by Gin Jones
Helen shrugged. She'd probably just mistaken a chill from the spring air for the shivers of danger. Or it could have been Jack keeping an eye on her. Not that he meant her any harm, but if she thought about it, it was a little creepy the way he always knew when she was ready to leave and had the car waiting the moment she reached the pick-up spot.
Satisfied that she was in no immediate danger, Helen continued around the corner of the bulldozer. From there, she could see past the blade to the ground between it and the track. In the shadow of the blade was a mud-brown jacket like the one Marty wore.
And then she realized it wasn't just a jacket. A pair of jeans stretched away from the bottom of the jacket, and there was rust-colored water in the nooks and crannies of the recently plowed earth around the jacket.
It took a moment to realize those puddles weren't just muddy water like the ones Helen had seen elsewhere in the garden. These were stained with blood. A great deal of blood.
CHAPTER THREE
Helen had once seen a television show featuring a tough-guy police detective who was fairly interesting up to the point where he was in a tricky situation and started shrieking, "Help me! Help me!" in a panicked falsetto. She expected more of a TV character, so she'd immediately lost interest in the character and the story. The least he could have done was to shout something more creative.
Faced with the body beneath the dozer, Helen felt a little more sympathy for the TV detective. Still, she'd never been much of a screamer, and it really wouldn't accomplish anything right now. Between the road traffic and the shouting by Dale and Marty, she doubted anyone would hear her yell for help. Besides, it was quite obvious there wasn't anything that could be done for the unfortunate person underneath the dozer's blade, considering how much blood there was.
She might as well just go ahead and dial 9-1-1. The approaching sirens would get everyone's attention soon enough. Her hands shook, but she managed to contact the police dispatcher and provide the address for the garden.
Jack was the first to realize something was wrong and came running over to Helen. She hadn't even heard the sirens yet, and he'd reached the edge of the farmhouse's lawn. She turned her back on the gruesome scene, which was just out of Jack's line of sight.
"Stop," she said. "You don't want to get any closer."
At his inquiring look, she raised a thumb to point over her shoulder. He took a couple of steps to his right until he could see past the bulk of the blade to the body. He cursed and stumbled back to where he could no longer see the corpse.
"You should probably wait in the car," Helen told him. The first responders would be regular patrol cops, but they'd be calling in Wharton's senior homicide detective, Hank Peterson, who believed that the only good Clary was a jailed Clary. Jack couldn't possibly have had anything to do with the body underneath the dozer, but Peterson didn't let little things like physical impossibility affect his theories of a case. Peterson didn't like Helen much more than he liked Jack, but she'd been the one to find the body, so she had to stay at the scene. Peterson might condescend to her and lecture her, but he wasn't likely to handcuff her. "No need for you to endure Hank Peterson's company."
"I can't leave you alone with a dead body," Jack said.
"A corpse can't hurt me." Helen registered the fact that Dale and Marty had stopped arguing. They must have heard what she did now—sirens heading in this direction. "And it sounds like I'm about to have plenty of company. You should go on back to the car before the cops get here. No point in wasting their time trying to pin this on you."
"All right," Jack said with obvious reluctance. "But I'll be in the car keeping an eye on what happens. Just wave if you need me for anything."
Jack left as the sirens drew closer. Dale, Marty, and Cory arrived in a group, their disagreement apparently set aside. In fact, at least for the moment, they shared a single expression, one that held nothing but curiosity.
Helen held out a hand. "You might want to stay there on the sidewalk. I'd already contaminated the scene before I realized what had happened, so I'm staying right here until the police arrive. It would be better if there weren't any more footprints to confuse things, though."
"I don't think the police will bring out a forensics team to deal with a bit of trespass," Dale said.
"It's more than that now," Helen said. "There's a body under the dozer."
Dale gasped, Cory's eyebrows rose, and Marty started forward, but fortunately Dale and Cory were quick enough to catch him by one arm each and hold him in place. The victim was probably one of Marty's coworkers. He didn't need to see the body.
The first two patrol cars arrived, lights and sirens activated, and screeched to a halt in the middle of the street, one in front of the other. Their drivers jumped out in almost perfect unison. They looked to Cory first, and he pointed them to Helen who simply pointed her thumb over her shoulder without saying a word. A moment later, she was being hustled over to the back seat of the cruiser closest to the bulldozer to wait, as she'd predicted, for the arrival of Detective Peterson.
Detective Peterson was five and a half feet tall, about the same height as both Helen's ex-husband and Cory O'Keefe, but he was stockier than the other two men, and he acted as if he were nine feet tall. He routinely looked down on civilians, which was somewhat understandable, at least from a physical point of view when he was interacting with a five-foot-two-inch woman like Helen, but he even managed to do it with the six-foot-four-inch Paul Young, who'd joined the gathering rubberneckers.
Peterson also considered himself an expert on just about everything to do with criminal investigations, based on twenty years on the force, the last ten of them as the senior homicide detective for Wharton. Helen suspected he'd only achieved that rank because no one else wanted the job. There weren't many homicides in Wharton, but when they happened, the lead detective was likely to get called out in the wee hours of the morning and then had to put in long hours for the next few days or weeks until someone was charged with the murder. Overtime wasn't optional in those circumstances.
The only good thing about Peterson's arrival was that he'd brought his young, new partner, Eleanor Almeida, with him. She was four or five inches taller than her senior partner but never ever looked down on anyone. Initially, Helen had been afraid that Peterson was going to quash all of Almeida's good traits in the course of his mentorship, but so far the woman had demonstrated the ability to resist any inappropriate training without becoming insubordinate. She followed Peterson's orders, treated him with respect, and then did whatever she thought best, including taking witnesses seriously, even when the witness was someone Peterson would dismiss as an inconsequential, frail-looking, middle-aged woman without any criminal justice training.
Peterson and Almeida went straight to the body, which was now hidden from Helen's sight. She caught Peterson's voice snapping some orders she couldn't quite make out, apparently addressing the forensic team that had arrived at about the same time he had.
Eventually, the two detectives came out from behind the bulldozer and went over to where Cory, Dale, and Marty were leaning against the second cruiser, a little closer to the center path of the garden. Peterson said something that caused Marty to straighten and shout an anguished, "No!" There were more words from Peterson with Marty silently shaking his head. After a while, Peterson turned to Cory who pointed at Helen.
Time to face the piper. Judging by the look on Peterson's face, he wasn't any happier about the imminent conversation than she was. He was probably thinking, "Not her again."
Over Peterson's shoulder, Almeida smiled at Helen and gave her a surreptitious wave.
Peterson stomped over to the cruiser and looked down at Helen. The tone of his voice matched his posture. "I understand you found the body."
"I did."
"What on earth were you doing playing with a bulldozer?"
"I'm bored with retirement," Helen snapped, "and thought maybe I'd take up construction work."
Behind P
eterson, Almeida was grinning.
"Oh, sure," Peterson said. "You can't even walk without a cane, and you're going to climb up into the bulldozer's cab?"
"I could use some more exercise." There was no point in explaining that she was not, in fact, carrying her cane and didn't need it any longer. Peterson would always view her as disabled. "But the real story is that I just thought there was something odd about the placement of the dozer, so I went to get a closer look. I didn't expect to find a body. Why would I? No one ever expects to find a body, after all."
"I do." Peterson smirked. "It's my job. Not yours. It's time for you to remember that. I expect you to give Almeida here your statement, and then that's the last thing you'll have to do with Sheryl Toth's death."
Sheryl Toth. Helen recognized the name. The person Dale didn't want anywhere near the garden. And now Sheryl had died in it.
"I was wondering—"
"Don't." Peterson held up one hand to cut her off. "I'm sure it's a simple matter of an industrial accident. There's nothing for anyone to wonder about. We'll have a reconstruction expert here to confirm it, but he really doesn't need you bothering him. Just give Almeida your statement, and then let the professionals do their job."
Helen hoped Peterson was right, that it had been an accident and that the case would be closed quickly and without any fuss. He was definitely correct that it wasn't any of her business. There was no way anyone could blame her for killing a woman she'd never met and who must have been dead long before Helen even arrived at the garden this morning.
Still, even if the death were accidental, Helen couldn't help thinking there was more to discover about the situation. How on earth had Sheryl Toth even been in a position to have a fatal accident at a site where she had to have known she wasn't welcome?
* * *
There were times when Helen dreaded Sunday brunch and the arrival of her nieces. She did love them and knew that they loved her. The only problem was that they'd begun hovering like mother hens a few years ago when her lupus had begun to interfere with her daily activities. And they hadn't backed off at all in the last few months while her symptoms were in remission.
The two girls—women now, Helen knew, but old thoughts die hard—were very different in appearance and personality, but they shared a strong protective streak. Laura Gray's was tied to her natural inclination to mother everyone, which Helen hoped might abate a bit when she finally had her first child. Laura was short and slightly built like Helen, but at exactly forty-one weeks pregnant as of today, her stomach was as wide as she was tall. Her face, which was naturally rounded, was even more so now.
Her sister, Lily Binney, was equally short and slight, but without any softness at all. Her mind was as sharp as her face, and she used that intelligence to chivvy both her aunt and her business clients into doing what was best for them. Unfortunately, Helen couldn't see any prospect for Lily ever relaxing her vigilant oversight.
Today, though, Helen was anxious to see them, if only to reassure herself that things were going well with Laura's pregnancy. It was already a few days past the expected delivery date. Helen must have paid more attention than she'd realized to the nieces' chatter about pregnancy statistics because she knew it was a myth that first babies were always late. She had suggested that Laura stay home today, just in case she needed to make an unscheduled trip to the obstetrics ward, but she'd insisted on coming along with her sister on the two-plus-hour trip from Boston.
About fifteen minutes after they were due, Helen heard the car's tires on the gravel driveway. She opened the front door to see Laura waddling up the path while Lily popped the trunk to collect whatever they'd brought for their meal. Including, Helen knew from too much experience, the ingredients for kale smoothies.
"Sorry we're late." Laura declined a seat and continued through the great room to the kitchen where she bent to retrieve the blender from a base cabinet. She barely fit in the narrow space between the kitchen countertop and the island that did double duty as a dining table. "I underestimated how many pit stops we'd need to make."
Lily rolled a large wheeled cooler into the kitchen. "It's a good thing Adam doesn't particularly want children. I don't think I'd be as patient with pregnancy as Laura is, and I sure wouldn't glow. Unless it was with irritation over having to go to the bathroom every three seconds."
After tossing a package of kale to her sister, Lily withdrew a much more promising box printed with the logo of Clear Flour Bakery in Brookline. They didn't put kale in anything, as far as Helen knew, and Boston Magazine had declared their croissants to be the best in Boston.
"Don't listen to her," Laura said. "Lily's got more patience than I do. She even agreed to be my labor coach, and she went to all the childbirth classes with me."
"What about Howie?" Helen asked as she settled on one of the island's stools. "Doesn't the husband usually do that these days?"
Laura snorted. "I love Howie, and he's going to be the very best daddy with our kids, but he's not the right person to be my coach. He's not really the calm, soothing, empathetic type."
Helen felt her eyebrows rising. "And Lily is?"
Laura glanced at her sister who was rummaging through the cupboards for a serving plate. "She can be. She just hides her soft side most of the time. She's a lot like you in that way."
"I don't have a soft side." Just then, as if it had been planned, Helen's diabetic, bad-tempered, tortoiseshell-colored Maine coon cat, Vicky, wandered out of the bedroom to see why, with so many people around, she wasn't getting more attention.
"You don't have to pretend with us, Aunt Helen." Laura paused in the act of filling the blender with things that Helen would rather not contemplate. "I know there were other reasons beyond the logical ones you cited for your decision to adopt a special-needs cat like Vicky when her owner died. Just like I know Lily didn't make her decision to be my labor coach based on one of her beloved spreadsheets."
"If you two are done assassinating my character," Lily said, "can we please talk about the latest dead body in Wharton? Laura and I heard about it on the radio on the way here. They didn't give much in the way of details, but I just know you were involved somehow, Aunt Helen."
The roar of the blender gave Helen a moment to choose her words carefully. The last thing she wanted was for the girls to worry about her getting involved in another murder investigation. They both had enough to think about with Laura's imminent childbirth. Helen did have some questions about what had happened to Sheryl Toth, but her death wasn't anything like the previous situations where Helen had gotten herself into some trouble.
When the blender stopped whirring, Helen said, "I found the body, but that's all. The police think it was just an accident, but even if it was something more than that, I've got absolutely no reason to get involved. I didn't know the woman, didn't have any reason to kill her, and didn't know anyone who might be a suspect."
Lily peered at her with obvious skepticism. "Are you sure?"
"Absolutely," Helen said. "The only thing I'm interested in these days is the community garden where the victim died. I've been assigned a plot, and I'm just waiting for the right weather to fill it with vegetable plants."
Lily paused in the act of emptying the box of croissants onto a serving plate. "You're going to have a garden? But you've never liked getting dirty." She looked at her sister. "Do you remember when I needed to grow some pea plants for a science project, and Aunt Helen came for a visit? She was supposed to be helping me plant the seeds in little paper cups to set on a window sill, but she was afraid they'd make too much of a mess, so she ended up buying me a fancy hydroponic system that was probably intended for growing marijuana. No dirt, and the seeds were all preplanted in antiseptic-looking plastic pods."
"You did have the biggest pea plants in the class," Laura said. "And got an A-plus on the project."
"That was all a long time ago when I didn't know how rewarding it could be to muck around in the dirt. I've been studying agriculture
all winter." Helen pointed at the teetering stack of seed catalogs on the table next to her recliner. That was only a small fraction of the reading she'd done. In the bedroom, she had even taller stacks of garden books.
"You didn't have to get dirty while you read about gardening," Lily said. "Studying and doing are completely different."
"Give me time. The garden wasn't open until yesterday, and I've already got six pea plants growing in my assigned plot. No antiseptic pods, just lots of dirt." Helen refrained from mentioning that she hadn't had to actually touch that dirt yet. She was certain she could have planted the seedlings if Paul Young hadn't gone ahead and taken care of it for her. It hadn't looked that difficult, and she had a beautiful pair of gardening gloves that she'd ordered from one of the seed catalogs. "Just wait, and you'll see. I'm going to grow all of my own food this summer. The vegetables anyway. Tomatoes and peppers and squash and onions and lettuce."
Lily shook her head disbelievingly but didn't say anything.
"I think that sounds wonderful, Aunt Helen. I'm planning to garden with my children as soon as they're old enough. Everyone can use more fresh air and fresh veggies." Laura tasted her vile-looking smoothie and then added, "Just think. You could even grow your own kale."
CHAPTER FOUR
That evening, Helen set out her gardening outfit—her oldest jeans and a sweatshirt—plus all the supplies she'd acquired so far. She had her leather gloves with a cuff that reached all the way to her elbows, a folding kneeler bench for prolonged weeding, a hoe with a sturdy wooden handle that her woodworking friend Tate considered inferior but that had rave reviews at the online gardening sites, and a plastic-handled trowel that was even lower in Tate's estimation and higher in the online reviewers' rankings. A pocket in the kneeler held a collection of seeds that the catalogs had promised were perfect for beginners.
