by Gin Jones
Helen couldn't imagine being in a relationship where she couldn't be honest with her partner, but she supposed it worked for Annie and her husband. He got to feel like a big shot, and she got to vent her irritation without hurting anyone. And Annie was doing a bit of good for the community if she was donating the money to charity.
Thinking of charity reminded her of something Cory had said. "Did Cory O'Keefe tell you he's agreed to give the community gardeners the unbuildable land you wanted to buy from Sheryl?"
"No, he didn't," Annie said. "That's such a relief. The gardeners will have a location that can't be taken away from them, and Dale will get over losing the original property eventually."
"She may not have to," Helen said. "Unless it turns out that she killed Sheryl. As long as she wasn't involved in that, I think the selectmen will vote to keep the original garden where it is. You can use the new land to bring in more gardeners."
"Dale would never kill anyone," Annie said with almost as much passion as she'd rejected the idea of her husband committing murder. "Outside of a military setting, I mean."
"I hope you're right, but I haven't found anyone else who's a better suspect." Other than Annie's husband, of course, but Helen didn't think it would be useful to mention that. "And she hasn't exactly endeared herself to Detective Peterson."
"I can see why someone who didn't know Dale might consider her a suspect," Annie said thoughtfully. "I had to listen to hours and hours of Sheryl telling me how awful Dale was before I finally convinced Sheryl to donate her otherwise worthless land to the garden club. And then I had to listen to hours and hours of Dale telling me how awful Sheryl was while I was trying to get Dale to agree to accept the land. And it all turned out to be for nothing. Dale did something to make Sheryl change her mind. It was like someone had declared war between them."
And war, Helen thought, was the one setting where everyone agreed that Dale might kill anyone who got in her way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Annie's phone rang, and she glanced at the display. "I've got to go. Wes needs me. But if you can think of a way to keep Dale from causing any more trouble, it would be better for everyone."
"I'll think about it," Helen promised.
Annie scurried back to the administrative building, and Helen got out her own phone to make sure she hadn't missed a ping when either Tate or her nieces responded to her texts. Which was silly because she knew she hadn't missed it, and yet she just had to check. She couldn't explain her nieces' silence, but if Tate was stuck in court, he probably had to turn off his phone.
Her fretting about possibly missed messages reminded her of when she and her ex-husband had first been dating and she'd wasted far too much time waiting for him to call. That had only lasted for about a month because she'd never been a patient person, and she'd quickly taken over the responsibility for arranging their time together. It had worked quite well for the better part of twenty years, and she was too old now to go back to waiting anxiously for a guy to call her.
Helen stuffed the phone into her pocket, determined not to check it again without a ping. If Tate didn't get back to her by close to dinnertime, she'd call Barry for a ride home.
While Helen had been fussing with her phone, the remaining police officer had climbed into his cruiser and left. The late afternoon sun was bright and warm, but the police tape and the Jersey barriers ruined the otherwise pleasant view. Even more depressing was the dawning suspicion that this time she wasn't going to be able to identify the killer. Several people had means, motive, and opportunity, and none of them seemed more likely suspects than any of the others. Detective Peterson was insufferable enough when he'd been shown up at his job; he was going to be impossible if he ever managed to arrest the right person without Helen's help.
She considered the known suspects but didn't see any logical reason to choose one as the most likely. They were all acting like an old cartoon she'd seen once where some mischief had occurred, and half a dozen young kids all insisted it had been done by someone—portrayed as a little ghost figure—named Not Me. Annie blamed Marty, Marty blamed Dale, Dale blamed Wes Quattrone, Wes Quattrone blamed Dale.
And then there was Paul Young. He had been at the garden before anyone else the morning Sheryl had been killed, so it was a little suspicious that he hadn't noticed the body. Significant others, especially if they were ex-significant others, were always suspects. Plus, there was that mysterious history of past violence that Josie had mentioned. Helen still had trouble believing that rumor. She'd seen the nonviolent way he'd reacted to Marty's assault on him. Paul had remained calm, doing nothing more than absolutely necessary to defend himself. That didn't necessarily exonerate him. It was always possible that the killer hadn't acted in a fit of anger but in a premeditated, deliberate manner. She'd been assuming that trying to make the death look like an accident had been a panicked response to an altercation that had gone wrong, but what if making her death look like an accident had been planned in advance?
Standing on the sidewalk was starting to draw attention from curious passersby. She'd be less conspicuous if she went across the street where she could at least pretend to be admiring the garden.
Helen made an annoyed face at the stupid Dear Crossing sign, looked both ways for traffic, and then looked both ways again for good measure before striking out on the crosswalk. She made it across safely, just in time to watch Paul Young climb over the nearest Jersey barrier. He hadn't brought his little wagon with him this time. In his hand was a long-handled tool she didn't recognize, and he had a trowel sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans.
"Good afternoon, Ms. Binney," he said. "I am afraid I have bad news for you."
"Don't tell me Dale's been arrested for killing Sheryl."
"Nothing like that," he said. "But the last of your pea plants have been killed again."
"Again?" she said. "I thought there were three survivors before."
"Not exactly." Paul looked down at his feet. "I am sorry for misleading you, but I did not want you to experience a total crop failure with your first garden. All of your plants had been killed before I arrived yesterday. You only had three seedlings left, and now they're gone as well."
"So, what got them this time? Bugs, floods, or careless trespassers?"
"Another reason for me to be sorry," he said. "I thought the damage yesterday was accidental, but now it is obvious that it was not. Your plot was targeted. The plants had been uprooted yesterday and today and not by four-legged critters."
"It's not your fault," Helen said. "That sort of thing happens sometimes with community gardens. Vandalism is a risk of any public venture. Or possibly the police weren't as careful as they might have been while they were looking for evidence."
"I do not think it was that simple," Paul said. "I believe you were targeted. I checked, and no one else's plants were disturbed. It appears that someone does not like you and is hoping to dissuade you from enjoying the garden."
Helen had had enemies before. It was part of being a political figure, even if only by proxy for her ex-husband. But she'd left that all behind when she'd divorced Frank. Since moving to Wharton, the only person she'd seriously annoyed was Detective Peterson, and much as she disliked him, petty mischief didn't sound like something he would do. He would happily arrest her and parade her around town in handcuffs if he ever thought he had charges that would stick, but he wouldn't stoop to vandalism.
The only other locals who hated her were in prison now. Well, there was Terri Greene, president of the Friends of the Library, but Helen was hopeful that their estrangement was only temporary. Besides, Terri's irritation definitely only rose to the level of mildly hurt feelings, not the sort of anger that would inspire vandalism.
No, the only person who might be both seriously angry and free to carry out some sort of vendetta against Helen was someone she'd upset while looking into what had happened to Sheryl. The killer, most likely.
Maybe waiting at the garden for a ride
home wasn't such a good idea.
* * *
"If all my plants are dead, there's no point in sticking around here any longer," Helen said.
"Wait." Paul held out the long-handled tool. "I brought this for you."
Helen took it from him and stared at the working end where the metal piece attached to the handle had more in common with Captain Hook's artificial hand than with a hoe's blade. It was made of dark, heavy metal and curved into a half-circle arch. Two or three inches from the end, the metal widened and then narrowed into a sharp point, forming what looked like a fingernail designed for a robot.
"I'm sure this is a silly question, but what is it?"
"It is an unusual design for a cultivator, but it is useful for getting in close to plants," he said. "It is particularly good for those days when you do not feel limber enough to kneel or bend low enough to use your hands."
Helen had been hoping the gardening would help with her strength and agility, but the way her hip still ached was a reminder that some days she wasn't going to be at her best. She took the cultivator from him. "Thanks. I'm sure it will be a big help."
"Speaking of help," Paul said, "do you need a ride home? I saw your driver leave earlier."
"No, thanks." Helen preferred not to depend on the kindness of strangers, even if Paul wasn't entirely unknown to her. And he was still, however much she didn't want to believe it, a murder suspect. "I've got someone I can call."
Paul nodded and went over to chat with RJ, who'd come over to the garden, minus his father for once.
Helen took out her phone to see if Tate had answered her text. There were no messages from him or from her nieces, so she dialed Barry. He promised to pick her up in about half an hour, as soon as he dropped off his current fare.
Paul returned to ask, "Would you like me to wait with you until your ride arrives?"
RJ came with him. "Dad's taking a nap, and I've got about half an hour before he needs his next meds. I can stay with you until then. Paul tells me you shouldn't be alone. Something about your garden plot being targeted by a vandal."
"I don't want to inconvenience either of you," Helen said. "After all, it's bright daylight on a busy street with dozens of windows facing this direction from the retirement community."
"Still," RJ said, "I don't mind waiting with you. It'd be nice to have some adult conversation for a change. Talking to Dad is like talking to a toddler. Come on over to the front porch with me. You can watch for your ride from there."
"I should get back to town hall," Paul said. "I will also let the other gardeners know to be on the lookout for anyone messing with your plants, Helen. We look out for each other."
"Thank you." Helen turned to RJ and strolled along the sidewalk with him. "Your father didn't feel the urge to garden today?"
RJ chuckled. "No. He was too busy pulling everything out of the kitchen cabinets so he could use the pots and pans as drums. Normally, he'd be awake now, but his usual afternoon nap was disrupted. I was tempted to take a quick nap myself, but I wasn't sure I'd wake up again before midnight, and I don't want to even think about what kind of trouble Dad could get into in all that unsupervised time. I figured some fresh air might perk me up a bit."
"You do look tired."
He rubbed his unshaven jaw. "Yeah, it's been a rough week."
"It has to be exhausting, caring for your father around the clock."
RJ shrugged. "It's a small sacrifice to make for my Dad. I'm sure he lost a good bit of sleep when I was a kid. Besides, I got used to being sleep deprived when I was in the army. It's standard operating procedure for a medic."
RJ led her onto his front lawn near the bulldozer, and she followed. He turned to offer her his arm, apparently having noticed the limp that had been getting worse as the day progressed.
"I'm fine," she said, waving him off and using the cultivator Paul had given her as a makeshift cane. "What about the night before Sheryl was killed? Wasn't there a full moon? I've heard that can interfere with sleep."
"Yeah. It sometimes keeps Dad awake all night. Usually the 4 a.m. meds will sedate him until 8 a.m., but not that night. Took me close to two hours to get him to settle down."
That was consistent with what Annie had said about seeing lights in the farmhouse at three in the morning, but it wasn't what RJ had said before about the morning Sheryl was killed. She couldn't remember his exact words, but he'd at least implied that he'd been sound asleep between the 4 a.m. and 8 a.m. doses. But he hadn't. He'd been trying to get his father back to sleep for most of that time.
She remembered how difficult that kind of struggle could be. Back when Helen had occasionally served as her nieces' babysitter, Laura had accepted being tucked into bed at the appointed hour, but Lily had resisted for what had felt like hours. By the time Lily had finally gone to bed, Helen had been exhausted but too wired to sleep. And Lily had just been a child, not a fully-grown adult who would be considerably harder to manage. That meant it was unlikely RJ had fallen asleep immediately after his father had. He had to have been awake when the bulldozer arrived at dawn.
Helen glanced at the bulldozer beside her and contemplated the distance between it and the Averys' house. She remembered how loud the equipment had been when she'd visited Marty at a work site. There was no way RJ could have missed the roar of the dozer's engine that close to his house if he was awake and probably not even if he'd been asleep.
So why had RJ lied about not hearing it arrive at the garden?
The only explanation Helen could imagine was that he'd been trying to cover up the fact that not only did he know exactly when the bulldozer had arrived, but he also knew exactly what had happened to Sheryl.
RJ knew because he had been the one who killed her.
All of a sudden, the fact that they were on a busy street on a bright afternoon didn't feel so reassuring.
* * *
Surely, she must have come to the wrong conclusion, Helen thought. How could someone as self-sacrificing as RJ also be a killer? Just look at how well he cared for his father. And he'd been a medic in the army, saving lives not taking them. Maybe he'd just gotten the days confused, and he'd been awake the night after Sheryl was killed, not the night before.
Still, Helen wasn't as foolish as her nieces believed, and she didn't take unnecessary chances. She was about to break and run back to the sidewalk when RJ suddenly bent and hoisted her onto his shoulder in a fireman's carry. She'd always thought it was a lifesaving maneuver, but now she realized it was also a position of control, one that was difficult to get out of, at least when the person doing the carry was experienced and strong. Sharp pain radiated from her hip with each step he took, robbing her of breath.
Within seconds, RJ had them both over the Jersey barriers and hidden behind the bulk of the bulldozer. He set her down on the track as gently as if she were one of the wounded soldiers he used to treat, but he didn't release her. He searched her until he found her phone and stuck it in his own pocket. Then he kept his left hand securely around her right wrist while he continued into the dozer's cab and started the engine. RJ must have had the key all this time, which was why the police hadn't been able to find it.
Helen had been too startled and breathless to scream for help, and now it was too late. No one would hear her over the engine.
RJ climbed back down from the cab, leaving the engine running while he sat next to her, his legs dangling like hers over the edge of the track.
Curiosity overrode her fear. It took an effort to make herself heard over the roar of the engine, but she asked, "Isn't there supposed to be a kill switch for the engine when the operator isn't in the seat?"
"Of course." Even shouting, his voice was even and hypnotic, probably something he'd learned to do while in the army, working with injured patients in a combat setting. "But I learned in the army that there's always a way to override safety controls when the situation calls for it."
"What's the situation today?" she asked as if she hadn't figur
ed out what he had done to Sheryl and was planning to do to her.
"You're the situation," RJ said, reaching behind him to snatch two safety helmets from the cab. He put one on Helen, securing the chin strap on her before donning the other helmet himself. He certainly wasn't concerned about her safety. Instead, it was a disguise of sorts. Anyone who happened to catch a glimpse of them from one of the upper-level windows in the Wharton Meadows' residential units would think they were just a couple of Toth Construction employees reclaiming the bulldozer.
RJ continued, "You should have let me take you to the hospital the other day and then stayed home to rest. No need to keep poking into Sheryl's death. Just let the cops do their job."
Helen used the handle of the cultivator she was still holding to tilt her helmet back. She wanted to be sure she could see where she was going if an opportunity to escape arose. "Does it really matter who figures out the killer's identity, me or Detective Peterson?"
"I've known Hank all my life and vice versa. He'll never suspect me without your interference, and he's all too willing to blame Dale." RJ took a deep breath. "I'm really sorry. I'll make it quick so you don't suffer. But it's your life or mine, and I can't sacrifice myself this time. My father needs me."
"You don't have to silence me," Helen said. "Detective Peterson never believes anything I say."
"I can't take that risk," RJ said. "But you've got a reputation for taking crazy risks. That's what everyone's going to say when they find your body right where you found Sheryl's."
Helen shivered, briefly contemplating how it would feel to be chased and then run over by a bulldozer.
She had to stop thinking about RJ's plans and make some of her own. She considered climbing up into the cab and barricading herself in, maybe even driving it just far enough to shake RJ off the track. Assuming she could figure out how to operate it, which wasn't likely since she hadn't even driven a car in more years than she could recall.
