A Denial of Death

by Gin Jones

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  A DENIAL OF DEATH

  by

  GIN JONES

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  Copyright © 2014 by Gin Jones

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This book is dedicated to my brothers: Bill, Bob, John and Kevin.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Helen Binney knew she was easy to overlook. She was small and middle-aged, and—most damning of all at the moment—she was female. All three together made her virtually invisible to the sales reps at Wharton Wheels.

  For the past half hour she'd been deemed not worth noticing, presumably because she was a woman who'd been driven to the car lot by a man, and therefore unlikely to be spending any money. Never mind that the car they were buying was for her, she was paying for it, and the man was her employee. Even her designer pants suit and silk blouse, left over from her days in the governor's mansion, didn’t impress anyone. The staff all competed for the man's attention and ignored her.

  In other circumstances, she'd have been annoyed and done something about it, but for the moment, being overlooked suited her perfectly. While everyone was busy with her driver, Jack Clary, she was free to wander the car lot, looking for a vehicle that fit her, instead of being steered to the one they wanted to sell her.

  So far, she'd checked out a number of cars that fell in the Papa Bear categories of too big, too hard, and too hot. The excessive heat was literal, from the August sun, and not, as Jack had earnestly assured her, in the sense of being stolen. The owner of Wharton Wheels was Jack's cousin. Ed Clary had a juvenile record for motor vehicle theft, but he'd gone straight when he'd realized his affinity for cars could generate a more substantial and entirely legal income. He bought vehicles that would otherwise have been scrapped because of chronic problems no one else could diagnose and then turned them into reliable transportation. Over the years, he'd built up his stock and his reputation, and he now supplied most of the used vehicles for the residents of Wharton and several surrounding communities in the Berkshire Hills of Massachusetts.

  Helen had also checked out several cars that fell in the Mama Bear categories of too small, too soft, and too cold, but she had yet to find the Baby Bear car, the one that was just right.

  While she randomly opened doors and assessed their ease of entry, Jack and his cousin were scouring the lot for what they thought would suit her. She'd kept an eye on their progress, and so far everything they'd looked at seemed to have been chosen with style and prestige in mind, as if she were still the First Lady of Massachusetts. She was divorced now and trying to enjoy her quiet, solitary, ultra-early-retirement days.

  Helen didn't care about the car's appearance, but it had to be comfortable. She was small-boned and shorter than average, and it seemed as if all the vehicles had been designed for someone at least six inches taller than she was. She didn't have to worry about being able to reach the pedals and instrument panel, since driving the vehicle would be Jack's job, but as long as she was going to buy a car, it ought to be one she could get in and out of without any assistance. Despite being only forty-five, she had some mobility issues, thanks to a fall about six months earlier and some chronic lupus-related joint damage, which made it difficult to get in and out of vehicles during flare-ups.

  She passed a bright red sports car without bothering to try it out. The seat was about level with her ankles, and, assuming she could lower herself into it, she'd never get out again. Next to it was a compact SUV, probably larger than she needed, but she might as well check it out.

  Helen was reaching for the handle when Jack interrupted her. "What are you doing way over here? We found the perfect car for you."

  Jack was a bald, wiry man a couple years older than Helen. She'd thought he was a good ten years older when she first met him. He'd been a driver for a limo company, and the stress of having to be polite to the demanding, inconsiderate, and downright rude customers had prematurely aged him. Jack had lost his job there, in part because of his role in Helen's investigation of her nurse's murder. She'd felt responsible, and since she preferred not to drive, due to the unpredictability of her lupus-affected joints, she employed him as her on-call driver. They'd been using his car to run her errands for the last four months, but she didn't like being dependent on anyone, so she'd decided to get her own vehicle for him to drive.

  Jack added, "Ed's getting the keys so we can test-drive it."

  "Perhaps another day would be better." Buying her own car had seemed like a reasonable plan, but now she realized just how much of a challenge it was going to be. She respected Jack's opinion too much to simply over-ride his suggestions, so it was important to find a vehicle they could agree on. "I didn't expect to buy anything today, and I promised Betty and Josie I'd come to Charity Caps Day at the nursing home. It starts in a few minutes."

  "No problem," Jack said. "I'm sure Ed will let me borrow a dealer plate, and keep the car overnight. I want to test it on your driveway anyway, to show you how it handles on unpaved surfaces."

  A massive SUV was approaching, barely able to fit between the rows of cars on display. Helen stepped back so it could pass her on the way to its destination, which turned out to be unnecessary, since it stopped about ten feet away from her. A teen in a mechanic's uniform jumped down from the driver's side and jogged back to the garage, leaving the door open and the engine running.

  This was the vehicle they'd chosen for her?

  "What on earth am I supposed to do with a car the size of a tank? I'm not really up to invading any countries these days, even if I had a reason to declare war."

  "Just try it," Jack said. "It's got everything. Looks good, handles well, a comfortable ride. You can even take it off-road."

  "I'm pretty sure my off-roading days are as far behind me as my country-invading days."

  "You never know, Ms. Binney." Jack might have traded in his uniform for khaki pants and sport shirts, but he still treated her with the formal courtesy befitting a chauffeur, ignoring her repeated invitations to call her by her first name. "Besides, you haven't been here in Wharton during the winter yet. Your driveway is going to be a challenge for most vehicles. Not for this baby. It's even got the supercharged V8 engine. You're going to love it."

  "I'm going to need a step ladder to get into it."

  "Ed took care of that already." Jack opened the back passenger door and pulled out what looked like a cross between a walker and a step ladder. It had retractable wheels on the bottom, inverted u-shaped handles at each side of the top, and two steps in between. He opened the front passenger door and placed the contraption next to the vehicle. "See? All set."

  All set for a fall. She eyed it dubiously. The metal steps were about a foot apart, and there were several inches between the t
op step and the floor of the vehicle. The handles at the top of the steps were useless for stability. If her feet were on the top step, she'd have to bend over at the waist, almost touching her toes, in order to grab the handles.

  "Let's go," Jack said. "You don't want to disappoint Betty and Josie."

  He was right about that much. Helen didn't want to disappoint her new friends. Or Jack. He was about the only person here in Wharton, other than the much older residents of the nursing home, who didn't consider her to be completely helpless.

  Maybe he was right about the vehicle, and she'd love it enough to make the hassle of getting in and out worthwhile. Helen handed Jack her cane and grabbed hold of the car door to boost herself up the steps. After several awkward moments, she dropped into the passenger seat. Jack returned her cane, shut the door, and stowed the awful stepladder in the back.

  She had to admit the seat itself was comfortable. Her large yarn bag had already been moved from the car they'd arrived in, and it took up only a small fraction of the paper-mat-covered foot space. There was even room to keep her cane on the floor in the front seat, instead of being dependent on Jack to get it from the back.

  Another plus was that this was just the sort of vehicle her nieces would have chosen for her: big, solid, and reliable. They still worried about her living alone, a long drive from where they lived in Boston. Her run-in with a murderer a few months ago hadn't exactly been reassuring for them.

  Still, there had to be a reasonably safe option that didn't consist of a monster vehicle and an awful stepladder. She needed to find the sweet spot of reasonable precaution, somewhere between being completely oblivious to dangers and being wrapped in an over-protective cocoon. She'd already shown her willingness to compromise, when she'd agreed to brief, twice-a-week visits from a nurse, rather than the more frequent, intrusive, and entirely unnecessary medical supervision her anxious nieces would have preferred.

  A few minutes later, Jack turned into the long, tree-shaded driveway of the nursing home and went halfway around the circle in front of the entrance. The three-story stone building had once been a private residence for a millionaire early in Wharton's history, and it had retained some of its early opulence in the public areas on the first floor.

  Jack set up the horrible stepladder before opening the passenger door. The best that could be said of her descent was that she didn't fall, but it was far from a dignified process.

  Helen had just dragged her cane and yarn bag out of the vehicle when a tall, dark-skinned woman in her thirties came rushing down the front steps of the nursing home. "You can't park there. You're taking up all three of the drop-off spots."

  Martha Waddell was the assistant nursing home administrator, and her sole ambition in life was to replace her boss. She believed, with what Helen thought was a considerable degree of truth, that she did all the real work of running the nursing home, while her boss did little more than schmooze with the local, predominantly male, politicians. Martha's wardrobe reflected the contradictions between her desire to be seen as one of the boys, and her worry about appearing too aggressive to any of those same boys who were afraid of strong women. Her jacket was shapeless enough to hide any feminine curves, the equally loose skirt fell to mid-calf, and the little bit of her blouse that was visible was a pink as dull as the mousy gray of her suit.

  Jack turned and acknowledged Martha. "Not parked, ma'am, just standing. I'll move it now that Ms. Binney has her feet under her."

  Martha made a shooing motion at him and then turned to Helen. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was you, Ms. Binney."

  "You were only doing your job." Helen turned toward the front steps of the nursing home, giving silent thanks for the architect who'd designed the grand entrance for both beauty and function. The individual steps were wide and deep, but not very high, so they didn't put too much strain on her troublesome hip. There was even a railing, so on bad days she could rely on the extra support.

  Jack left to park the monster vehicle in the guest lot. He never came inside with Helen but happily stayed in the car, playing games on his phone. Today, he'd likely spend a good deal of the time experimenting with the vehicle's touch-screen infotainment system, which he'd rhapsodized about on the way here.

  Helen had been more favorably impressed by the vehicle's air conditioning. It had blasted cold air at her, despite the heat outside. On the other hand, now that she'd left its arctic interior, she was wilting rapidly. Even if she were physically able to run to the nursing home's entrance, it would be a bad idea. She'd pass out from the heat before she could get to the cooler air inside. She resigned herself to a slow, plodding trek to the front door

  Martha Waddell didn’t seem to notice the stifling heat or be in any hurry to get back inside. She matched her steps to Helen's. "Did you get a new car?"

  "Just test-driving it."

  "SUVs are good for the winter here," Martha said, "but that particular model gets dreadful mileage, you know. Check out the Subaru Forester. It gets at least twice the miles per gallon."

  "Thank you." Helen might not particularly like the know-it-all assistant administrator—no one really did—but the woman's advice, solicited or not, was generally solid. "I'll look into it."

  "Betty and Josie wouldn't tell me why, but they're anxious to talk to you."

  Helen was afraid she knew why. They'd been teaching her to crochet a simple hat, and, contrary to all the evidence so far, they insisted on believing her next finished project might be something a person would voluntarily put on her head.

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  The activity room of the Wharton Nursing Home looked like something out of a period-piece movie or television show depicting the end of the nineteenth century, except that it was occupied by elderly men and women in T-shirts and shorts or capris instead of elegant young couples in formal attire. Where once uniformed servants unobtrusively roamed the room, now there were equally unobtrusive nurses in scrubs.

  Helen looked for her friends, Betty Seese and Josie Todd. Betty was in her late seventies, tall and dressed in somber black most of the time, relieved only by snippets of brightly colored yarn clinging to her clothes. Her constant companion, Josie, was a few years older, a good deal shorter and thinner, and emphatically more brightly-hued, from the henna highlights in her hair to the yellow oversized T-shirt and lime green leggings.

  The two women usually claimed a pair of wingback chairs at the far end of the room, near the massive fireplace, where they could keep their nearsighted but still observant eyes on all the other occupants of the room. Thursdays were different. For the two hours of the Charity Caps Day event, they mingled with the other volunteers, overseeing the creation of preemie caps and chemo caps for donation to the local hospital. One table was set up for sewing them out of fleece, but most of the work was done with yarn and needles or hooks.

  Betty and Josie made the cap-making look easy, but no matter how beautiful the yarn was or how easy the pattern was supposed to be, Helen always ended up with a misshapen mess, caused by an assortment of added stitches, dropped stitches and uneven tension.

  Josie had taken to unraveling and redoing Helen's crocheted projects, and Helen pretended not to notice. She'd tried knitting too, under Betty's patient tutelage, but that had led to even bigger disasters. In a misguided attempt to encourage her student, Betty had added Helen's first knit cap to the donation basket, as if there really might be a patient with a pointy head, possibly with a few squid-like tentacles that needed to stick out through the random openings of missed stitches. Helen had gone back to crochet, which seemed simpler, but was still proving elusive.

  She finally caught sight of Josie standing next to the donation basket. Helen reluctantly handed over her latest attempt at making a cap. Josie didn't recoil in horror but ran her bony hand over the soft yarn and said, "What a lovely shade of purple. I'm sure someone is going to love it."

  Which was true, Helen thought. The yarn was beautiful, and someone would love the cap. After Josie had u
nraveled it and re-made it from scratch.

  Betty came over, took one look at the purple blob, and said, "I'm not so sure needlework is the right hobby for you."

  Helen sighed. "I know, but I need to do something with my time." She was only forty-five, after all, and, despite the lupus flare-ups and her nieces' annoying but well-intentioned attempts to keep her from taking any risks whatsoever, she wasn't done with living.

  "There has to be something you're really good at," Betty said.

  "I'm good at planning political events, but I've done enough of that. I'd rather do something that feels more useful."

  "You should become a private investigator," Josie said. "You solved Melissa's murder when the police went after the entirely wrong suspect."

  Helen hadn't intended to solve the murder. Not really. She'd simply been miffed, because the police hadn't taken her seriously. Catching the killer had been a fluke, a once-in-a-lifetime experience she hoped never to have again. She was looking for a quietly interesting pastime, not an extreme sport.

  Helen tapped her walking cane on the floor beside her. "I'm not really in any condition to chase down bad guys."

  "No, but you could outsmart them," Betty said. "You may not be able to run or even to knit, but you can think. In the end, that's a lot more useful."

  "Perhaps," Helen said. "But I can't see how I'd convince potential clients of that. They'd be looking for a tough person like James Garner in The Rockford Files or Kinsey Milhone in Sue Grafton's alphabet series. Not someone like me. I can't see much advertising potential in the slogan, 'I'm tougher than I look.'"

  Betty and Josie exchanged a glance, and then Betty did the talking. "Actually, you wouldn't need to advertise. We'd like to hire you."