by Gin Jones
"Back to the beginning, then," Tate said. "Angie went to Charlene's, and…what?"
"And never left?" Helen said. "You don't think Charlene would do anything to hurt her sister, do you? Everyone seems to think they were devoted to each other. Even Ralph thinks so, and if anyone had a reason to speak ill of Charlene, he does. Charlene is obviously a bit of an irritant in their marriage."
"It's still worth considering," Tate said. "The police certainly will, if they ever get around to believing Angie's missing. Ralph and Charlene will be the prime suspects. The spouse and the last person to see Angie alive."
"But neither of them has any reason to hurt Angie. Ralph clearly loves her, and he doesn't seem all that interested in money, or it would have been a lot harder for Angie to hide that seventy-five thousand dollars from him. Charlene loves her too, although she loves money too. When I was at her house, she was wearing designer clothes, her furnishings were all expensive brands, and she has several times more pieces of art glass than most people have cheap vases."
"Killing Angie wouldn't get her much, though," Tate said. "A surviving spouse gets the bulk of the estate, according to Massachusetts probate law. Charlene wouldn't inherit much unless she killed Ralph first, so Angie inherited everything before she died, and then Charlene inherited everything as the only relative of her sister. But that's assuming she wasn't charged with killing them, since a killer can't inherit from her victim. Even if the police couldn't prove she'd killed Ralph and her sister, the assets could be tied up in court for years. Murder really isn't a reliable get-rich-quick scheme."
Helen still wasn't prepared to let Charlene off the hook entirely. "She isn't a lawyer, though, and doesn't have one practically living in her garage. She might have thought she'd inherit a good bit of money. Or she could have taken out a life insurance policy on her sister. Charlene mentioned buying a life insurance policy from Ralph. I'd assumed it was on her own life, but it could have been on Angie's. Maybe they each bought a policy on the other's life."
"It's as likely as any other theory." Tate stood up and carried the empty glasses over to the sink. "If Angie doesn't show up soon, I'll have a word with Peterson, and suggest he look into Charlene's finances. If you think of anything else that might help the police find the two sisters, I expect you to call me before you do anything crazy."
"If I call you, will you yell at me?"
"That's what you pay me for," he said on his way to the front door. "But when I'm done yelling, I'll probably ignore my better instincts and come along as back-up. Unlike most of my previous clients, you do manage to keep things interesting."
* * *
By the time Tate left, it was too late to go to the nursing home and tell Betty and Josie what Helen had—and, more importantly—hadn't found out at the casino. Visiting hours ended at 7:00 on Saturdays, and Martha Waddell was very strict about enforcing the closing time.
Helen rummaged around in her refrigerator to collect the fixings for a salad for dinner. While she chopped peppers and cucumbers, she couldn't stop thinking about the seventy-five thousand dollar payment to Angie. If she could just figure out where that had come from, she was certain it would lead her to wherever Angie was.
Helen carried her salad over to the desk built into one wall of the great room. She checked her phone and her email, but there was still nothing from Lily. She should have heard something by now. Lily wouldn't have needed to do more than make a few phone calls to get a full report on SLP.
Helen reached for her phone again, planning to call Lily to find out what was taking so long. Her common sense kicked in before she actually dialed. She was being unreasonable, expecting Lily to drop everything to do her aunt a favor. Lily had a full schedule, with work and a social life. Lily even had a hobby, if a torturous sport like mountain-biking could be considered a hobby.
Helen set her phone down again, close enough that she could answer it if it rang, but not so close it would be an irresistible temptation to pick it up again to pester her nieces. Lily would call when she had some information, and until then Helen would have to be patient.
When the next morning came and there was still no response from Lily, Helen decided she'd waited long enough. The call went to voicemail, so Helen left a brief message. Helen also called Laura, to pry her sister's whereabouts out of her, and got voicemail again.
Jack was due to pick her up at 10:00 to go see Betty and Josie and let them know the search for Angie had hit a dead end. While Helen waited she looked over the brochures Rebecca had given her from the medical alert device company. The idea of being tethered to an electronic leash was annoying, but she didn't want her nieces to worry unnecessarily. There had to be some sort of compromise that would reassure them without being too much of a burden on her.
The little bracelet or necklace version that worked around the house wasn't so bad, but Rebecca had recommended the larger device, the size of a cell phone, that allowed her to call the monitoring company for help from anywhere in the world with just the push of a single button. It wasn't all that big, but it was still one more thing to fuss with whenever she went out. Helen already felt encumbered by too much stuff whenever she left the house: cell phone, pill bottles, and all the usual contents of a purse. To complicate matters, she needed to be able to carry everything in just one hand, since the other one held her cane. With both hands occupied, she couldn't easily open a door for herself, or do other routine things like pick up items from a grocery store shelf or sign a credit card slip. She could stuff everything into her yarn bag and sling it over her shoulder, she supposed, but she had enough trouble getting people to take her seriously without giving them the impression she was a bag lady, carrying all her worldly possessions in a lumpy, over-filled tote.
The sound of a car engine out front announced Jack's arrival. Helen tossed aside the brochures and reached for her yarn bag. Everyone at the nursing home already knew her, and either already respected her or ignored her, so there was no point in worrying about the impression her bag made on them. She hung her cane over her wrist so she could close her front door behind her.
When she reached the driveway, Jack was getting out of his own car, a beat-up fifteen-year-old sedan. "Sorry, Ms. Binney. I lost track of time this morning while I was working on some pieces that need to get mailed later this week and didn't have time to swing by Ed's place before I came here. We can go there now, if you want, but if you need to be somewhere else right away, we can take my car."
Helen was grateful to Jack for letting her use his car the last few months, but her desire for independence wasn't the only reason she was buying her own car. She didn't like to complain, but after even a short ride in his old car, she felt like every joint in her body was experiencing an inflammatory flare from the rough ride. Besides, it might be nice to test a vehicle she had picked out herself, instead of one chosen for her.
"We've got plenty of time. Let's stop by the car lot first."
* * *
Jack parked in front of the sales office and went inside to find his cousin. Helen wandered off to see if she could spot a vehicle she might be interested in. Once she crossed off the ones that were obviously too big or too small or too expensive, she couldn't tell any of the others apart.
She'd only had enough time to get overwhelmed by all the possibilities, without narrowing down her options, when Jack and his cousin joined her in the sea of cars.
Ed started to hold out his hand to shake hers but then glanced down, taking in the dark grease his rag hadn't removed, and pulled his arm back. "Sorry. Dirty hands are an occupational hazard. Jack tells me you haven't been impressed by our suggestions, so you want to choose your own car this time."
The family resemblance between Jack and his cousin was unmistakable and explained a little about the clan's notoriety in the area if all members were that easily recognized. It wasn't just their broad, open faces that matched but their skeletal structure—short and wiry—and their bald heads, which she supposed was limi
ted to the males. Perhaps not, though, given the tight-knit and quirky nature of the family.
Ed was wearing a standard blue mechanic's uniform, even though he owned the car lot. When they first met he'd explained that he liked to be able to dive into an engine on a moment's notice, and his wife had gotten tired of trying to get grease out of business suits. Today's uniform already had several dark streaks on the sleeves, and the rag hanging out of his pocket was well-used.
"Someone suggested I might like a Subaru Forester," Helen said. "Do you have one of them?"
"Oh, you don't want a boring vehicle like that," Ed insisted. "It's not your style at all. I'm sure we can find you something sweet."
"I don't want sweet," Helen said. "I want comfortable."
"No reason why you can't have both." Ed started walking along the nearest row of cars. "You've already rejected our biggest and smallest cars, so let's see what we've got in the middle."
"I'd rather look around on my own for a while longer. I'll send up a flag when I find something."
He ignored her and kept walking, pointing out the virtues of each vehicle they passed, each of which had some "sweet" feature or another. The specs didn't mean much to her; she needed to get in and try them on for size, but she couldn't do that at the speed he was leading her down the lot.
She couldn't keep up with him, thanks to her limp, which was worsened by some small irritant that had gotten into her right shoe. It felt like a piece of gravel from her driveway, but she hadn't noticed it until just now, and she doubted it was really that big.
Ed and Jack were about three vehicles ahead of her, discussing whether the current model year was an improvement or a step backwards for the car they were looking at. She stopped to lean on the nearest vehicle, an electric-blue, funky-looking thing, so she could slip off her shoe and remove whatever the irritant was. Too bad she couldn't remove the other irritants in her life as easily.
She turned her shoe over, and waited until she heard a tiny chip of her driveway gravel plop onto the asphalt before slipping the shoe back on. She was still leaning against the funky-looking car when Jack realized she'd been lagging behind and turned to see if she was okay.
Ed turned a moment later. "I should have known you'd be interested in the Mini Cooper Countryman. It's perfect for you."
"This thing?" Helen got a better look at it. "It's ugly."
"Cute-ugly," Ed said. "You know, like a bulldog puppy. Women just love this car."
Helen tried to imagine why. It certainly wasn't for its looks, except perhaps in the perverse way some women felt compelled to try to rescue the most damaged men, either because of some mother complex or because they didn't think they deserved anything better. Perhaps the Mini Cooper had some virtue that wasn't apparent on the surface. "Is it particularly reliable?"
"It's not bad," he said. "But mostly people like it because it's different."
That was one way of putting it.
"It's functional too," Ed added. "Seats five, reasonable gas mileage, comfortable ride."
"This is perfect for you, Ms. Binney," Jack put in. "You always say you want people to pay attention to you. They won't be able to miss you riding around in this."
More likely, she thought, she'd be even more easily overlooked while everyone was gawking at the shockingly blue oddity that was this car. Still, she wouldn't know for sure unless she tried it. She might just be prejudiced against it because she hadn't chosen it herself.
"Let's take it out for a spin," Helen said. "We can get some other opinions of it at the nursing home."
CHAPTER TWELVE
As it turned out, the funky-looking car was actually quite comfortable, and Jack didn't have any complaints about the way it handled.
On the way to the nursing home, Helen said, "Could you do me a favor, Jack?"
"Anything for you Ms. Binney."
"I was wondering if anyone could confirm Charlene's story about how Angie came to her house for a ride to the casino. Do you think you might be able to find the cabbie who drove her there?"
"Sure," Jack said. "I can hit some popular spots for picking up fares while you're visiting with Betty and Josie. Unless you don't think you'll be here that long. I could wait until after I take you home instead, if you prefer, but I do need to spend some time tonight working on my clay pieces."
All Jack would be doing was confirming what they already knew, so there wasn't a huge rush. Still, if she was wrong about Angie's actions on the day she disappeared, the sooner they had some answers, the better. "I'd rather not wait, and I can visit with Betty and Josie for as long as you need to ask around."
"I'll come back to get you in an hour," Jack said as he pulled into the nursing home's driveway. "Can't promise I'll have any answers by then, though."
"Just do what you can. I've got my crochet project to work on if you're running late."
He glanced sideways at her. "No need for that. I'll be back in an hour."
Jack left the Mini Cooper idling in front of the nursing home while Helen got out, which was as easy as getting in had been. Perhaps she'd been a little hasty in rejecting it based on its unusual looks.
She'd barely crossed the sidewalk on the way to the front stairs before the car was completely surrounded by a collection of staff members, ambulatory residents, and visiting guests. Helen had never seen that many people outside the nursing home before. A dozen faces were staring out from the activity room's front windows too.
That settled it, Helen decided. This was definitely not the right car for her. She wanted a car that blended into the background rather than being more interesting than she was.
Martha Waddell raced down the front porch stairs to stand next to Helen and shout, "Back to work, everyone. Right now or I'll be making notes in your files about leaving your stations."
Within moments, the crowd was gone and Jack was able to climb behind the wheel and leave.
Martha turned on Helen, obviously irritated but unwilling to go so far as to upset a potentially valuable ally in the quest to take over her boss's job. "What on earth are you doing riding around in that car? It's not your style."
"That's what I said, but no one ever listens to me."
"You need to stand up for yourself. Especially in male-dominated areas like car lots. Otherwise you end up going through life driving a car you hate and playing second fiddle to an incompetent twit whose only job qualification is his Y chromosome." Martha glanced down at a new text on her phone. Apparently, there was some new crisis inside, so she didn't wait for Helen to defend herself before racing off up the stairs at a pace Helen couldn't hope to match.
Helen made her slower way inside, signed the guest log, and then headed to the activity room where the ambulatory residents were relaxing after lunch.
Betty and Josie were in their usual spot, a pair of wingback chairs near the fireplace at the far end of the room where they would have missed out on seeing the Mini Cooper out front. They had their yarn tucked in beside them, but their hands were still for once. Betty's eyes were drooping and Josie was snoring softly.
The nonagenarian couple that had been necking during Helen's last visit were in the same corner, but today they were sitting with their backs to each other, making a show of their mutual irritation. Apparently they were re-living everything about adolescence, with all of the melodramatic game–playing and romantic angst.
Betty perked up as soon as she saw Helen, and she jabbed Josie's upper arm lightly with a knitting needle.
"What?" Josie said, rubbing her arm.
"Helen's here," Betty said. "She might have found Angie."
"I'm afraid not." Helen pulled a chair over beside them. "She isn't at the casino where Charlene said she was. I've hit a bit of a dead end."
"So have we," Betty said. "We've been trying to convince Hank's uncle to get him to take Angie's disappearance seriously."
"Yeah." Josie yawned. "Now we know where Hank got all his most irritating characteristics from: his uncle. He used
to be a cop too."
"Detective Peterson does seem to have his head stuck in the mindset of a previous generation."
"Or stuck somewhere else just as dark," Josie said, as if she weren't from the same generation as Hank's uncle. "They may be willing to ignore Angie's disappearance, but we aren't. Are you sure there aren't any leads at all for you to pursue?"
"There might be one, but I'm still waiting for more information," Helen said. "I don't suppose either of you have heard of a company known as SLP, have you?"
"Not me," Josie said. "It sounds kind of secretive. Who uses initials, unless they're trying to hide something?"
"Just about everyone these days," Betty said, her no-nonsense tone taking on a tinge of irritation. "It's like we're living inside a knitting pattern. I know what K and P and PSSO stand for, and there are glossaries for any knitting abbreviations I don't recognize, but I don't have anything to translate all the other acronyms people use these days. Although, I have to say, I can't remember ever seeing SLP anywhere." Betty brightened. "Oh, wait, I did see it once. It was on the old VCR we had here before they finally got us a DVD player. It referred to one of the tape speeds. Super Long Play."
"I don't think an old VCR machine is what I'm looking for," Helen said. "Did Angie ever mention a business with those initials? Or maybe she didn't mention the company's name, but she said something about getting a part-time job or investing in some company that hit it big?"
"She didn't really discuss anything with us," Betty picked up her needles and resumed knitting. "She showed up with her preemie caps, told us all the things we were doing wrong, and then left."
"She could be a real pain," Josie said. "But she meant well. And she made beautiful little hats. The hospital will be disappointed not to get any more."
