A Dawn of Death

by Gin Jones

  And then she looked down the pedestal to where it touched the wood of the deck. Extending out from the standard round base was a skull and a skeletal arm that appeared to be digging itself out from a shallow grave beneath the birdbath.

  Helen stood and went over to peer more closely at the decorative carving on the basin itself. Skulls. A whole row of them, each one as different in size or shape as real ones, ran all the way around the rim.

  "When we got it, we didn't know a real person had died," Zee reminded Helen.

  "And it probably can't go in the community garden now," Jay said. "But it's really quite an amazing work of art. We tried to find out who made it or what movie it was for, but no one knew."

  Tate spoke up. "Someday it will undoubtedly feature in a biopic about Helen."

  "You think?" Jay said, his eyes lighting up. "And we'll get a credit in the film for finding it, right?"

  "You'd have to ask Helen," Tate said.

  Everyone turned to her. The birdbath really was an amazing work of art, and Jay and Zee, like almost everyone else in Helen's life, had meant well. Still, it would be cruel to place it anywhere near where Sheryl had died, and even Helen wasn't sufficiently uncaring of what people thought of her to install it in the community garden. Fortunately, her cottage was a private sanctuary, with only her closest friends and family invited here.

  "I doubt anyone will ever make a movie about my life," Helen said, "but my cat would love to be an internet video star. If we put the birdbath where she can see it from inside the cottage, it can be in the background of Vicky's videos."

  Jay and Zee whooped in relief and excitement.

  "We can make that happen," Jay said.

  "See?" Zee told her brother. "I told you we'd find a way to join the entertainment industry."

  They wandered off, muttering about technical things that Helen didn't understand while Lily commandeered Jack and Adam to bring one of the coolers inside and help with preparing brunch. Helen had a bad feeling that kale smoothies would once again be an integral part of the menu.

  Tate joined Helen in a closer examination of the birdbath. "You know that Jay and Zee are going to be here every minute they're not working, trying to get the perfect footage of Vicky."

  Helen nodded. "How else do you think I could find willing pet sitters for her while I'm in Boston for medical tests and consultations?"

  He raised an eyebrow. "You mean you weren't planning to ask me? I thought that was the sort of thing that was expected of someone in a committed relationship."

  A lot of things were expected of people in a committed relationship, but as far as Helen could tell from the limited number of them that she'd been in, the list varied from person to person. She'd never had a pet during her marriage, but if she had, it never would have crossed Frank's mind that he might be asked to take care of the animal while she was gone.

  "I wouldn't want to tear you away from your woodworking studio," Helen said lightly, although she was pleased that he'd even considered it. "I'm pretty sure that Vicky's well-being isn't as important to you as keeping your lathe in good working order."

  "You're partially right," Tate said. "Vicky's well-being isn't particularly important to me. But yours is. I'd give up a few hours in the workshop if it would give you peace of mind."

  But would he give up more than a few hours of his workshop time? A whole day, perhaps, traveling to Boston to visit her while she was there for her medical workups? Frank wouldn't have known what to do if Helen had left town for weeks at a time, and she'd been reluctant to find out if Tate would handle it any better. She couldn't put it off much longer, though.

  "Look this way, Ms. Bee," Jay called out from the top of the deck's stairs. His sister added, "And look natural."

  Helen turned to see that they'd already managed to produce a video camera, which Jay was pointing at her and Tate, leaving Zee to do the directing.

  Helen looked up at Tate. "There is one thing I'd like you to do as part of our committed relationship."

  "What's that?"

  "Save me from the paparazzi."

  "That could be a full-time job," he said.

  She couldn't read his expression. "Is that a problem?"

  Tate glanced over at Jay and Zee and then at the back door where Jack, Lily, and Laura were on their way out.

  "Absolutely not." He bent his head to kiss her, pausing before their lips touched to say, "I've finally found something—someone—I'm more passionate about than woodworking."

  * * * * *

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  * * * * *

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Gin Jones is a lawyer who specializes in ghost-writing for other lawyers. She prefers to write fiction, though, since she doesn't have to worry that her sense of humor might get her thrown into jail for contempt of court. In her spare time, Gin makes quilts, grows garlic, and serves on the board of directors for the XLH Network.

  To learn more about Gin Jones, visit her online at: http://www.ginjones.com

  * * * * *

  BOOKS BY GIN JONES

  Helen Binney Mysteries:

  A Dose of Death

  A Denial of Death

  A (Gingerbread) Diorama of Death

  A Draw of Death

  A Dawn of Death

  Danger Cove Quilting Mysteries

  Four-Patch of Trouble

  Tree of Life and Death

  Danger Cove Farmers' Market Mysteries

  A Killing in the Market (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  If you enjoyed this Helen Binney Mystery,

  check out a sneak peek of

  WHEN THE CAT'S AWAY

  by

  DANE MCCASLIN

  CHAPTER ONE

  "You want me to have this?" She began laughing, a harsh sound that grated on the ear, sending waves of humiliation flooding over the visitor who stood at her desk. "Why would I have any need for something this cheap? I mean, really: you actually see me using something like this in my office? You'd have to hit me upside the head to make me change my mind about something this ugly." She stood up, cell phone in hand, an indication that the meeting was over. "If you don't mind, I do need to get ready for the day. Some of us," she added with a haughty sneer, "have important positions in this town."

  She began walking toward the office door, one hand reaching for the brass knob. The last thing she saw was the spatter of blood that stained the polished oak of the double doors. She should have been thrilled; for once, someone had done exactly what she'd asked.

  With a quick look around the office, the visitor leaned down and removed the phone from Lucia's hand, the last loose end tied up neatly.

  * * *

  It was safe to say that my week was not going as planned. I had been told that I was cantankerous, irritable, and downright unpleasant company, barring the few hours when I was asleep. Cantankerous, possibly. Irritable, maybe. But unpleasant company? I had to disagree with that assessment; I was no more irascible than usual, in my mind. Of course, the person who evaluated me might be able to claim an intimate knowledge of me since he is my spouse.

  My name is Caro Layton-Browning, expat from Merry Olde England, and my husband—the self-proclaimed assessor of yours truly—is Gregory Browning, solicitor and professor of international law at the local university. While we've done our best to blend in with the Yankee way of life, I'm afraid that we still stick out like the proverbial sore thumb, accents notwithstanding. Our friends tell us that we sound stilted, but I have something of a disdain for ending each sentence with "know what I mean, bro," the standard rejoinder around here.

  We have a dachshund named Trixie, a pleasant home in an HOA, and a quiet life that some might envy; it was precisely because of that final qualifier, h
owever, that I had been a tad off-kilter. When I feel that nothing is happening, that everything is sailing along as smooth as silk, I get bored, and when I get bored…suffice it to say that I can be a bit, well, cranky. Since the craziness that was last year's spate of murders, our small burg of Seneca Meadows, New York had been downright dull. Aside from gaining a new neighbor and a very intriguing bookstore downtown, I could see nothing to rectify the situation.

  I was sitting at my computer, trying unsuccessfully to bridge a particularly difficult plot twist in my newest book, Died Red (the newest installment in my Harried Hairdresser Murders series) when my cell phone began to shimmy across my desk. Glad for the interruption, I grabbed it up before it could leap over the edge.

  "Caro here," I chirped happily, not caring if it was friend or foe on the other end of the line. "How may I help you?"

  A noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort filled my ear and I frowned; that, if I was not mistaken, came from none other than my dear husband. Apparently I was now too cheerful for the man. It was a good thing that I still adored him.

  "What do you need, Gregory?" I modulated my voice carefully, unwilling to drop the warble in my tone for one more suitable to verbal sparring. Besides, it had already given me somewhat of an advantage, something that rarely happened these days; I'd made a personal resolution to become a kinder, gentler incarnation of myself since I'd faced death head-on and won…just barely.

  "I have something I need to talk to you about, Caro," he began, and the tenor of his voice made my heart skip a beat. What did he mean by that? Was he finally so weary of my moods that he was leaving me? Had I burnt the toast one too many times, or served him curdled cream in his coffee? His voice broke into my whirling thoughts. "I'm needed at Oxford on Friday next, so I'll want you to get the suitcases aired and ready, if you don't mind."

  Mind? Of course I minded! How dare he scare me like that with his "I need to talk to you" comment? He could bloody well…I managed to pull myself back from the brink of a disastrous exchange with a singularly cheery thought: with him out of the way, I might be able to find something to titillate my mind.

  "With pleasure, my dear," I assured him. I hung up with a smile on my face. Here was my chance to reawaken the muse and let down my hair.

  My next move was a given: call my newest and nearest neighbor, Meredith Holmes, proprietor of a darling new bookshop located in Seneca Meadows' burgeoning downtown. My decision was based on nothing more than the name of her business, Murder by the Book. I figured that a gal who could specialize in literary mayhem would make a great partner in crime.

  Meredith was new to the neighborhood, moving into the house of the not-so-dearly departed Mrs. Grayson, our local cat lady. I hadn't asked, but I could only imagine the amount of cleanup that had gone into the house; the after effects of dozens of felines would have made for some interesting souvenirs.

  Tossing a light cardigan over my shoulders as a barrier to the spring afternoon chill, I put action to my thoughts and headed across the lawn toward Meredith's. As I stood waiting for her to answer the door, I noticed that she'd planted violets and alyssum, two of my favorite plants, in the porch's terra cotta pots. I'd just leaned over in order to get a better whiff of the sweet blossoms when the door opened, giving Meredith an ample view of my rather, well, ample backside.

  "Caro!" Her voice was amused, her tone underpinned with that unique accent born and bred in southern climes. "It's good to see you enjoying my flowers. Come on in."

  I straightened up and turned to meet her dancing eyes. With her bountiful red curls and freckled skin, the woman was a walking advertisement of the need for sun block. How she ever survived living in a sunny climate without contracting melanoma was a mystery to me, but I tend to look for the enigmatic; everything is fair game for my books.

  "Look, Meredith," I began briskly, stepping into her home. "I need to do something to stir up the literary juices." I slipped off my sweater and hung it on the coat tree. A cat hair-free coat tree, I might add; the fact that there was nothing that required a litter box in Meredith's domicile gave me no end of pleasure.

  "I'm starting inventory next week," she offered, leading the way into her bright kitchen. "You could always lend a hand." She took down a brown teapot that might have come straight from my own mother's cupboard. "Black or green?"

  "Green, please, and checking off lists is not my idea of fanning the flames of the fantastic, Meredith." I plopped down at her table, a Formica and steel monstrosity surrounded by a mélange of chairs that didn't match. "I need something—I don't know—something that will generate ideas, a new twist for my plots."

  "Not enough dead bodies?" Her tone was teasing, but I still blushed. Gregory had intimated that very thing just the night before, as if I needed the real deal in order to create my best-selling murder series. "We could bump off a few of those Chamber of Commerce folks," she added, sitting down and sliding a steaming mug across to me. I caught it as it headed for the table's edge. "Make life easier for us small business owners."

  "Really?" I was interested, and I gestured for her to continue, grimacing as the tea burnt my tongue. "Anyone in particular?" I forgot about my manuscript woes; this sounded like just the distraction I needed. Seneca Meadows was not the most scintillating of places, so I took my intrigue wherever I could find it.

  She snorted. "If we could get rid of Ms. Lucia 'Everyone Adores Me' Scarantelli, I'd be the happiest gal on the planet." Meredith took a sip of her tea, then added, "And her sycophantic sidekick, Bethany Jorgenson. That one really overcooks my grits." She shook her head in disgust. "She acts as though Lucia is God's gift to the business world. If she only knew how often she's been dissed by her so-called role model."

  Parallel frown lines had appeared between her brows. Since I'd rarely seen my neighbor in any mood except cheerful, this surprised me. She must really have a reason to dislike those two, I thought. As I am curious by nature, of course I needed more information. Getting someone to reveal secrets is a skill that I have honed to perfection, so I set the tea aside and prepared to excavate.

  Thirty minutes later, I felt it was time for a recap and a refill. As Meredith brewed more tea and placed a plate of cookies on the table, I began ticking items off.

  "Let me see if I've gotten this straight," I said. "First, this Lucia Scarfarcelli—"

  Scarantelli," said Meredith, wrinkling her nose as if the name itself was distasteful.

  "—is the queen bee of Seneca Meadows' Chamber of Commerce." Meredith nodded. "And Bethany Jorgenson is her secretary-slash-fan-slash-gofer." Another nod. "And between the two of them, they've made your life miserable." And another nod, this one so emphatic that it set her red curls bouncing.

  "And it's not just me, Caro," she added as she slipped back into her chair. "It's everyone in the SMCC who doesn't kowtow to her way of doing things. If I don't decorate my windows according to her guidelines, which are suggestions and not rules, by the way, or if I advertise a sale without consulting her, she sends her personal Igor down to my shop. And poor Bea, who has the second-hand shop? She's practically castigated in every SMCC meeting by that woman! I mean, Bea's doing good things, too, letting senior citizens deliver packages for her. She's helping put food on their tables!" She drew in a deep breath, and I could see the blue veins on her throat throbbing in time to her pulse. "It doesn't matter if I have customers at the time or not, either." Another shuddering breath in, then, "She is such a—a—bully!"

  And Meredith Holmes, the happy-go-lucky purveyor of prose, Seneca Meadows' sunshine from the south, burst into tears.

  I've had plenty of experience with waterworks before, both on my end and with those in my sphere, so I calmly stood and grabbed the roll of flower-printed paper towels that sat on Meredith's counter, ripping off a handful and passing them to my weeping neighbor. She buried her face in the paper blossoms, shoulders shaking and tears flowing. I allowed her time for a good cry then said in my non-nonsense tone, "Dry your eyes, Meredi
th. Caro Layton-Browning is on the job!"

  She stopped mid-sob, and the tears disappeared as the sniffles turned into laughter.

  "You sound like someone from one of those goofy mystery books I sell, Caro," she said, giving a final hiccup and a swipe at her wet eyes. I completely ignored the comment, since she keeps my books stocked for local readers, something that has added substantially to my cash flow as of late. "Just a word to the wise: no one I know has ever challenged Lucia and survived with their business reputation intact. You might rethink taking her on." She tossed the soggy wad of paper at the trash, completely missing it. "Lucia can smile at you while she stabs you in the back."

  Which, of course, simply threw fuel on the fire. Ms. I-Rule-Downtown-Seneca-Meadows had never before met someone like me. The gauntlet was thrown down, the challenge was accepted: Ms. Scarantelli had better keep an eye on her back. I pulled a folded piece of paper from my jeans pocket and motioned for a pen. Let the battle plans commence, I thought with grim satisfaction. Who needed a corpse for a distraction when chaos would do just as well?

  And if I hurried home, I could get those suitcases ready for my dear husband's trip across the pond.

  Gregory can be something of a conundrum, which I am completely okay with, but it does tend to drive him a bit over the edge when he thinks that I'm involved with something that he knows nothing about. With my sweetest demeanor, I served dinner, keeping up a nonsensical one-sided flow of words that required only the occasional nod from my dear spouse.