A Draw of Death (Helen Binney Mysteries Book 3) (6 page)

"Nothing." Geoff sighed, and it almost sounded as if he'd forgotten for a moment that he preferred personal-interest stories, and he was disappointed he'd been unable to do more than write up the superficial facts. "Peterson wouldn't let me inside the gates, and I couldn't see anything from there."

He hadn't exactly tried, as Helen recalled. When she'd left with Tate and Stevie, Geoff had been lurking at the outer edge of a crowd of about thirty people, as far away from the gates as possible without either landing in the marshy conservation land across the street or trespassing on the next-door neighbor's property.

Helen had been surprised by the number of gawkers who'd assembled closer to the gates. There were only a dozen or so houses within walking distance, so the crowd couldn't have consisted solely of Vic's closest neighbors looking to see what all the ambulances and police cars were doing on their street. There had to have been people there from all over town, and they'd assembled within two hours of the 9-1-1 call.

"Was Vic really that famous?" Helen said. "It looked like his fans were already showing up to pay their respects before I left. I thought I saw some purple flowers in purple vases set at the base of the wall." "You did." Geoff relaxed visibly as the conversation veered from crime to celebrity. "There was a whole van full of groupies who came all the way from Springfield. His fan club is based there, you know."

Helen wondered if Peterson had interviewed any of the gawkers. Avid fans might well know who Vic's enemies were. "Did you talk to any of the people in the crowd?"

"Just Freddie Wade," Geoff said. "She's the next-door neighbor. She thought the commotion was part of the renovations, maybe an accident on the work site, until I told her what had really happened."

"Is she a tall, thin woman in a red hat and navy pea coat?" Helen asked. "Possibly carrying a pair of binoculars?"

"No binoculars, but that sounds like Freddie. She's been making a fuss over the renovations at the mansion ever since Vic bought the place. She tried to prevent the building permits from being issued, but couldn't. Now she's trying to enforce some zoning regulations against him."

"Maybe she killed Vic," Josie said eagerly.

"I don't want to hear it. The official theory is that it was an inside job, and that's good enough for me." Geoff jumped up from the safety of his chair. "I've got to go now. I'm supposed to be making arrangements to photograph Billy and his bride for their wedding album." 

He left, and Betty said, "Geoff may enjoy living in denial, but you don't, Helen. You want to know the truth about what happened to Rezendes." 

Helen sighed. She did want to know. And she had a feeling there weren't going to be any quick and easy answers. Vic had survived the cutthroat world of reality television only to be killed in a quiet little town while living alone in a fortress protected by Marty Reed's security systems. Even Tate had thought it didn't fit the usual pattern for most homicides.

Thinking of Tate reminded Helen that she wanted to talk to him about being the next speaker on the Friends of the Library's schedule. While she was at it, she might as well ask him what he'd learned about the police investigation into Vic's murder. He'd probably throw in a few gratuitous warnings about how she was likely to end up in jail if she meddled with police matters, but that was okay. She'd heard them so often, they were actually kind of soothing.

When Jay and Zee delivered Helen back to her cottage shortly before noon, Tate's car was parked in its usual spot outside the garage. The siblings left for their weekly check-in at the local employment office to see if there were any filmmakers coming to Massachusetts and looking for crew members.

Helen went inside the garage. For once, Tate wasn't actually working in his studio. He was slouched in one of the ratty old director's chairs, staring in the direction of the back wall where shelves held neatly sorted blocks of wood, but he didn't seem to actually see them.

"How's Stevie?" Helen said as she climbed into another of the director's chairs.

He shrugged. "About how you'd expect. Unlike you, Stevie doesn't stumble across dead bodies on a regular basis."

"Give her a few years. I bet when she's our age, she'll be tripping over them left and right."

"Assuming she's not in prison." Tate picked up one of the six identical lamp stems from the workbench and ran his hand over it. Normally he did that to check for any defects or rough spots, but he didn't seem to be paying any attention to what his fingers might be telling him. "She called me when Hank Peterson and a new member of his team, Eleanor Almeida, just happened to stop by at 8 a.m. to ask a few more questions."

"She didn't say anything until you got there, did she?"

"Even half-asleep and still in emotional shock, she knows better than that," Tate said. "She'd already memorized, 'I'm not saying anything until my lawyer gets here' by the time she was six. I knew from experience that it was better to teach my siblings' kids the phrase when they were young and not wait until they were teens and might actually need it."

"So what did Peterson and Almeida want to know?"

"The usual." He tossed the lamp stem aside, for once not finding his pastime engrossing. "Acting all nice, pretending to be her best friend with promises that it was nothing serious, but could Stevie please go over exactly what happened yesterday in the minutes leading up to finding Vic's body. Just one more time, please."

"That seems fairly reasonable," Helen said.

"It's supposed to sound that way. They promise that no, no, they don't have any suspects in mind, no need to give anyone
Miranda
warnings. Just want to be sure they've got the facts straight." Tate stood and nudged at some of the sawdust on the floor with his foot. "I've heard it before. What they really mean is that they're narrowing in on a suspect, probably the person they're talking to right now, and they're hoping you'll say something inconsistent with a prior statement, which will give them a reason to take you down to the station and
really
question you."

"Can't you get the statements thrown out of court if they lie like that?"

"You'd think so, but the courts have held that it's perfectly okay for the police to lie to suspects. There are some limits, but a lot of the time the detectives push those limits pretty hard, or break through them completely, knowing that most suspects don't have the resources to hire a competent defense attorney who would get the evidence thrown out."

"Good thing Stevie's your niece then," Helen said. "Family discount and all."

Tate snorted. "Yeah, like family ever pays for legal advice. I could have retired years ago if I'd charged even half price for all the legal work I've done for my siblings and their kids."

"You're such a softie."

"Only with family," he said. "I have a feeling you're not really here to ask about Stevie. And you don't get the family discount."

"That's okay," Helen said. "It's been months since I needed any legal advice. You owe me, as rent on this place."

Tate made a show of looking around the fairly primitive space, nothing but four shelf-lined walls, a roof and a concrete floor. "I guess the place is worth the rent. What's your question?"

"I don't know, exactly. I was hoping you'd heard something about Peterson's theory of the case."

"You mean, besides finding a way to pin the murder on the easiest suspect, the person who found the body?"

Helen nodded.

"Peterson didn't say anything, but the rumor is that they think Vic was killed for something related to the renovations on his house. That puts Stevie, along with Marty Reed, and maybe one or two of their crews, in the crosshairs. They're the only ones, besides Rezendes and his assistant, who would have had key cards for the front gates."

No wonder Tate couldn't concentrate on his beloved woodworking. It had to be worrisome, knowing that the only thing standing between his niece and a murder charge was the investigative expertise of Hank Peterson. "That doesn't sound good."

"It's not," he said. "The evidence has to clear Stevie. I'll make sure of it."

If anyone could protect Stevie from criminal charges, Tate could, but he shouldn't have to do it alone. She might be able to help shed some light on the situation. She knew at least as much about the victim and the people around him as Hank Peterson did. Probably more, since Vic was new to town, so the police didn't have any past history with him. Helen got along well with Vic's assistant, and she knew his public relations handler from way back. It would be easy enough to get both of them to talk to her, no
Miranda
warnings required. After that, she'd finagle a closer look at the crime scene.

Tate suddenly abandoned his inspection of the back wall to stare at her with similar concentration. Helen knew what that meant. He knew what she was thinking, and he was going to warn her off again. She didn't mind ignoring Hank Peterson's orders to stay out of the investigation, but she did try not to so blatantly disregard Tate's advice.

As long as he didn't actually tell her not to go to the mansion, she could do it with a clear conscience. To distract him, she said, "Before I forget, there's something I've been meaning to ask you. Do you think you could give some sort of lecture for the Friends of the Library in January? We're hoping to do one event a month starting with the new year."

"I'm always happy to talk about wood turning," he said. "I could even do a demonstration."

If Tate was going to run a lathe in the annex, the library would first need to add about twelve inches of additional sound insulation to keep from scaring away the patrons in the main building and the homeless people outside on the benches. The whole idea behind these lectures was to increase the library's funding, not increase its expenses.

"I was thinking more along the lines of talking about, 'how to cooperate with the police without incriminating yourself.' I think more people would be interested in that than in woodworking." Helen hurried to add, "It's such a niche hobby is all I'm saying, so there aren't all that many people who truly appreciate it, whereas everyone is fascinated by legal issues."

"I'm retired," Tate said. "That means I'm not keeping up with new developments in the law. I'd rather not commit malpractice now, after getting through my actual career without any claims filed against me."

"You wouldn't be giving legal advice," Helen said. "Just general information."

"If you're splitting hairs, you must be desperate," he said. "I suppose you can't get anyone else to speak, for fear of ending up like Rezendes."

"Never mind." If something happened to Tate, and it had any connection whatsoever to something she'd done, she'd never forgive herself. "I'm sure I can find someone else to speak. Someone I wouldn't mind getting rid of."

"That will certainly give you plenty of options to choose from."

*   *   *

Helen left Tate to his worrying and woodworking and went inside the cottage to call her visiting nurse. If she was going to be any help at all to Tate and Stevie, Helen had to figure out what was wrong with her fuzzy brain.

Rebecca Grainger arrived fifteen minutes later, the worry lines in her young face deeper than ever. She was a short, redheaded woman just a couple of years out of nursing school. She was generally a bit shy, giving the impression that she was uncertain about her professional skills. Helen had found that Rebecca was actually quite knowledgeable about both lupus and more general health issues. She took her patients' health personally and tended to blame herself whenever her patients experienced any worsening of their conditions, even when it was the patient's own fault as it often was with Helen. The insomnia was probably just because she hadn't gotten around to doing any of the meditation exercises Rebecca had recommended. Or maybe it was Helen's failure to eat more kale.

Rebecca dropped her bag and laptop on the kitchen island. ""What's wrong? I got here as soon as I could after the agency called me. If there's ever a really bad problem, you know you should activate your panic button or call an ambulance, not just the nursing agency."

"Relax," Helen said. "I told the receptionist it wasn't an emergency, just that I'd like to see you if you had an opening this afternoon."

"I know, but for you, that's a major distress call." Rebecca pulled her stethoscope and blood pressure cuff out of her bag.

"Forget the blood pressure. My heart and circulation are fine." Helen settled on a stool at the island. "You've got to promise you won't say a word about this to my nieces. If it's serious, I'll tell them myself."

"Of course," Rebecca said. "I never tell them anything other than that you're fine, anyway. Lily keeps trying, but I would never share any medical details."

"Maybe you'd better not talk to them at all for a bit," Helen said. "Otherwise, when you fail to say I'm fine, Lily will know something's up."

Rebecca looked down at the blood pressure cuff, as if she'd suddenly remembered she was holding it, and turned away to stuff it into her medical bag. "We're getting ahead of ourselves here. Why don't you tell me what the problem is, and then we can figure out if it's serious enough for you to discuss with your nieces or if I can honestly tell them you're fine."

"It's hard to explain," Helen said. "I haven't been sleeping well, for one thing."

"I can refer you to a sleep clinic if you'd like, or prescribe some sleeping pills."

Helen shivered at the still-vivid memory from this past spring of being forced to take an overdose of pain pills that had the side effect of making her sleepy. She'd immediately disposed of the remainder of the pills, and she wasn't ready to have anything like that in her home again. "No pills. I'll think about doing the sleep clinic if the insomnia doesn't get better soon."

"If it just started recently, it could be a seasonal thing." Rebecca's worry lines softened. "Or perhaps an indication of perimenopause. A lot of women have trouble sleeping during the transitional years before menopause. Unless there are some other symptoms too?"

"I keep forgetting things." Helen hurried to add, "Nothing important, just little things. Sort of like when you walk into a room to get something and forget why you went there. But all the time instead of just occasionally. And I feel like my brain is underwater or something. It's sluggish, can't keep up with my body, and I'm not used to that. Most of the time I can think a whole lot faster than I can move."

Rebecca collapsed onto the stool next to Helen. "That's a relief."

"Not to me, it isn't."

"No, I know it's annoying, but you've got nothing to worry about. You should probably tell your nieces about it, but it's not life threatening, and it will get better. What you've described sounds like lupus fog."

Back when Helen had first been diagnosed with lupus, her doctor had warned her that fatigue and stress could trigger confusion, memory lapses, and trouble expressing thoughts clearly. She'd never experienced it before, but the diagnosis would certainly explain how she'd been feeling recently. The stress of arranging Vic's event, and then having it go so badly, could have been enough to bring on the symptoms.

"Are you sure that's all it is? Not some sort of early-onset dementia?"

"I can't be absolutely sure without a whole battery of tests, the sort you'd never agree to," Rebecca said. "I'd be glad to order them if you want, though, or refer you to a neuropsychologist, but given your lupus diagnosis, the simplest and most likely explanation is that it's just a related symptom. Real dementia is a little different and frequently involves a great deal more denial than you're demonstrating. I'd be more worried if you were telling me you never forgot anything and never had any sluggish days. Or if you were losing your temper frequently out of frustration with your memory."

Helen lost her temper easily enough, but that was nothing new. "So how do I make it go away?"

"I'm sorry," Rebecca said. "It's not that simple. There's no cure for it, any more than there's a cure for lupus. All we can do is try to reduce the symptoms. They tend to fluctuate a great deal, and it's encouraging that this is the first time since your diagnosis that you've experienced these symptoms. It may just be a brief episode that will go away on its own. Have your joints been worse than usual too? Sometimes a flare will increase both the physical and cognitive symptoms."

"I'm not sure." Helen had been so anxious about her fuzzy-headedness that she hadn't paid much attention to her joints. "There must be
something
I can do about the fog."