1 A Dose of Death

by Gin Jones

"I'm sure it will be an excellent story," Helen said, "but I'm new to town, so it won't really affect me. Not the way Melissa's murder and the Remote Control Burglaries do. Are you sure there isn't anything you know about either one that you haven't included in your printed stories? Maybe something that an editor cut?"

  "Most of my pieces run exactly as I write them," Geoff said. "There was this one story about the burglaries, though, that hit right around the time when the schools were finishing up for the year last spring, and the paper needed to run a lot of fluff pieces about the high school seniors, and we ran out of space, so a couple of my paragraphs got cut."

  "Anything interesting in those paragraphs?"

  "If it's not interesting, I don't write it," Geoff said. "Usually, anyway. In that case, I'd added a few paragraphs to recap the previous burglaries. There'd been a whole spate of them that spring, but it had been a few weeks since they'd happened, so I summarized the earlier ones. There'd been five victims, I think, over the course of two weeks in May."

  "Doesn't sound terribly riveting." Helen said. "I can see why the editor cut it."

  "It was plenty interesting, and I could have written even more if they'd let me. But editors never get it right. The reporter on the ground knows what the real story is. But they never listen to us." Geoff acknowledged a passing resident before adding, "You know, I'd forgotten, but there was one interesting fact that I noticed when I did the summary. All of the incidents were reported to the police within a couple days of each other, but it seemed likely that the actual burglaries had happened over a much longer stretch of time. A couple weeks, maybe a month. Some of the victims said they'd been too busy to watch television, so it could have been a while since the remotes were taken. One told me she might not have noticed for weeks longer, except she'd needed to play some sample DVDs from the videographers she was considering for her daughter's wedding."

  "How did you explain it?" Helen said. "The delay in reporting the thefts, I mean."

  "I didn't. It's not my job to explain anything. I just lay out the facts. The readers get to make up their own minds, come to their own conclusions."

  "But weren't you curious?"

  "Not really." He watched as an attendant pushed an old woman in a wheelchair into the common area. Nodding toward the newcomer, he whispered, "Do you know who she is?"

  Helen shook her head. She'd never met the woman, although there was something vaguely familiar about her.

  "That's Judge Nolan's mother," he said. "The judge is going to be shocked when she reads my story about what's been going on here."

  Helen peered at the old woman: white-haired, obviously frail, but cheerful in her greetings of the fellow patients. She didn't use anyone's name, so perhaps she had a bit of dementia, but she didn't seem scared or unhappy or anything else that would suggest she'd been mistreated. "She seems fine to me."

  "Everything always looks fine on the surface," he said smugly. "Dig a little deeper, though, and everything's dirty."

  "How dirty?"

  "I can't say." He looked into the mirror over the fireplace to adjust the collar of his polo shirt, removing a few of the creases on one side and pulling the other side out of alignment. "Not yet. Gotta protect my scoop until it's ready to go to print."

  There was something about the way he said it, or perhaps it was just the way he didn't give in to his enthusiasm for showing off what he knew, that made Helen think that, as Betty and Josie had claimed, Geoff didn't actually have any inside information whatsoever about problems here at the nursing home. He was just fishing, hoping that if he spent enough time here, he'd stumble across something interesting. His claim to be onto something big was just bait, a form of encouragement for people to tell him their side of a situation he was pretending to have already uncovered. Meanwhile, he was missing out on a real story: Melissa's murder, and the police mishandling of the investigation.

  Despite her misgivings, Helen said, "Good luck with the scoop."

  "You could give me your own scoop," he said. "Just give me an hour's time, and I'll write the best piece you've ever read. Hey, I could even write your official biography."

  "No, thanks," Helen said. "My life isn't over yet."

  "Volume one, then."

  "I'm really not interested in talking about my past. You'll have to wait until I'm as old as…" Helen caught sight of the white-haired old woman being pushed around the room in her wheelchair. "As old as Judge Nolan's mother."

  "No one will care then," Geoff said.

  "Good." Helen pushed herself to her feet.

  Geoff stood too. "I get it. You've signed some sort of non-disclosure agreement as part of your divorce."

  "Believe whatever you want," Helen said, "but make sure you have impeccable sources before you print anything about me. I've got a good lawyer, and I'm not afraid to use him."

  * * *

  On the ride home, Helen was starting to think she was as ill-suited for crime investigation as she was for scrapbooking and photography. She'd thought talking to Geoff was worth the risk, but he hadn't known anything useful.

  "Marty called while you were in the nursing home," Jack said. "He's got the design of your security system all worked out with your niece already, and he's ordered a few parts he doesn't have in stock. Should be ready to install by the middle of the week."

  "My nieces will be relieved," Helen said. "I'm still not convinced I need anything more than my cell phones. No matter how fancy it is, the security system can't do much more than dial 911 for me."

  "If you use it properly, it can do a lot more than that," Jack said, earnest in the defense of his part-time boss. "Marty doesn't throw in extras, just for the sake of driving up the fee. Not unless people want those extras, of course. Some people like bells and whistles. They don't care about using them; they just want to be able to say they've got the latest thing in technology. Like, there was this guy who rented the vehicle a couple weeks ago for a business trip with some colleagues. He made sure everyone knew that he had the newest, most expensive phone on the market, but then when we got to the airport, and he wanted to check to make sure his flight was on time, he couldn't even figure out how to turn on the phone. He had to borrow mine."

  "I hope he appreciated it."

  "Ha!" Jack said. "They never do. I wish someone would teach them how it feels to be taken advantage of and then tossed aside."

  That was it, Helen thought. Teaching people a lesson. That was what the Remote Control Burglar was all about. He wasn't stealing for a profit; he was doing it to teach the victims a lesson. He was showing them what it was like to lose control over their lives.

  Interesting, that the burglar was making the exact point that Jack longed to make. The latest victim even sounded a lot like Jack's recent passenger, the one with the high-tech phone he didn't know how to use. The most recently burglarized homeowner had had a plethora of high-tech equipment, judging by the number of remotes involved, and he didn't use the technology much, considering how long it had taken for him to notice the remotes were missing or to check his security camera's images.

  What if it was more than a coincidence? What if Jack was the Remote Control Burglar?

  Helen forced herself to watch the scenery instead of staring at Jack's reflection in the rear-view mirror, where he might notice her dawning suspicion.

  It all fit, from the pettiness of it, to the time of day, and even the most active months. The crimes never occurred in the morning, and Jack worked an evening schedule, often out driving until 2 in the morning, so he would likely sleep in later than most people and not leave the house before noon unless he had a scheduled driving gig. Most of the thefts had occurred between 2 and 4 in the afternoon, which would be prime recreation time for him, with most of his work shifts scheduled for after dinner time. Plus, there was the fact that the victim advocate had noticed, that most of the crimes occurring in the spring and late fall. They were busy seasons for limo drivers, with proms and weddings and holiday parties, when the shee
r numbers of passengers meant that there were bound to be more of them who annoyed Jack into taking his revenge. The rest of the year, when there were fewer passengers, there'd still be occasional causes for irritation, which would explain the burglaries outside the peak months.

  It all made sense. Jack was the Remote Control Burglar, getting even with his worst passengers for their petty cruelties.

  Helen was fairly certain she was right, but she didn't have enough to bring it to the police's attention. It was just a theory, after all. Probably not even enough, if the police believed her, to justify their questioning Jack. Besides, the police wouldn't pay any attention to her ideas.

  For once, it worked to her benefit that no one ever listened to her. She might suspect Jack of some minor thefts, but if the police ever connected Jack to the burglaries, they'd be charging him with Melissa's murder. It was one thing to think that Jack had done some foolish and regrettable crimes, but quite another to suspect him of committing murder in the course of a theft gone wrong.

  The police had to be wrong that the Remote Control Burglar had killed Melissa. Jack hadn't had any reason to hurt Melissa or even target her for one of his retribution raids. Melissa hadn't treated him badly, hadn't even talked to him as far as Helen knew.

  Unless…

  Melissa hadn't treated Jack badly, but she'd treated Helen badly, and Jack had taken on the role of Helen's protector. He might have targeted Melissa's remote controls, not for upsetting him, but for upsetting Helen. She still couldn't imagine him killing anyone. Surely, he wouldn't have killed Melissa on Helen's behalf.

  Could he? He'd once asked if she wanted him to take care of Melissa, but…no, that was ridiculous. Jack wasn't a killer. Even if he'd taken it on himself to scare Melissa off, he wouldn't have killed her. He knew Helen had wanted the nurse to leave her alone, not to die.

  No, Jack would never have done anything violent. He was a talker and a passive-aggressive type, not a murderer.

  Unless the death had been an accident. Helen—and apparently the police—had been assuming the killer had picked up the bloody branch that forensics had taken away, and intentionally hit Melissa with it. But what if she'd been pushed and fell, hitting her head on the branch? Tragic, of course, but not intentional. Not murder. Anyone, even Jack or Helen herself, could have been involved in that kind of an accident.

  The only problem with that theory is that there wasn't any reason why either of them—Melissa or Jack—would have been at her house before 9:30, engaging in some sort of physical confrontation. It was possible, though. Melissa could have been staking out the cottage, to make sure Helen didn't leave, and Jack could have been keeping an eye on the cottage to make sure Helen wasn't bothered by Melissa.

  Helen became aware that Jack was still talking without noticing her distraction. He was describing a more recent passenger who'd annoyed him. Probably the Remote Control Burglar's next victim.

  It was one thing for her to remain silent about his past burglaries, but she couldn't be complicit in his future crimes. Now that she knew what he was doing, she had to convince him to stop before he did hurt someone. Or before he was caught and charged with a crime he hadn't committed.

  While Helen resented help that was foisted on her when she didn't need it, she also knew when she was in over her head and had to ask for assistance. She didn't know what to do about Jack, and the police wouldn't be any help.

  Tate would know what to do.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Jack continued to chat through the rest of the trip to the cottage, oblivious to Helen's distraction. He left with a cheerful wave, and a promise to return with Marty on Monday to begin installation of her security system.

  Helen toasted one of the left-over bagels, and melted cheese on top of it for dinner. She ate at her desk, studying the spreadsheet of burglary data, searching for a flaw in her theory that Jack was the Remote Control Burglar. After a while, too tired to look at the screen any longer, she had to conclude that there just wasn't anything to exonerate Jack.

  The next morning, when she was more alert, she tried again, but everything still pointed to Jack as the burglar. She paced the great room, waiting for Tate to appear at his new workshop, unable to stay away from his passion, even on a Sunday. If there was a flaw in her theory, he would find it.

  Helen stopped her pacing long enough to check in with her nieces by email, to confirm she was still alive and well and didn't need them to come check on her again. When she finished and looked out the window, she was surprised to see that Tate's car was parked outside the garage. She'd been so engrossed in her email that she hadn't heard the crunch of its arrival on her gravel driveway. Now, though, she could hear some thumping inside the garage. She grabbed her cane and headed over to the garage, where she let herself in through the half-open door.

  Tate looked up from the box he'd been emptying. "For someone who wants to be left alone, you sure do like to socialize."

  "I talked to Geoff Loring yesterday, and I know who the Remote Control Burglar is."

  Tate's eyebrows rose. "So Geoff had the missing piece of the puzzle, after all, and didn't even know it? He must be thrilled that he's finally got a real scoop."

  "He doesn't know," she said. "I only figured it out on the way home from seeing him. Jack is the Remote Control Burglar."

  "Jack who?" Understanding dawned on his face. "You mean Jack Clary? Your driver?"

  Helen nodded and waited for Tate to convince her she was wrong.

  "Hunh." Tate leaned against his worktable and crossed his arms over his chest. "I suppose you could make a case against him. What's your evidence?"

  She told him about the long list of passengers who'd annoyed him, and his desire for a little payback, and the way his schedule coincided with the timing of the thefts.

  "It fits," Tate said, "but it's pretty circumstantial."

  "But if I'm right?" Helen said. "I don't want to get him into trouble, but we need to convince him not to commit any more crimes."

  "Good luck with that."

  "I think he'd listen to me, especially since he's got to know how risky it is, now that the police are paying more attention to the burglaries," Helen said. "But what if I'm wrong about him? What if he isn't the burglar?"

  "He'll be outraged by your accusation, and he'll never let you forget that you thought he was a criminal," Tate said. "The Clarys do tend to hold grudges. He'd probably decide to become your own personal burglar, stealing your remotes. He'd come back, again and again, every time you replaced them. You'd have to turn on your television manually for the rest of your life."

  "That does sound like him. I'd deserve it too. If I were wrong. I don't think I am." After a moment of silence, Helen said, "He'd take the intervention better if it came from you."

  Tate shook his head. "Not my job. I'm retired."

  "What if you knew he was going to commit another crime?" she said. "Don't you have an obligation, as an officer of the court, to do something to stop him?"

  "Not as long as he doesn't use me to help him commit the crimes."

  "If we caught him in the act, we'd know for sure that he was the burglar," Helen said.

  "Are you planning to stalk him? Follow him everywhere he goes until he strikes again?" Jack said. "It could take weeks. Months, even, before he decides to steal another remote. Especially given his most recent collection of fourteen of them."

  "He's going to act soon. He was talking about someone today, and it sounded like he'd chosen a new victim. If we knew who his recent passengers were, we might be able to figure out who he was targeting, and catch him at it. Then we'd know for sure that he's the burglar."

  "You're going to do this with or without my help, aren't you?"

  "Jack's in over his head," Helen said. "If he goes ahead with another burglary, and the police catch him, they're going to charge him with murder, and they might make it stick. He's not a killer, and we both know it. You can't let it get that far."

  "I know the ow
ner of the limo company," Tate said reluctantly. "I might be able to get some information from him. Not until sometime tomorrow, though, if you don't want him to be overly suspicious that I called him on a Sunday."

  "I don't want Jack to lose his job. You can't tell his boss why you need the information. "

  "He knows better than to ask," Tate said. "If Jack's past becomes public knowledge, it will hurt the limo company's reputation too. It's better for everyone if it stays a mystery. As long as you can convince Jack not to steal again."

  "I'll convince him," Helen said. "I've had years of experience with convincing people to do what's in their best interest."

  "Interesting," Tate said. "You've never learned to take that kind of advice yourself."

  "I don't need people telling me what to do."

  "I bet that's what your victims thought too," Tate said. "Just stay out of trouble while I work on getting the passenger list. Don't make me miss out on my retirement for nothing."

  "I'll be at the nursing home, visiting some friends," Helen said. "How much trouble can I get into there?"

  * * *

  Late on Monday morning, Jack drove Helen back to the nursing home. She'd been a little worried that she might betray her suspicion of him, but he was preoccupied with telling her about his latest run-in with inconsiderate passengers.

  Helen left him waiting in the Town Car, already immersed in a game on his smartphone, and went to find Betty and Josie. The receptionist referred her to the common room, where the two women were seated in their favorite places in front of the fireplace, busy with their yarns and needles and hooks.

  Betty raised her knitting and waved it at Helen. "Come join us."

  "I didn't mean to interrupt."

  "Don't be silly," Josie said. "We're old, but we can still multi-task."

  The two women did, indeed, continue making perfectly even little stitches without even watching what they were doing. "How long have you been knitting and crocheting?"

  "Forever," Betty said. "I started when I was a teen, and Josie started in college. We both tried to give it up at various times over the years, but it's an addiction, and we kept coming back to it."