A Draw of Death (Helen Binney Mysteries Book 3) (20 page)

"Most of the club members wanted to let Josie in on a provisional basis," Betty said. "They were willing to give her a chance to get caught up on the other players, but a few were really rigid about it. Seemed silly to me, all that fuss over a grown man who played games for a living, but some of the fans took it seriously."

"What did Vic think of his fans?" Helen said. "Did he ever play his little fake-aggressive games with them?"

"You think one of his fans might have taken offense and wanted him dead?" Betty said. "I suppose it's possible."

"Nah," Josie said. "Not Vic's fans. Even if they were kinda mean to me, I had to admire how devoted they were to the players. Especially to Vic. He never made fun of them, not even when he was being a jerk in televised events. He was also really good about coming to their conventions, even the really little ones, and signing memorabilia for them. He never complained about doing it either."

"I hadn't thought of the memorabilia," Betty said. "I once kept the books for a small collectibles store. I had to change the valuation on the inventory once when a previously obscure artist died in a spectacular stunt. The value of collectibles, like the
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merchandise that Vic signed, can skyrocket in value once the celebrity dies, since it's impossible to create any more autographed versions. Anyone who had a lot of Vic's stuff had a financial motive to kill him."

"And the most likely candidates to have a lot of those collectibles are the fans camping out across from Vic's front gates this week," Helen said. "I wonder if Detective Peterson talked to any of them."

"Not likely," Josie said. "His uncle told us he's so convinced he knows who the culprit is that he considers the case pretty much closed. Hank's just waiting for some forensic evidence reports to come in before he makes an arrest. He's not really doing anything on the case. He's even had enough free time to work on getting your homeless friend Marianne into some sort of program that will keep her safe and off the streets for a while. Apparently she's really scared about something."

Betty nodded. "Scared enough that she let herself be put into an observation ward at the hospital. Hank's uncle said her social worker's been trying for months to get her somewhere she could be examined, but Marianne always refused. She only agreed now because she's more afraid of what's outside the hospital than what's inside. She's calling it protective custody. Of course, Hank thinks she just fell down, and that's where her injuries came from, but at least she's being taken care of."

"Poor Marianne," Josie said. "I didn't recognize her name when you asked before, but  Geoff explained this morning. She was in my class one year, and I totally thought she was going to be the first journalist from Wharton to win a Pulitzer. I didn't realize she'd gotten sick and ended up on the streets."

"She didn't look very good yesterday," Helen said. "Black eyes and bruises on her chin. Her hands were scratched up too, but that could have just been from living outdoors."

"I don't think so," Josie said. "According to Geoff, Marianne spends a lot of time inside the library, and she wouldn't be allowed in there if she were too much of a mess. He said she takes pretty good care of herself, at least physically. The skin on her hands might be rough, but it's usually clean, and she never has any cuts or scrapes."

"I hope they can help her while she's in the hospital," Helen said. "It's shaping up to be a brutal winter."

"It sounds like Marianne is as worried about you as you are about her," Betty said. "Hank's uncle told us she kept warning the police that you were next. At first they thought she meant she wanted to hurt you, which seemed really odd, because she's never been violent. Eventually they figured out she meant the Lennias wanted to kill you, just like she claims they'd tried to kill her."

"Did she mention anyone else on their hit list?" Helen asked.

"Not that we've heard," Betty said. "Just you."

"You must have made a big impression on her," Josie said. "Or else your name is the only one she can remember."

For once, Helen was just as glad that Detective Peterson didn't take her seriously. Otherwise, he'd be trying to lock her up in protective custody too. She had enough people hovering over her already. She didn't need anyone trying to save her from imaginary dangers.

At the end of the hour, Helen's car was waiting for her with Jay and Zee in the front seat. She had them drop her off at the bottom of Freddie Wade's driveway and then sent them on ahead to check whether the coast was clear at the mansion.

The van that had been parked in front of the garage at Freddie's was gone, and the absolute silence suggested the house was empty. Surely with four adolescent boys around, there'd be some amount of noise if they were at home, no matter how well soundproofed the building was.

Helen knocked on the front door but wasn't surprised when there was no answer. Freddie and the boys were probably at some school-related activity.

Jay and Zee honked to get her attention and then gave her a thumbs-up signal, confirming that the detectives were gone from Vic's house. Helen waved them off to park and wait for her.

Helen made a quick circuit around Freddie's house in case there was anyone out back who might not have heard her knocking. As long as she was here, she might as well check for the cat too, in case it was on another one of its scavenger hunts.

Helen passed beneath the second-floor deck where she'd first seen Freddie watching Vic's mansion and continued all the way around the house to the side that faced Vic's property. The whole time, she hadn't seen or heard a living creature. She hadn't really expected to, but it never hurt to be thorough. If the cat was, as she suspected, acting out to get attention like its deceased owner had done, it wouldn't bother to spend any time outside an unoccupied house.

As Helen rounded the last corner at the back of the garage, she thought she heard something behind her. She looked over her shoulder at the backyard, and her foot hit something, causing her to stumble. Her cane slid on a damp patch of grass, and the next thing she knew she was on the frozen grass with the breath knocked out of her.

She lay there for a moment to recover, grateful that she was alone and unobserved, and then rolled over to see what had attacked her.

It was a bright yellow hand cart that, if she'd been paying any attention whatsoever to where she was going, she couldn't possibly have missed it. It looked like it had been abandoned in a hurry, simply tossed aside to fall over, instead of neatly propped up on its wheels.

Helen pushed herself to her feet. She picked up the useless cane and headed for the trees that offered the two property owners a bit of privacy, at least from everyone except nosy neighbors standing on an upper story deck and using binoculars.

Helen peered into the woods that separated the two properties in case the cat was lurking there. She noticed a few narrow paths where it was obvious that some sort of traffic passed on a regular basis. They weren't wide, level paths, but narrower and more natural, as if they simply marked the passing of a variety of wildlife, like Vic's cat and whatever prey it might be hunting. Since the brambles and vines were cleared, the paths could also have been used by Freddie's sons exploring their surroundings.

If Helen hadn't just fallen on the much more level lawn, she might have cut through the side property to Vic's mansion, but she didn't want to tempt fate. She'd managed not to injure herself beyond a slightly sore wrist, but she probably wouldn't be so lucky if she tripped over a tree root or some other hazard.

Helen made her way back to the road and along Vic's front property line. The cat had apparently tired of teasing the fans and wasn't lurking on the top of the wall. The reporters had tired of their game too—waiting for a story to break—and had left. The fans were a hardier group. In fact, it looked like a few more people had arrived. They had two card tables set up now, each with six players engaged in what appeared to be an impromptu, multi-hand poker tournament.

Larry Warner, the fan with the black headband around his long hair, was just watching the event rather than playing, so Helen went over to ask him if he'd seen Freddie and her sons leave.

"They started packing up the van a little after you left this morning," he said. "Backed it right into the garage, so we couldn't see what they were filling it with. It had to have been a lot of stuff, because it took about forty-five minutes, with lots of her nagging and the boys running in and out of the house and doors slamming every two minutes. They just left a few minutes before you got here."

That much time to pack suggested a bigger trip than simply going to a single soccer practice or even multiple events if each of the boys was involved in a different sport. "Had they done that much packing the other days you were here?"

He shook his head. "It looked to me like they were going on vacation this time. After they'd finished packing the back, Freddie pulled the van forward to close the garage door behind it, and the kids waited for her in the driveway. They each had a little wheeled suitcase that they dragged into the van when they climbed into their seats."

On vacation, or on the lam? Freddie might have realized that her list of license plate numbers, rather than proving someone else had been at the mansion, would actually prove that no one else had driven within range of her cameras on the night Vic had died. That might cause even Detective Peterson to consider Freddie a suspect. If she'd already committed murder to protect her sons, she wouldn't have any qualms about doing whatever else was necessary to make sure they stayed together as a family.

"I'd love to know if she comes back." Helen dug in her yarn bag for a business card. She gave it to Larry, who stuck it in his wallet.

"I'll let you know the minute they come back," he said. "The very minute. If they come back."

"That would be great." She didn't want to get Tate's hopes up just yet, but if Freddie had really fled the jurisdiction, even Detective Peterson would have to reconsider his assumption that Stevie was guilty. Of course, Freddie wasn't the only suspect Peterson should be talking to but wasn't. "Have the police questioned you or any of your colleagues?"

"I tried to tell the male detective—I didn't get his name. Kinda short but with a big ego. He'd be a rotten poker player. I could read every thought he had, without even trying. Every single thought."

"That sounds like Detective Peterson. Not really a good listener either. I'd like to hear what you tried to tell him, though."

"See, it's like this." Larry's headband had fallen down over his eyes, and he absently tugged it back in place. "Vic really was a nice guy. No one from any of his television shows was mad at him. That PR person who was with him at the library, she might have been mad at him, but she dealt with bigger problems than that, so she wouldn't have killed him. The only person who really hated him was Donald Glennon. And I heard that the people who give him his marching orders, the founders of the Compulsive Gambling Recovery Group, are getting the bulk of Vic's estate. That gives him twice the motive to kill Vic."

"Where'd you hear about the inheritance?" Helen asked, surprised that the word had spread so quickly. Or maybe his fans had known all along. "Had Vic told people about his will before he died?"

"I just heard it this morning from the Internet," Larry said. "But wouldn't the beneficiary know about it as soon as the will was written?"

"Apparently not." Helen watched as the current poker hand finished, and someone she didn't recognize claimed all the chips. "You know, there's another group that has a financial motive for killing Vic."

"Who?"

Helen nodded at the two tables of poker players. "Your fan club. You're getting a bequest in the will, and the memorabilia you have probably skyrocketed in value as soon as Vic died."

Larry shook his head. "None of us would ever sell our memorabilia. Never, ever, ever. It would be like, like, like selling our kids."

Helen had a vision of a bunch of long-haired elementary-school kids sitting around a table, smoking cigars and holding cards that were too big for their hands. "Are you sure all of the club members as devoted as you are?"

Larry peered at his fellow fans suspiciously. "I think so."

"If you find out otherwise, you've got my number," Helen said. "I'd be interested to know if you see anyone rushing out to sell their memorabilia."

"I would too," Larry said, tugging his fallen headband up and over his head to retie it. "It's got to be grounds for revoking their membership."

*   *   *

Helen tried the buzzer at the gate, but no one responded. She considered going back to Freddie's yard and trekking through the side property line to search for the cat. For all she knew, though, it had been caught already, and there was too much risk that the fans would follow her.

She'd just have to come back later. Helen headed for her car, intending to go home, but her phone rang as soon as they left the no-service zone. There was a text from Terri Greene, saying that Donald Glennon was at the library, demanding an immediate date and time for his anti-gambling speech.

Helen texted back that she'd be there in five minutes, and she'd handle him. There was no rush to schedule his speech, but she'd forgotten to ask him before about his alibi, and this might be a good opportunity to do it.

Jay and Zee dropped Helen off at the path to the library annex. Even though it was only early afternoon, the skies were gray and the side yard was in the shadow of the building. Helen had never noticed before how gloomy this area could be, probably because there were usually other people around. She could really use Marianne's cheerful presence now.

As soon as Helen entered the annex, she could hear Donald's raised voice through the heavy, closed door of the meeting room. He had his back to the door, so he couldn't see Helen through its window, but Terri could. She herded Donald over to the far end of the room and somehow convinced him to stay there while she came out to talk to Helen.

"He's lost it," Terri said. "I've never seen him this worked up before. He wouldn't accept that you were the only person who could schedule a speech. Usually he'll back down if I threaten to go over his head to his boss or in this case to the leaders of the Compulsive Gambling Recovery Group, but not today."

"The murder has everyone on edge," Helen said. "Especially the most likely suspects. Donald's got to know that people will suspect him of the crime, since he's got the most obvious motive. He's probably hoping to show people he's passionate about his cause but that he's not a killer."                                          

"Is he actually a suspect?" Terri said. "I thought the police were focused on the various contractors at the mansion."

"They are, but until they actually make an arrest, Donald and all the other potential suspects will be on edge, wondering if everyone's thinking they did it."

"Who else might be a suspect?"

"Anyone who can't account for his or her whereabouts between midnight and 4 a.m. on Sunday morning."

"Which has to be most of the town," Terri said. "I'm probably one of only a handful of adults who have witnesses to being awake then and nowhere near Vic Rezendes's house. My team had an away game, and we had to leave at 4:30. I was at the school with the bus driver by 4:00."

Thank goodness at least one possible suspect had an alibi.

"Wait," Terri said. "You actually thought I might have killed Vic for making the Friends of the Library look bad on Saturday? If I killed everyone in this town who ever annoyed me, there'd be no one left. In fact, you should be really thankful that I'm not a violent person, or you'd be at the top of my hit list."

"It wasn't personal." Helen liked Terri and had hoped they could be friends. As long as the other woman wasn't a killer, of course. "I had to consider everyone. If I made assumptions like Detective Peterson does, I'd never have figured out what happened to Angie or who had killed my nurse."

"I'll never understand how you managed to have such a long career in politics when you're this blunt with people."

"I was different in that setting," Helen said. "I can play the game when I have to, but I didn't think it was necessary any longer. I'm only blunt with people who can handle it. Politicians are all a bunch of wimps, so I watched my words around them. You're tougher than that."

Terri threw her arms up in the air in defeat. "I don't know whether to accept the compliment or to do the real-world equivalent of blocking you on Facebook."

"Accept the compliment," Helen said. "I really do admire you, and you couldn't possibly have killed Vic if the bus driver can confirm your alibi."

Terri laughed ruefully. "Not even willing to take my word for it?"

"I'm just being thorough," Helen said. "The future of Tate's niece, Stevie, is on the line here."

"That's who they think killed Vic?"

Helen nodded. "So, am I still on the speaker's committee for the Friends of the Library, or will I be blocked from that as well as from your friendship?"

Terri glanced over her shoulder at where Donald was waiting. "I might consider forgiving you if you can get Donald to calm down and go away. Do me a favor and don't be too blunt with him. Assume he's a big political wimp."

*   *   *

If Helen had to be politically correct to help the Friends of the Library, she could do it, but she didn't have to like it. She stomped into the meeting room and over to the table where Donald was sitting.