by Gin Jones
"I met someone recently who might be heading down that path," Helen said, thinking of RJ and the physical price he had to be paying for keeping his father at home. The sleep disruption alone could be devastating, as she knew from her experience with insomnia a few months ago. "I wonder if the new facilities offered by an expansion of Wharton Meadows would help him at all."
"Wes Quattrone spoke at a luncheon for local health care providers recently to let us know what he's got planned in the way of services for dementia patients, and he'd be offering some of them to residents and nonresidents alike." Rebecca closed her laptop, acknowledging that they were done discussing Helen's health. "I've got a number of patients who could use some of those specialized services, but they're just not available this far from a major city."
"So Wes Quattrone would be filling a real need, not just being greedy?"
Rebecca smiled. "In this case, it goes hand in hand. The services are needed, but they're also a solid profit generator. I don't know all the details of what he's planning or what the return on investment would be, but more and more of the medical continuing education programs I take are including some information on the costs of health care. The bottom line is that it can be expensive to set up a specialized clinic or install advanced equipment, but once the facilities are in place, they can generate huge profits, especially if there's no local competition. But the main reason it's profitable is because so many people need the services."
That wasn't what Helen had wanted to hear. It completely undermined her working theory that Wes Quattrone was a greedy bastard, willing to commit murder to advance only his own, personal interests. The situation was obviously more complicated than that. She was used to working on complicated issues from her time as the state's first lady. Political problems seldom had simple answers, no matter how much the politicians and pundits tried to convince the public otherwise.
Helen knew that life and, even more so, death were complicated. That didn't mean she had to like it. Or stop looking for answers.
* * *
Rebecca left just moments before Jack arrived. Tate's car wasn't parked in front of the garage, but that didn't mean anything. He tended not to get to his workshop until 10:00 most mornings. It was a little more unusual that he hadn't been there last night when she got home, but he was retired after all and could set his own hours. It didn't necessarily mean that he was avoiding her after their argument yesterday. And she hadn't consciously planned to avoid him this morning. She'd just wanted to get an early start so she could get all her errands done before Jack had to leave to pick up Jay and Zee at the airport.
Helen climbed into the Subaru, and Jack drove down the gravel driveway. The ride didn't seem as smooth today as usual. Maybe she needed to get the driveway regraded. That could wait, though. Finding Sheryl's killer couldn't.
Helen was about to tell Jack that their first stop today would be town hall when she remembered what Annie had said about predicting Dale's mood from the way she hung her laundry on the line. "Do you know where Dale Meeke-Mason lives?"
"Sure, but she wouldn't be home at this hour," Jack said. "She'd be at town hall."
"I still want to see where she lives if you could go by there first. And then we can go to her office."
"Whatever you want, Ms. Binney."
A few minutes later, he drove to the end of a small cul-de-sac of virtually identical little Cape Cod-style houses. He stopped at close to the midpoint of the turnaround. He pointed to Helen's right. "That's Dale's house."
Sure enough, the mailbox had Meeke-Mason on it. The house didn't look any different from its neighbors except for the large umbrella-style clothesline in her side yard. Hanging from it were two red bath sheets on either side of a white one, and then two smaller blue towels. Taken together, they looked a bit like a US flag, with the red and white stripes and then the blue field. Assuming it was intentional, the only message it seemed to send was that Dale was feeling patriotic today. Or perhaps there was some obscure meaning that only a close friend of Dale's would understand. Annie might be able to translate it, but it didn't seem to offer any clue into whether Dale might have killed Sheryl. A more direct approach was called for.
"I've seen enough," Helen said. "Town hall, please."
* * *
According to the woman who worked outside Dale's office, the town clerk was in a meeting with the mayor. She didn't know when Dale was likely to return, and Helen hadn't thought to bring her yarn bag to keep herself busy while she waited. As long as she was here, though, she could stop in to see Paul. He might know if the bulldozer's key had been found so the barricades could be removed.
Helen trekked to the other end of the building, aware that her early-morning limp hadn't gone away. His door was open, revealing a tiny space, barely more than a closet, without any windows. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed, and the beige walls were bare. Paul was seated behind a desk that was empty except for a laptop, a pair of well-worn leather gloves, and a handmade flowerpot with what she assumed were Native American motifs on it, which served to hold a collection of cheap pens.
Paul looked up from his computer. "Come in, Ms. Binney. I did not expect to see you here."
Helen glanced around the small dreary space. "It looks like I was lucky to find you in. I can't believe you spend much time here."
"More time than I would like, but some things cannot be done remotely, even with a computer." He closed the laptop and smiled. "Still, I am glad to be here now. What can I do for you today?"
"I was actually here to see Dale, but she's in a meeting, so I came to see if you'd heard anything more about how long the barricades would remain at the garden."
He shook his head. "It does not look good. Much as I want to be working in the garden today, it might be just as well if everyone stays away for a few days. Emotions are running high right now. Emotions can lead to unwise behavior."
"Like Sheryl's death, assuming it wasn't an accident."
Paul nodded. "The community is polarized over the issue of what to do with the garden."
"What about you?" Helen asked. "Have you taken an official position on the future of the garden?"
"I try to stay out of politics. I just want to do my job and grow my plants."
"So you wouldn't mind if the garden moved to another location?"
"Not particularly," he said. "Depending on the location."
"Did you ever tell Dale that?" She wouldn't have liked the idea of losing an ally. Of course, Dale wasn't the only person who might have been looking for Paul's support. "Or discuss it with Sheryl?"
Paul looked at the flowerpot on his desk and reached out a finger to trace one of the motifs. His voice was heavy with regret. "Sheryl gave this to me as a parting gift. Now it is a reminder of all the things we did not say to each other. Things might have been different if we had said more of what was on our minds and in our hearts." He looked up at Helen again. "We never talked about our work."
"Why not? You're obviously devoted to the outdoors and environmental issues. Dale seems to think that Sheryl's plans for the garden were terrible."
"Dale tends to see things in black-and-white. Sheryl's projects were far from perfect, but they were also far from terrible. It was not my place to comment on them."
"Why not?"
"You want to know why I did not try to stop her projects when they turned natural beauty into mundane buildings and parking lots? Perhaps you think that I had grown tired of seeing her do it time after time and I snapped and killed her?" He stared at the flowerpot, and Helen thought he wasn't going to answer. Then, after several long moments, he said, "Sheryl knew what I thought about her work, and she modified some of her plans with that in mind before they were submitted for town approval. Beyond that, I did not feel it would be appropriate to comment on them in public. While our relationship was not common knowledge, enough people knew about it that nothing good would come of my commenting on her projects. If I spoke in her favor, it would be deemed in
appropriate because of our personal relationship. If I spoke against her, well, that is a good way to end a personal relationship."
"It must be difficult for you now, not being able to grieve publicly."
"I am naturally cheerful, and I work at controlling my more negative emotions," he said. "But you are right. It has been difficult. I would like to believe her death was an accident, but I have also been considering the possibility that it was murder. It would be good to know where Wes Quattrone was at the time of Sheryl's death. The last time he lost out on a property to her he came to her home and threatened her. He said he'd see her dead before he let her take something he wanted again."
"Did she report it to the police?"
"I wanted her to," Paul said. "But Sheryl insisted she had heard worse. She convinced me that people say that sort of thing all the time without really meaning it."
"But you thought he meant it?"
"Not entirely." He hesitated as if he were reliving the memory. Then he explained. "There was just something about the look in his eyes that made me wonder if he might not have been exaggerating. Usually, he is very suave and controlled, both in his manner and his appearance, but that night he was so angry. His tie was askew, his voice sounded coarse, and he could not seem to stand still. I had to wonder what he might have done if I was not there. I have never seen him become violent, but he is a bully at heart. You can see it in the way he treats his wife."
"Not just her," Helen said. "His assistant looks like she's afraid of him, and he even tried to bully me."
Paul smiled. "I would have liked to see his face when you failed to cower before him."
Before Helen could respond, she heard a shout from the hallway and what sounded like a scuffle.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Paul jumped to his feet. "Excuse me," he said as he rushed out of his office.
Helen started to get to her feet, only to be stopped by a shooting pain in her right hip, the one that had been the main focus of the last few years' lupus flares. She fell back into the chair, took a deep breath, and then carefully pushed herself to her feet. She stood there for a moment to make sure her legs would support her, feeling a brief pang of regret that she didn't have her cane out in the car. Then she headed out of the office considerably more slowly than Paul had done.
In the outer section of the town clerk's office, Paul had placed himself between the young woman who worked there and Marty Drumm.
The woman stood with her back against Dale's door, clutching a stack of folders against her thin chest. "I'm sorry, but I really don't know when Dale will be back. I was just getting some files she asked me to work on while she's meeting with the mayor."
"You're lying." Marty's eyes darted all around the hallway even more frantically than usual. "Dale's not with the mayor. She's hiding from me."
"I doubt very much that Dale hides from anyone," Paul said calmly, echoing Helen's thoughts.
"She knew I was coming in today to pick up copies of Sheryl's death certificate. I need them to keep the business running. That means I need to talk to Dale. In her office. So that's where I'm going. Get out of my way." Marty shoved at Paul's chest.
Paul didn't budge. He did raise his arms defensively but only to block any further attempts to attack him. His hands were loose, not clenched into fists.
Helen knew she had no chance of helping to physically restrain Marty, especially now when she was having trouble just standing upright. Perhaps she could talk some sense into Marty though. He couldn't possibly think she was involved in any supposed town conspiracy against him.
"Dale really isn't inside her office," Helen said. "I was here a few minutes ago, and the lights were off, and I couldn't hear anyone inside. Dale isn't exactly a quiet person. If she'd been in there, I would have known."
"Not if she was trying to be quiet," Marty insisted. "I heard she's got Special Forces training, and I bet that includes hiding from your enemy."
"You're not her enemy." It wasn't easy holding on to her own patience when all Helen wanted right now was for Marty to go away so she could find a comfortable chair where she could take her weight off her aching hip. "If you were, she'd confront you directly."
"You're all in on it," Marty said, gathering himself to make another attempt at moving Paul away from Dale's door. "You all want to destroy Sheryl's legacy since you couldn't stop her when she was alive."
The distinctive clumping of an irritated woman in army boots came down the hall. "Stop that right now, Marty Drumm," Dale snapped.
Marty froze, his fists clenched and raised in Paul's direction but unmoving.
"I don't mind making a ruckus for a good cause," Dale said as she approached her office, "but this is not the time or the place. And I'm quite sure Paul hasn't done anything to justify your hitting him."
Marty's hands fell to his sides, but they were still clenched into fists. He took a step back from Paul and turned to face Dale. "I need those death certificates. The payroll service wants proof that she's dead, or they won't let anyone else approve the paychecks, and the crew won't get paid."
"I'm sorry," Dale said. "But the police won't let us issue the death certificate until they make a definitive decision about whether her death was an accident."
"How do I know it's the police holding things up?" Marty said. "You've got your own reasons to keep the truth hidden."
"All I do is make copies of the official form and certify them," Dale said. "I don't decide what information goes in them or when it's okay to issue them. That's up to the medical experts and the police."
"But I need the certificates," Marty said, his fists finally unclenching and his face radiating despair rather than anger. The darting of his eyes slowed without stopping entirely. "What am I supposed to do about the payroll if the service won't issue the checks?"
"You need to talk that over with Sheryl's heir. Perhaps he can make some sort of arrangements."
"Excuse me, but I should get back to work." Paul turned to the young woman leaning against Dale's door. "Perhaps you would like to take a brief break to compose yourself. May I escort you to the lunch room?"
She nodded and dropped the files onto the counter before leaving with Paul.
Dale unlocked her office and held the door open for Marty to go inside. "You're welcome to join us, Helen. I overheard you saying you were looking for me earlier."
Helen accepted gratefully. She wasn't sure which she wanted more: the chance to take her weight off her hip or the chance to listen to what else Marty might have to say about the so-called conspiracy against Sheryl.
* * *
At least the chairs in Dale's office were comfortable because Marty didn't offer any useful details to support his theory that town officials were conspiring against him and/or Sheryl.
Dale heard him out before saying, "I'll call you as soon as the police let me issue the death certificate." Her voice was crisp and businesslike, without any reassuring softness, but she added, "I'll even come in and make your copies after hours if necessary."
"You've got my numbers." Marty stomped off, his construction boots making more noise than Dale's combat boots had.
Dale waited until the sound of the outer door could be heard slamming shut before she said, "Poor Marty. He really is in over his head trying to run Sheryl's company."
"He knows it too," Helen said. "I overheard him talking about it with Annie at Wharton Meadows. It looked like they were negotiating for some landscaping services. It seemed odd that they'd be working together since Wes Quattrone practically froths at the mouth whenever Sheryl's name is mentioned."
"Probably just some side job Marty's doing on his own, nothing to do with Toth Construction."
That didn't seem likely to Helen since Marty was clearly feeling overextended as it was and in no condition to take on any extra jobs. Although, he might have needed the money to pay for an attorney and court costs in the wake of his drunk-driving arrest. "I wonder what's in it for him, taking on all the extra
responsibility at Toth Construction. It's not like he's going to inherit the company."
Dale shrugged. "He says he's doing it out of respect for Sheryl, and I believe him. He's probably also trying to make sure he continues to have a job. Like most of us, he counts on his paycheck and doesn't have much saved up. If he doesn't take on the management duties, it's likely no one else would step up, the work would grind to a halt, and he wouldn't get paid. I can't really see Cory O'Keefe taking over the day-to-day management of a company as busy as Toth Construction."
Helen couldn't either. It would take too much time away from his golfing. "How desperate is Marty to keep his job?"
"No more than anyone else," Dale said. "And if you're wondering if he might have killed Sheryl to keep his job, I doubt it. If anyone killed her, I'd be more inclined to suspect Wes Quattrone. He's desperate to expand the retirement community, and while he's never going to get the garden's land, I have to admit that it would be a perfect location for what he wants to do."
"I heard he threatened Sheryl once. Do you think he'd actually kill over a business deal?"
Dale glanced past Helen into the hallway and then lowered her voice to a confidential level. "I'm not a conspiracy theorist like Marty, but there are rumors that Quattrone is connected. Just like some trash removal companies are tied to the mob, so are some assisted-living enterprises. Not all of them, of course, but there are lots of opportunities in that type of business for committing a variety of crimes, from fraud to money laundering. Plus, it takes a huge investment to get one of those places started, and legal sources of venture capital have been pretty limited in recent years. No one knows how Wes financed Wharton Meadows, especially since he didn't have any experience in the field. I can't really see Wes himself going so far as to commit premeditated murder, but he does have a temper. And if he has the wrong kind of backers, they might not hesitate to kill. Not with all the money they'd miss out on if Sheryl blocked them from expanding."
