1 A Dose of Death

by Gin Jones

  "But I'm the one who found her. Right where I live," Helen said. "I should be the prime suspect."

  "You?" Peterson smirked. "Don't worry, ma'am. You aren't even on the list."

  "Why not?" Helen said, annoyed by his dismissive, condescending attitude. "Everyone knows I detested Melissa and was desperate to get rid of her. Maybe I came back from court yesterday, and she was still here, and I lost my temper and bashed her over the head."

  "I don't think so."

  "Why not?"

  "You aren't strong enough, for one thing."

  "There was a tree limb near her body," Helen said. "Something that big would do most of the damage by itself, and all I'd have to do is lift it and toss it in her direction."

  "You couldn't lift it."

  "Sure I could," Helen said. "I'm stronger than I look. And then there's the adrenaline factor that would make me even stronger while I was angry. She really did know how to push my buttons."

  "Look," he said. "It's obvious you didn't kill her, and I've got better things to do than interview someone I'm sure didn't do it."

  "Better things? Like looking for a suspect?"

  "We already have one," he said. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but if it will set your mind at ease, we already have a solid theory of what happened. There's been a rash of late-night burglaries around here the last couple years, and I'm betting this is related. A vulnerable woman, like you, living all alone, is the perfect target for a burglar. He came here intending to rob you, Melissa surprised him, so he killed her."

  Peterson sounded so certain, and it was his job to investigate these things, so maybe he was right. It still rankled that she'd been dismissed so easily. "I just want to be sure you find the culprit, officer, and lock him up."

  "So you admit you didn't kill Melissa, after all," Peterson said with a self-satisfied chuckle that made Helen think someone was going to kill the homicide detective before long, if he didn't develop some better people skills.

  "Don't worry," he said, in that grating, don't worry your pretty little head tone again. "We're going to find this guy, and we'll keep you safe. In the meantime, though, you might want to have someone come stay with you. It's not a good idea for you to be living here alone."

  Helen sighed. Why did everyone insist on foisting companionship on her? "If someone moved in with me, I'd have to kill that new person, too, just like I killed Melissa."

  Peterson laughed. "You're lucky I know you couldn't have done it. It's not usually a good idea to confess to murder in front of a detective."

  "You sound like my lawyer," she said. "He keeps insisting I should be a good, law-abiding citizen."

  Peterson didn't seem to get that she was joking. She'd better save the sarcasm for when she talked to Tate. For now, she needed to keep Peterson focused on the job at hand. He was supposed to be getting rid of the reporter. Before Helen could remind him, yet another vehicle came rumbling up the gravel driveway, going about one mile per hour and weaving to avoid the potholes. The low-slung sports car rolled to a stop behind the reporter's SUV.

  A tall, skeletally thin man in his late thirties climbed out of the sports car. He wore khaki pants and a pale blue golf shirt with a darker blue ascot. Helen couldn't help staring at him; she didn't follow fashion trends, but were ascots really making a come-back?

  Peterson said, "I think I'll go have a chat with Loring now."

  "And then you can have the same chat with the newest trespasser."

  Peterson was already halfway to Loring's vehicle and pretended not to hear her.

  Meanwhile, the newcomer was avoiding Peterson while picking his way across the lawn as carefully as Helen usually did, although he didn't seem to have any particular mobility problems. She glanced down at his shoes. Standard men's loafers, as far as she could tell, although she supposed they could be an expensive brand, and he thought there might be something in her grass that would ruin them.

  He finally reached her and grasped her free hand in both of his. "Is it true? Melissa's dead?"

  "You should talk to the police about that," Helen said, nodding at the detective who was leaning against Loring's car now. She suspected it was more likely Detective Peterson was giving the reporter an off-the-record statement than threatening to arrest him. "Or ask the paramedics. They're trained to deal with those sorts of issues."

  "I'll deal with them later." The man leaned closer to her, as if they were best friends, and they needed to speak in confidence. He kept patting her hand. "I'm more concerned about you right now."

  "I'm fine," she said, taking back her hand with some difficulty. "Who are you?"

  "Oh! I forgot! I've heard so much about you that it feels like we've known each other forever, and yet we've never been formally introduced." He retrieved a business card from the inner pocket of his jacket. "I'm Gordon Pierce. Owner of the home health care agency."

  So this was Melissa's boss. The one who wouldn't let Helen decide just how much nursing care her patient was willing to endure.

  Pierce was younger than she'd imagined him to be. Probably just as well, she thought. He would need time to recover from the havoc she was going to wreak on his career for imposing Melissa—and now the unwanted notoriety surrounding her death—on her.

  Pierce placed her hand on his forearm and covered it with his own hand to escort her back to the porch. She tugged back her hand and took a step away from him, tempted to thwap him with her cane, except she needed it for balance.

  "You don't need to be here," Helen said. "Melissa's family needs you more than I do."

  "She doesn't have a family." Pierce placed his hand over his heart in an earnest gesture straight out of a soap opera. "Her patients were her family."

  That explained a lot, Helen thought a little guiltily. Melissa might not have been as crazy as she'd seemed. She might just have been projecting her own loneliness onto Helen, looking for company for herself, more than for her patient. "What about the other nurses in the agency? They must be upset. You should go make sure they're okay."

  "They're all professionals. They know our first responsibility is to our patients, and we'll deal with our personal grief later." Pierce hovered beside her as they approached her front door. "Maybe you could have a friend or family member stay with you for a few days, just until we sort this all out."

  Helen was beginning to think she should start a drinking game, listing all the different ways people could find to force companionship on her. Probably not a good idea, in practice. She'd never developed the tolerance for alcohol that her ex-husband had, and if things kept going the way they were today, she'd end up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning. "I'll be fine right here."

  "We'll send someone in Melissa's place, of course, but it may take a few days to work out the details." Pierce pulled out his smartphone and scrolled frantically through his contacts list. "We're pretty well booked to capacity, but I'm sure we'll find someone who's right for you."

  "No rush," said Helen. "I've decided I don't really need a visiting nurse, after all. I'd been planning to cancel the contract before this happened, anyway."

  "I couldn't bear the thought of putting you at risk. I will find you another nurse. We wouldn't want another tragedy."

  Helen was trying to decide whether he was threatening her or simply being melodramatic, when he added, "It wouldn't take much for you to be incapacitated. I mean, look at Melissa. She was a big, strong woman, and, well, you know what happened to her."

  Not a threat, Helen decided. He was just trying to protect his stream of income by trying to convince her she needed a visiting nurse from his agency. "No one has any reason to hurt me. And I really don't need a visiting nurse. I tried it, and I didn't like it."

  Pierce glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the detective, and then bent toward her, not condescendingly like the detective, but still annoying in the way it implied that she welcomed his confidences.

  "The police won't admit it," he whispered, "but some o
f the recent unsolved burglaries have been rather violent. They started out pretty trivial, but recently a homeowner was threatened with a knife. You really shouldn't stay all the way out here alone, without someone checking in on you. I don't know how, but I'll make sure you have a new nurse by tomorrow."

  Helen glanced at the detective, and judging by the way he was leaning against the SUV and laughing, he hadn't gotten around to suggesting the reporter should leave. It hardly seemed worth her time to ask Peterson to ask yet another unwanted trespasser to leave. She had a better chance of getting rid of Pierce by placating him. Much as she hated donning the old social mask she'd perfected during her stint in the governor's mansion, it was the best way to get rid of him. A little fake politeness was certainly better than bashing Pierce's head in with her cane. There'd been enough death here for one day. All she wanted was a little solitude, not solitary confinement.

  "Fine," Helen said at last. "Do what you think is best for now, and we'll straighten it out later."

  He left, looking relieved, while she went inside the cottage to plot his downfall.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The interior of the cottage pulsed with the flashing blue lights of the remaining cruiser in Helen's driveway. She glanced outside to see the Geoff Loring still chatting with Detective Peterson.

  It was odd that the reporter hadn't at least tried to interview her about Melissa's murder. He'd been at the court hearing yesterday and had seen for himself just how much she loathed the nurse. So why hadn't he insisted on getting a quote for his story? Peterson certainly wouldn't have stopped him, although maybe he'd convinced the reporter that they already knew who the culprit was, so Helen's observations were irrelevant.

  Helen knew she should have been relieved to have avoided the interview, but it rankled that absolutely everyone had dismissed her as a witness, let alone as a suspect. She'd had the means, motive, and opportunity. She was even the one who had found the body, and the murder had happened on her land. What more would she have to do to be taken seriously?

  The detective and the reporter continued chatting amicably, neither of them taking any notes or paying any attention to the forensics team. Were there really that many murders in this town that they would be so nonchalant about yet another one? Maybe she should have subscribed to the local newspaper, beginning years ago when she'd originally bought the cottage. If the town was really this dangerous, she might have to reconsider her decision to retire here.

  She couldn't believe Wharton was that dangerous, though. It was more likely that the detective simply believed he'd already solved the case. A more seasoned and competent reporter would doubt his source, but Loring didn't seem likely to do that. They both seemed happy with their theory and weren't interested in any alternatives. Least of all the theory that Helen might have been the killer.

  They were making the same irritating mistake everyone else did these days: treating Helen as if she were helpless. The only way they would ever believe she was physically, if not psychologically, capable of murder was if she walked into the police station with the evidence all laid out, demonstrating not just her means, motive, and opportunity for the crime, but also exonerating every other possible suspect.

  It would almost be worth doing just that, if only to prove to herself that she was still a force to be reckoned with. Besides, she needed a new hobby, since her forays into scrapbooking and photography had both been less than satisfying. Of course, there was one major stumbling block to proving that she'd killed Melissa: she hadn't done it. How could she prove something that wasn't true?

  Helen fretted over the issue for a while, until it dawned on her that it might be enough to disprove their theory, rather than proving her own guilt. If she could prove that their burglar had not killed Melissa, then they'd have to start from scratch, with all the usual suspects. Including herself.

  From what she'd heard, there had been dozens of previous burglaries, and it would take weeks just to contact all the victims and convince them to confide in her about the details of the crime. Investigating the burglaries might well turn out to be an interesting way to pass some time. It couldn't be worse than scrapbooking, photography, and listening to Melissa's favorite radio talk shows.

  Even if she eventually came to the same conclusion as the police, that the burglar had killed Melissa, at least then she'd feel confident that the real killer had been identified. The detective didn't even need to know that she'd been poking into the case. She just needed to know for her own peace of mind that the police had a good reason—something other than their impression of her as beneath consideration—for rejecting her as the prime suspect.

  First, though, she needed to let her nieces know about Melissa's death, so the news wouldn't inspire the nieces to swoop down on the cottage and kidnap Helen for her own good. Helen called Lily first, and while she was still too shocked to argue much, Helen convinced her to cooperate with cancelling the contract with the visiting-nurse agency. Then Helen called Tate's nephew and arranged to meet with Adam the next morning, so they could take care of the contract termination.

  With a little luck, Helen thought, she'd be at the law office before Pierce sent out the replacement nurse, and that would be the last time anyone from the agency ever set foot on her property. Until then, there wasn't much she could do about either the visiting-nurse situation or her investigation into Melissa's murder.

  Helen tried to read a recently-purchased book that she'd been anticipating for weeks, but the commotion outdoors kept her from blocking out the fact that a dead body had been found in her yard. That she had found a dead body. She wasn't as fragile as everyone thought she was, but neither was she impervious to the shock of an acquaintance's sudden and violent death.

  She finally tossed the book aside and went to make a cup of tea. On the way, Helen noticed that her computer monitor was still on, the screen saver scrolling through some random pictures. Her camera was on the desk, still connected to the computer for the upload she'd been working on before she'd found Melissa. She might as well finish organizing the upload before she abandoned photography as a hobby.

  She clicked through the thumbnails, moving the files into the appropriate folders. She doubted she'd ever look at the pictures again, because they really weren't very good, but she couldn't make herself leave them unsorted. She might not have an eye for artistic composition, but at least she was thorough and organized. Those traits had to be good for something.

  Like a murder investigation, she thought.

  A thorough person didn't depend on others to gather evidence for her. She didn't have all the resources of a forensics team, but she could at least take her own pictures of the crime scene.

  She glanced outside at the spot where the body had lain, and realized that while she'd been going through the pictures, the rest of the emergency vehicles and all of the assorted trespassers had finally left. She disconnected her digital camera from the computer. She left her cane hanging from the doorknob, so as to leave her hands free for the photography, and went outside. She stopped at the police tape strung from the front corner of the cottage, around two trees about 30 feet apart and then back to the railing of her back deck.

  Most of Helen's property was heavily wooded, opening into a small, oval clearing, with the cottage in the exact middle, and a detached garage behind and to the left of the cottage. The grass extended about 50' from the sides of the cottage and about twice that from the front and back.

  Helen could still see the flattened oval area of grass where the paramedics had trampled it, all around where Melissa's body had been lying. She'd get a measuring tape to check later, but it looked to be about halfway between the deck and the first trees marking the edge of the woods. Inside the trampled area was a dark brown stain that marked where Melissa's head had lain.

  Helen began photographing the area inside the police tape, taking a shot of the entire trampled area and then dividing it into an imaginary grid and photographing each one in turn, working fr
om left to right, keeping a bit of the police tape in the shot for orientation.

  When that was done, she stopped to think about what other visual clues might be important. The police had taken a tree branch, presumably because it was the murder weapon. As best she could recall, it had been about four inches in diameter and about three feet long.

  She made her way along the outside of the police line to inspect the edge of the woods, looking for the source of the branch. Nothing struck her as obviously disturbed, but it wouldn't hurt to get a closer look. Nervous about crossing the uneven surface without her cane, she nevertheless made her way into the woods, keeping close to the yellow tape and following it all the way to the far end.

  She didn't see any evidence that anyone else had walked out beyond the tape, either immediately before or after the murder. There were plenty of fallen branches, although most of them seemed to be in a more advanced state of decomposition than the one that had been next to Melissa. Turning back toward the spot where Melissa's body had fallen, Helen continued searching until she found another branch that was about the same size as the presumed murder weapon. She took several pictures of it, just in case they might be useful. Unlike the detective, she wasn't prepared to dismiss anything as unimportant.

  In fact, she thought, it might be useful to have the actual branch for future reference, rather than just the picture. She tucked the camera into her jacket pocket and bent to inspect the branch more closely. The side that had been touching the ground was slimy and discolored, but it wasn't falling apart like most of the other similarly sized branches had been.

  Assuming it was the same size as the actual murder weapon, could she have picked it up and swung it? The detective didn't think so, but Helen didn't underestimate herself the way he had. She bent to pick it up, and found it wasn't as heavy as she'd expected. It was a solid, substantial weapon, and she wouldn't want to carry it for miles, but she could definitely lift it with one hand, at least briefly. Ignoring the damp and the dirt, she placed her other hand on it, holding it like a baseball bat, and swung at an imaginary victim.