How bad is the fall-out?"

Terri shrugged and bent to lift a huge carton of books onto a table. "I can handle it."

Terri could handle a charging bull, but that didn't mean she should have to. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Not unless you want to volunteer to be the new president of the Friends of the Library." 

"Have you been asked to resign?"

"Oh, nothing like that," Terri said. "That would almost be a relief. I've been the president for going on ten years now, and people have gotten used to me taking care of things. If they asked me to quit, then one of them would have to take on my job, and they all know how much work it is, so there aren't any volunteers. They'll get over their snit, but for the moment I can't even blame them for being upset. We borrowed against our speakers' budget for next year to pay for Vic's purple stuff. It seemed like a good idea at the time. If it had worked, we'd have introduced more people to the variety of services available at the library, and we might even have motivated a few of them to make donations. Instead, all we got from the investment is a bunch of complaints from our patrons."

"I can fix the financial part of the problem, at least," Helen said. "My accountant recently reminded me to make some charitable contributions before the end of the year. I'm sure my donation to the library will more than cover whatever was spent on Vic's appearance."

"I wish all my problems were that easy to fix," Terri said, "but it's going to take a while before anyone on the board listens to my recommendations again. And in the meantime, we're losing opportunities to bring the library into the late-twentieth century, if not all the way into the twenty-first. Sometimes, I'd like to just shake people who can't see how important libraries are or who try to make us look bad."

It was fortunate that Vic hadn't been shaken to death, then. If Terri was as direct and hands-on about everything as she was with her coaching and library work, she must have found it difficult on Saturday to wait for Helen to straighten things out with Vic. What if Terri had gone to his mansion to confront him? Could the urge to "shake some sense" into him have morphed into real violence?