A Draw of Death (Helen Binney Mysteries Book 3) (25 page)

Perhaps that was the opening she needed to get away from Art, or at least come up with a plan. "Go ahead and get the cat back into the cage," she said. "I rather like the animal, and I don't want anything to happen to it. Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere. I can't outrun you, even with a head start."

It was the truth. She'd never get away from him by limping down that long flight of stairs. It wasn't all that steep, but there were a lot of steps, and her hip kept her from moving quickly.

Art came to a sudden decision. "I'll be right back, so don't get any ideas."

Too late for that, she thought. Adrenaline kicked in again, bringing a flash of inspiration. Too bad she couldn't figure out how to trigger her adrenaline at will.

Art was at the door, opening it slowly and leading with a raised foot to block the cat from escaping. Now was as good a time as any to make her move.

Helen crept as quietly as possible over to the top of the stairs and reached for the railing. She hesitated, aware that it was going to hurt. Still, a little temporary pain was better than a lot of permanent death.

She glanced at Art, to make sure he wasn't on to her, and caught him kicking at the enraged cat in the doorway. Apparently Art couldn't hit a moving target, which might explain why he'd arranged for his boss to be tied up by Donald. In any event, the cat didn't need to be rescued. It was inflicting far more damage on Art than vice versa.

Donald groaned, and his eyes flickered.

That settled it. Helen had to get outside now, while Art was distracted by the cat and Donald wasn't alert enough to stop her.

Helen boosted herself onto the sturdy wooden banister to sit sideways and ride it to the bottom. She slid off the end and the sudden jarring impact as her feet touched caused her to overbalance and topple onto the hard stone floor. She landed on her bad hip, and the stabbing pain was so sharp she couldn't move.

Donald sat up and looked down at her. "Hey." His voice was still thick and slow, but it was enough to catch Art's attention.

Art abandoned his losing battle with the cat and raced to the top of the stairs. Helen pushed herself up, intending to crawl to the front door. Her hip complained, but she didn't think it was broken. She might be able to walk if she had her cane. She looked around and saw it a couple of feet from where she'd landed.

Art jumped over Donald's legs that were stretched out across the top stair. The cat was swatting at Art's heels as they both raced toward Helen.

She dragged herself over to where her cane lay. Just as she reached for it, she heard a scream. She looked up, saw the cat leap out from under Art, who was somersaulting down the stairs toward Helen, thumping his head against the marble with each revolution.

The cat stopped halfway up the stairs and settled down on its haunches to watch the gymnastics. Helen scooted out of the way so Art wouldn't land on her. She certainly didn't owe him a soft place to land after he'd planned to kill her.

Art came to a stop with a final thump of his head on the marble floor, and he lay there unconscious. With the entertainment over, the cat began bathing itself.

Tate had arrived a few minutes later with a police escort and Jay and Zee bringing up the rear after having opened the gates for Tate and Detective Almeida. Helen had barely had time to get herself to her feet before they were pounding on the front door and threatening to break it down. She'd grabbed the cat so it wouldn't escape again and then let in her well-intentioned but ultimately unnecessary rescuers.

Now, two days later, Helen was sporting a few bruises from her rough landing at the bottom of the banister, and her hip was a little more sore than usual, but she considered it a small price to pay for having helped send Art to jail. Even Detective Peterson had had to admit he'd been pursuing the wrong person—again—when Donald, after twenty-four hours to sleep off the effects of the drug, gave his statement about what had happened the night Vic Rezendes died.

Helen had tried to cancel this week's visit from her nieces so they wouldn't see her bruises, but it had been all she could do to keep them from jumping into their cars as soon as they heard she'd been threatened by Vic's killer. She would have tried harder if she'd known they were planning a surprise birthday party for today. At least their scheming hadn't involved any matchmaking—they'd just been trying to figure out how to make this a birthday to remember.

Laura had brought her husband, Lily had brought her boyfriend, and together they'd somehow convinced Tate to take a break from his woodworking to eat cake and ice cream with about a dozen other guests. They'd invited Terri Greene too, but apparently she hadn't yet forgiven Helen for suspecting her of murder. Detective Almeida had been unable to attend, due to follow-up work related to her arrest of Freddie Wade for dealing in stolen goods, but she'd sent Helen a nail polish gift set in colors she'd never have thought to try, but that she was certain would be perfect on her.

Rebecca had arrived late, looking a bit sheepish over the revelation that she'd been helping the nieces plan today's event. Helen decided she could be more forgiving than Terri was. Lily, Laura, and Rebecca were only trying to help. They had to be almost as frustrated as Helen was by the unpredictability of her lupus and the lack of any definitive treatment regimen.

"You gave us such a scare, Aunt Helen," Laura said. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine." The words were automatic, but they were also true today. The mental fog was lifting, and her memory had improved already, just in time for her nieces to give her some organizational apps as birthday gifts. She'd finally gotten a solid eight hours of sleep. The night before, she'd still been under the influence of the caffeinated soda, and she was never going to try that again. She hadn't needed Rebecca's belated warning that there was anecdotal evidence that the sugar in soda could worsen the memory issues.

Helen's bruises were healing, and while her hip was still achy and unreliable, at least she hadn't broken it when she slid off the banister at Vic's mansion. She was ensconced in her recliner now, with Lily and Laura hovering nearby. Helen knew they enjoyed being in charge of greeting guests and serving food, and it allowed her to hide the fact that she was still limping more than usual because of the fall.

"The only way today could have been better," Helen told them, "was if I'd had some warning that you were bringing guests. I might even have cleaned a bit."

"I doubt it," Lily said. "You'd have just made sure you weren't home when everyone arrived."

Helen nodded at the kitchen island where Jack was acting as the bartender while Jay and Zee carried trays of hors d'oeuvres around the great room. "How was I supposed to do that? You suborned my drivers."

"I'm sure you would have found a way," Lily said. "I bet your friends at the nursing home would have hidden you there. They wanted to be here today, but Josie said someone named Martha was a meanie and wouldn't give them a day pass."

"I wish we could meet your new friends," Laura said wistfully.

"Especially this Josie." Lily's tone held suspicion. "She seemed awfully interested in the open bar, and she asked if I played poker. I thought your friends were only interested in yarn and gossip."

"Josie's got eclectic interests," Helen said. "Especially when she's told she can't try them."

"Ah," Lily said. "I understand now. She's just like you."

"Perhaps," Helen conceded. "I wouldn't mind being like her in another forty years."

A hissing sound emerged from under Helen's recliner.

"What was that?" Laura said.

"My cat." No one else had been able to get near Vic's cat, and Helen was grateful to it for providing the distraction that had allowed her to escape. With Detective Almeida's permission, Jay and Zee had helped her collect the cat's supplies and toys before leaving the mansion. Initially, she'd planned to deliver it to the local shelter, but she'd been too sore to stop there on the way home. The next morning, she'd awoken to its purring warmth against her back and acknowledged that it would be nice to have a pet. She'd renamed it Vicky in memory of its prior owner, who, like the cat, had enjoyed being the center of attention. Given how well-behaved Vicky had been since moving into the cottage, Helen suspected the previous bad behavior had simply been a matter of acting out to get more attention.

On the other hand, Vicky was a bit more finicky than her prior owner about whose attention she wanted. She'd dived under Helen's chair as soon as Lily and Laura came tromping inside the cottage.

Lily and Laura raced off to deal with some emergency at the open bar, and Tate came over to peer under the recliner. "You're keeping the cat?"

Helen had anticipated his objections. "If you're going to tell me there's too much risk of the cat biting someone, I consider that a feature, not a bug. I'm going to plaster the driveway with signs warning that the property's protected by an attack cat, perhaps with a picture of a panther, and then maybe people will leave me alone. You don't have to worry I'll get sued, and you'll have to come out of retirement again."

The way his jaw tightened suggested he was fighting the urge to tell her all the reasons why her plan wouldn't work.

"Whatever," he said finally. "My representing you won't be an issue in any event. I'm officially terminating our lawyer-client relationship, effective immediately."

"Can you do that?" Helen said. "It's part of the rent on the garage."

"If you insist, I'll send you an official written notice to terminate our rental agreement. At least to the extent of legal advice being the consideration, and we can renegotiate the rent. Would you accept whatever the market rate is for a garage?"

"It depends," Helen said. "Are you still willing to speak at the library? I did catch the killer before Detective Peterson did, after all."

He nodded. "I can do educational programs without creating a lawyer-client relationship."

Had she done something to really annoy Tate? Even if she had, he ought to feel indebted to her for helping to clear his niece's name. So why was he suddenly enforcing the retirement he'd only given lip service to before now?

"I don't need more money, and I'd really rather have the option of asking for your legal advice," she said.

"I can't imagine why," Tate said. "You never listen to it."

"I listen. I just don't always follow it."

"Typical client," he muttered. "You shouldn't need any more legal advice anyway. You're not planning to meddle in any more crimes, are you?"

"I never
plan
to meddle. It just sort of happens." The cat's head rose over the arm of the recliner, peering at Helen anxiously. She patted her lap, and Vicky jumped into it. "Don't worry. Only Scrooge would go looking for a murder to solve over the holidays, so I'm safe for a couple of months at least. I'm going to be busy with some events at the nursing home in December, and then I'll be preparing to take up gardening in the spring. I've already ordered some seed catalogs."

"Then it's settled," Tate said. "You're not my client, effective immediately. There's no attorney-client privilege when you tell me secrets. You continue to do whatever you want, and we can just skip the step where I give you professional advice."

Helen didn't really expect to need any more legal advice, but she hated to give up the excuse to pester him while he was in her garage. If she couldn't ask him for legal advice, what would they bicker about? She refused to believe he didn't enjoy her visits, even as he grumbled about the interruptions. He had admitted that she made his life interesting, after all. Maybe she was wrong, though, and he really didn't enjoy her company.

She needed more time to figure this out. The fog was lifting, but it wasn't completely gone. "Aren't you supposed to give me thirty days' notice before changing the terms of the lease? Couldn't we wait a bit to decide?"

"If you insist." He took a deep breath, and then said, "I'd rather not wait though. As long as you're my client, I can't ask you to have dinner with me next week, and I'd rather not wait until after Thanksgiving, because the restaurants get too busy and noisy over the holidays to have a nice evening out."

"Dinner?" Startled, Helen practically shouted the word. She glanced around to see if anyone had noticed and was relieved to see that Lily and Laura were busy at the kitchen island, helping Jack, who didn't seem to need any help. The girls might not do something as overt as signing Helen up for a matchmaking service, but they weren't above facilitating what they saw as a promising personal relationship with Tate. "That's what this is all about? You want to ask me on a date? And you can't if you're representing me?"

"That's the gist of it." His eyes flickered over to where Lily and Laura were still fussing over the layout of the bar. "I wasn't planning to broadcast it to the whole world, though."

"You can't hide anything from my nieces. Or your nephew." Helen was in for more well-intentioned advice from the girls once they caught wind of a possible change in her relationship with Tate. On the plus side, if they were dating, she wouldn't need an excuse to visit him in the garage. "But I will agree to terminate the lawyer-client relationship. And then I'd love to have dinner with you."

If there were any more crimes to be solved, the investigations would just have to wait until after she and Tate had their dinner date. Then she could re-evaluate the situation. If the dinner was a disaster, she'd talk Tate into resuming the lawyer-client relationship. If it wasn't a disaster…

No, she wasn't prepared to think about that right now. All that mattered was that she wasn't going to need legal advice in the future. She'd be too busy learning to grow her own vegetables to get into any trouble. Hardly anyone ever committed crimes in a garden. Okay, so there had been that one little incident in the Garden of Eden, but there weren't any talking serpents or forbidden trees in Wharton. No one—not her nurse, not her nieces, and not even Tate—could have any reason to worry about Helen spending time in a garden. 

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