A Dawn of Death

by Gin Jones

  "There doesn't seem to be that much room for compromise over the community garden's land," Helen said. "If Sheryl or any other developer had bought it, a lot of gardeners would have been displaced."

  Dale nodded. "Even Paul's cheerfulness was strained during the selectmen's meeting when they discussed the possibility of selling the garden. I've never seen him look quite that angry. He's definitely opposed to the sale. Whether it went to Sheryl or to the retirement community across the street."

  "So what's the vote count?"

  "It's hard to tell," Dale said. "I thought I had the votes to keep it from even being discussed, but I was betrayed at the meeting. Now I'm not sure how reliable my information is."

  "There are five selectmen, right?" Helen said. "So you need three votes?"

  "I'm pretty sure we've got two on each side. The deciding vote, and the one I can't read, is Cory O'Keefe. He's the chair of the board, and he's refusing to say which way he'll vote. I think he's hoping one of the others will switch and he won't have to make the decision himself. Meanwhile, there's nothing I can do to sway him. I can usually put some pressure on the board members through a spouse, mother, or significant other. But he doesn't have any close relatives, and he never seems to be in a committed relationship."

  Odd, considering how good-looking and good-natured he was. Very different from Tate but every bit as handsome and a great deal more cheerful and outgoing. "A bit of player, then?"

  "Not that exactly," Dale said. "Just doesn't seem ready to settle down."

  Since Cory was close to Helen's age, it seemed unlikely that he'd ever settle down if he hadn't by now. She herself was enjoying life as a single person, and it seemed likely that the longer she experienced the freedom, the less likely she'd be to ever want to give it up.

  "Maybe someone should seduce Cory into revealing how he'll vote."

  "Are you volunteering?"

  "I don't know him that well." Admittedly, she'd fallen head over heels for her ex-husband at first sight, but she'd been a great deal younger and more foolish then. "It could take weeks before I'd be ready to jump into bed with him."

  "We don't have that much time," Dale said, as if she'd taken Helen's suggestion seriously. "But that's okay. I don't think we need to get quite that drastic. I'm still working on one of the other selectmen to vote in our favor, and if not, well, Cory knew Fred and how much the garden meant to him. The land has always been a community garden, and it always will be. That's what Fred wanted. I think Cory will do the right thing. It's just…"

  "What?"

  "Nothing, really," Dale said, looking down and reaching for a file on her desk. "I've got a meeting in a few minutes. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  "No." Helen hefted the canvas bag filled with GreenPrint magazines. They might be small, but in the quantity Dale had stuffed into the bag, they were every bit as heavy as the hardcover gardening books Helen had gotten from the Wharton Library. "Thanks for your time. And the magazines."

  Helen slung the handles over her shoulder and headed out of the office. It felt good to be able to carry the weight without worrying about the strain on her hip and her back.

  As soon as Helen came through the building's front door, Jack jumped out of the car and jogged over to take the canvas bag from her. She wasn't foolish enough to insist on carrying it herself. She might have if her nieces had been around, but she didn't need to prove her independence to Jack.

  It was annoying, though, to realize just how out of shape she was. By the time Jack took the bag from her, it had started to feel like it was filled with bowling balls, not just a stack of magazines. Fortunately, she could work on getting her strength back by working in her garden all summer. At least she could if the land didn't get sold to a developer. And that depended on how Cory O'Keefe voted. Maybe she could do something about that. He had seemed interested in getting to know her better after all.

  As soon as Helen was settled in the passenger seat, she asked Jack, "Do you know where Cory O'Keefe's office is?"

  "Everyone knows that," he said, completely missing the fact that Helen didn't know. "It's on the outskirts of town but on one of the main roads."

  Helen wasn't planning to seduce O'Keefe but could simply ask him straight out how he planned to vote. "I've got a few questions for him about the garden land."

  "He won't tell you anything," Jack said. "Nice guy but a politician through and through. Never gives a straight answer."

  "No problem," Helen said. "I'm an expert at making sense out of twisted answers."

  * * *

  Jack pulled into a strip mall on the outskirts of Wharton. A monument sign at the entrance proclaimed it to be the Work 'n Play Zone. The eight storefronts definitely had work covered, from a uniform shop at the near end, to an insurance agency in the middle, and the Cory O'Keefe Real Estate office at the far end, but Helen wasn't sure where the play came in.

  Cory's smart car was barely visible in front of his storefront, despite its glowing lime-green color. It was overshadowed by a herd of SUVs, vans, and trucks. The bright blue pickup parked next to the smart car had the Toth Construction logo printed on the tailgate. Business in the strip mall was brisk, and there weren't any open parking spaces, so Jack let Helen out and double-parked behind the smart car.

  Through the real estate agency's floor-to-ceiling storefront windows, Helen could see easels propped up to display poster-sized pictures of local houses for sale. Inside, there were more of the pictures hanging on the walls. On one side of the reception area that ran the entire width of the agency's unit in the strip mall, there were three computer stations for viewing listings online. Filling up most of the other side was a massive antique trestle table with nothing but a computer monitor and a multiline business phone in that awful yellowish-beige that manufacturers hadn't used for electronics in at least ten years. Behind the table sat a black-haired, olive-skinned girl who looked to be in her late teens. She wore the white blouse and plaid skirt of a private school uniform.

  "Is Mr. O'Keefe in?"

  The girl nodded. "But he's with someone."

  "Maybe you can help me."

  The girl sighed. "I'm just an intern, and I'm not allowed to do anything except answer the phone and make copies."

  "I can come back later if there's a better time to see him."

  "He won't be long." She glanced toward the central hallway as if expecting someone to emerge even as she spoke. "Cory isn't with a client. It's just Marty Drumm from Toth Construction."

  "I've met Marty. What's he doing here?"

  "He's probably asking about Crescent Street again."

  "Crescent Street?"

  "It's this really adorable bungalow from the 1920s, and it's been on the market for a few years, and Sheryl Toth wanted to knock it down and build another row of her boring town houses. It would be such a waste to do that." She froze for a moment, apparently realizing she might have insulted Helen's home since the girl had no way of knowing where Helen lived. "Some town houses are great, of course, but Crescent Street just isn't a good location for the kind of homes that Sheryl builds. Or used to build, I mean."

  "What's so bad about Sheryl's homes?"

  "They're not bad exactly. It's just that if you saw the bungalow, you'd understand why it shouldn't be torn down." She went over to pull a file from the cabinet in the corner behind her desk. "I'm Gloria, by the way."

  "Nice to meet you."

  Gloria opened the file and pointed at a picture clipped to the inside. "See? Isn't the bungalow just wonderful? I know it needs some work, but there's so much potential. It would be perfect for a first time home buyer. It just needs a little paint, a little landscaping, maybe an addition in the back."

  Plus, a new roof, Helen thought, along with a total revamp of the plumbing, electrical, and heating systems. No wonder the only interested buyer thought it should be razed. "I'm not in the market. I already have a home."

  "You wouldn't have to live there. It could just be an inv
estment," Gloria said. "Or maybe you know someone who is looking for a dream house. Someone who could appreciate a place like this, someone who'd like to create some sweat equity."

  Helen realized she was actively considering the possibilities, and she already had far too much to deal with between growing her vegetables, volunteering at the library, and crocheting chemo caps. Fixing up that house wouldn't be a hobby. It would be a full-time job, better suited—much as she hated to even think the words—to someone physically stronger than she was. If she could get the house renovated simply by being pushy and nosy, that was one thing, but she couldn't wield a jackhammer or even a regular hammer for long without potentially triggering a lupus flare.

  Maybe Tate's niece Stevie was looking for a house to flip. "I'll let you know if I think of anyone who might be interested in it."

  The inner office's door opened, and Marty Drumm emerged. His face looked even more strained than when she'd seen him an hour ago, and his eyes were flitting wildly from spot to spot as if constantly on alert for danger. He probably wasn't used to management and was wishing he could be back in the cab of a bulldozer, which might take considerable expertise, but at least there, he didn't have to juggle a large number of conflicting demands and could focus on a narrow goal of moving dirt from one spot to another.

  "You know what's in everyone's best interest." Marty seemed oblivious to Gloria's and Helen's presence as he passed them. At the door, he paused to give Cory a meaningful look. "A lot of people are counting on you to do the right thing."

  "I always do," Cory said amiably.

  "You'd better." Marty swept out, apparently believing he'd made his point.

  Helen wasn't so sure. She knew an evasive answer when she heard one. Cory was going to be every bit as difficult to get answers out of as Jack had claimed. Even her skills might not be enough.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Cory remained standing at the glass doorway with a smile that was either genuine or a remarkably good artificial one until the bright blue pickup truck had backed out of the parking space and headed for the road.

  Cory took a deep breath and turned around. "You already own a lovely cottage, and I can't imagine you want to sell it, so I assume you're here about the community garden. Come on back to my office."

  It didn't surprise Helen that he knew where she lived. It was his business to keep track of that sort of thing, after all. She was a little surprised, however, that he didn't even try to convince her she needed a bigger and more expensive home.

  Helen followed him to the end of the hallway, past the picture window that looked into a small conference room. Inside Cory's office, three of the walls displayed pictures of half a dozen mansions—the real thing similar to the one that had been transformed into the Wharton Nursing Home, not cheap, modern knockoffs—that were presumably among his biggest sales. The remaining wall beside the doorway had been transformed into a massive, green-felt-lined rack to hold golf clubs. Two horizontal shelves ran the entire width of the wall, one at waist height and one near the ceiling, with slots cut into them for hanging the clubs. On the floor in the corner was a bucket of golf balls.

  Helen's ex-husband had been an avid golfer, but even he didn't have that many putters, and he certainly didn't keep them quite this close at hand. Of course, as governor, Frank had to maintain a certain image, and he had to contend with reporters who weren't anywhere near as kind to their subjects as Geoff Loring was.

  "I figured Dale would drag you into the controversy," Cory said as he closed the door and headed over to settle behind his desk. "What did you want to know?"

  "Before I start planting my garden, I just want to be sure I'm not wasting the effort," Helen sank into the faded but well-built and comfortable guest chair across from him. "I'm hearing rumors that Sheryl's death wasn't an accident, and if she was murdered, it might tip the scales in favor of selling the land."

  "I can't believe anyone would kill Sheryl for doing her job," Cory said. "Besides, she wasn't the only person interested in the land. The owner of Wharton Meadows wanted it as badly as Sheryl did. More, perhaps. The place is at peak capacity with a lengthy waiting list, and there's nowhere else to expand nearby."

  "So you don't think one of the gardeners might have killed Sheryl?"

  "Garden club members aren't generally known for their homicidal tendencies," Cory said. "They tend to be pacifists. Except for Dale, I suppose."

  "She does have strong feelings about the garden."

  "True, but I can't really see her killing anyone outside of a military setting," he said. "She believes in causes, but she also believes in people. Murder just isn't her style. She's good at working behind the scenes, leveraging other people—mostly women—to do the dirty work, so to speak, as opposed to taking any action herself."

  "Even so," Helen said, "Dale might have thought the only way she could ensure the garden's future was by getting rid of the main person interested in buying it. She told me you're the deciding vote on the sale of the garden, but she can't tell where you're going to fall."

  "Nowhere in particular," Cory said with a grin. "I try to stay on my feet."

  That was definitely an evasive answer, Helen thought, smile or no smile. He was a politician, after all. "You're not going to commit to anything in advance of the vote, are you?"

  "There are only two things I ever commit to. Doing my best for the town of Wharton and playing golf." He glanced at the rows of clubs on the wall. "Do you play?"

  "It's not really my sport," Helen said. "I used to be pretty good at softball, but that was a long time ago. After that, I was too busy to learn a new game, and then once I had some free time, I didn't have the energy for all that walking."

  "Not that kind of golf," Cory said. "Miniature golf. All the fun, all the challenges of precision, but none of the exertion. Just my style."

  It did sound like more fun than what her ex-husband and his cronies had engaged in, which was just networking and politics in disguise. "I'm guessing that Wharton has a particularly fine miniature golf course."

  "It does." He paused to glance at a calendar on his desk. "I have an open house tomorrow afternoon, but if you can meet me here the day after at noon, I'll give you a tour."

  Lunch with Tate was at noon. At least, that was when they both tended to gravitate to the corner table in the garage. It wasn't written down anywhere. She could always tell him she'd be a little late on Wednesday. Or skip their lunch together entirely.

  She could, but she didn't really want to.

  "How about 2:00 instead?" Helen said as she stood. "If you don't have to be in your office then."

  "I'm the boss, so I can take a long lunch or even the entire afternoon off." Cory came around the desk to walk her out. "The middle of a weekday isn't exactly a hotbed of activity for house hunting. Or political calls. Gloria can take messages from my outraged constituents."

  "What are they outraged about?"

  He shrugged, obviously unfazed. "There's always something. Potholes to be fixed, trash that wasn't picked up on time, streetlights that are out. If it's really important, they can call the public works department or electric company directly. Otherwise, they can wait for an hour or two."

  Helen stopped at the closed door and turned to face him. "What if I have a complaint about the town? I'm one of your constituents now."

  "You haven't lived here long enough to be mad at me yet."

  "I'm a fast learner."

  He paused with one hand on the door. "What have I done?"

  It really wasn't any of her business how he treated his intern, but Helen couldn't help getting involved. At least offering advice about an employee was probably safer than investigating a murder. "It's about Gloria."

  Cory blinked. "My intern?"

  "She's a natural salesperson," Helen said. "Have you considered letting her do something more challenging than phone messages and copies?"

  "Gloria?" he said, sounding stunned. "Really? I thought she was just interested in clo
thes and boys."

  "Ask her about Crescent Street."

  "That hovel? It's a teardown."

  "Not according to Gloria, and she almost had me plunking down a deposit on it."

  "Hunh." He absently reached for the closest putter hanging on the wall next to him and tapped it against his shoe. "Gloria? Really?"

  "Really," she said. "For starters, she'd be great at drafting the descriptions in your listings."

  He nodded thoughtfully. "She couldn't do worse than I do."

  "And it will give you more time for golf."

  Cory's bemused expression turned into a wide grin. There was no way he was faking that, Helen thought. He felt about golf the same way Tate felt about his woodworking and Betty and Josie felt about their needlework, the way Helen hoped to feel about her gardening.

  The way to Cory's heart wasn't Dale's path, by way of a family member or significant other. No, it was through his real passion. Golf.

  Now, all Helen had to do was figure out how to convince him that not selling the garden would somehow improve his golf game. That meant she was going to have to spend some more time with him. Not exactly a hardship. After all, her first impression was that he was a good-looking, reasonably honest, and generally cheerful person. She was going to enjoy the upcoming golf game, whether or not she succeeded in swaying his vote.

  "I'll see you day after tomorrow then," Helen said as they reached the front door.

  It wasn't until she was about to tell Jack that she'd need a ride back to the strip mall on Wednesday that it struck her that just as she'd had the wrong idea of what the community garden would look like on Saturday, she'd had several other mistaken expectations about her life after leaving the Governor's Mansion. Foremost among them was that she never would have thought, not even in her wildest imaginings, that this stage of her life would involve either murder investigations or networking on the golf course.