by Gin Jones
He continued, "Stay out of the investigation into Dani's death. She deserved what happened to her. Whoever did it should get a medal, not a prison term."
"You don't mean that," Helen said, even as she wondered if he was really that angry with Danica, or whether he was simply worried that too much scrutiny into her death would lead to the conclusion that he'd been the one who had killed her.
"I do mean it," he insisted. "She made it so I can't do the one thing I ever really enjoyed. I'm glad she's dead."
The last Helen knew, Detective Almeida hadn't been able to find Ronny to question him. If she hadn't already talked to him, or even if she had, hearing about just how angry Ronny had been with Danica might undermine her boss's theory about Spencer being the killer.
Helen pulled her phone out of her pocket before remembering that Kolya had been about to call the junior detective just a couple of minutes ago, so they were probably still on the line together. She could always dial 9-1-1 instead, but it wouldn't be good for Kolya's business to have yet another visit from the police with their blue lights flashing and sirens blaring. Since Ronny blamed the House of Sambo for what Danica had done to his arm, perhaps shutting the place down was exactly what he was aiming for by coming here today.
Besides, she wasn't convinced that Ronny's presence here was a true emergency requiring immediate police attention. Kolya could take care of himself if he was attacked physically, and given Ronny's injury and apparent state of intoxication, even Helen could probably elude him simply by stepping out of his reach and waiting for him to overbalance and fall on his face.
As she was considering just how dangerous Ronny might be, he suddenly reached for her phone. "Give me that."
Due to his state of intoxication, exacerbated by having to use his non-dominant hand, he miscalculated. His fist landed a glancing blow on the upper corner of the device, just enough to knock it out of Helen's grip and send it sliding along the bare floor until it came to rest against the mat where Van Taylor and his partner were sparring.
Something about the incident—either the movement of the flying phone or the sound of the plastic hitting the floor—caught the two men's attention. They broke apart and turned to face Helen and Ronny.
Van immediately started unlacing his gloves. He threw them onto the floor with more force than he'd been putting into his punches. He zeroed in on Helen, his face growing redder and his frown more pronounced with each step he took.
So much for staying out of Van's sight and avoiding a scene, she thought. Now she was stuck between one man who thought she was a nosy bitch who needed to be silenced in order to let a killer go free, and another man who thought she was stalking him and needed to be taught a lesson.
CHAPTER TWENTY
"Hey," Van shouted. "Leave the lady alone."
For a moment Helen was certain she'd heard wrong. Her nemesis couldn't possibly be defending her. But then it became clear that Van was bearing down on Ronny, not on herself.
Van grabbed Ronny's uninjured arm and started to pull him away from Helen. "If you want to fight someone, I'm right here."
Ronny took one step in the direction he was being tugged, but overbalanced, wobbled a bit on one foot, and then collapsed, landing on his rear end. He hugged his knees to his chest with his good arm and rocked unsteadily. "Can't fight. That's the whole problem."
Van glanced behind him at where his sparring partner was watching the situation. "Don't just stand there. Take this guy back to Kolya to deal with while I escort the woman out to her car and convince her not to call the cops. The last thing this place needs is more bad press. None of us wants it to get shut down, or we'll have to drive halfway to Boston to work out."
The sparring partner tossed his gloves next to Van's and trotted over to help lift Ronny to his feet.
Helen took advantage of their distraction to start for the exit. Tate should be here before long, and she'd rather wait out in the hot parking lot than stay in the no-less-roasting workout space where her presence might trigger Van into remembering that he blamed her for all of his recent problems.
Before she'd taken more than three steps, Van had successfully transferred Ronny to his partner and then caught up with Helen.
"I can see myself out." Helen would have turned down the unnecessary assistance from anyone, but she was particularly unwilling to accept Van's help. Who knew what would set off one of his tirades?
"I don't mind," Van said, taking her elbow with one small but strong hand and grabbing her workout backpack and yarn bag with the other. "I owe you an apology for yelling at you before. Turns out, my wife didn't get the necessary paperwork to the insurance agency like she was supposed to, and that's why the dealership didn't have my loaner ready. Nothing to do with you at all." He gave her the first smile she'd ever seen on his face. He wasn't a bad-looking man when anger didn't narrow his eyes and tighten his jaw.
Still, she didn't like being steered by anyone, no matter what he looked like or how polite he acted. She didn't even let Tate lead when they went anywhere together except for the one time they'd gone to court.
"Apology accepted." Helen tried to remove her elbow from his grip without being too obvious about it. She didn't want to trigger another tantrum on his part. "But I'm fine without any assistance."
"I insist." Van tugged her toward the exit, moving faster than was comfortable for her. "My mother always taught me to take care of the less fortunate. She's a state representative, you know."
"I didn't know." Helen wasn't as good at names as her ex-husband was, but she didn't recall any state legislators with the last name of Taylor. Certainly not among the women, who were still in the distinct minority, so it was less likely that she'd have forgotten any of their names. "Maybe we met when I was living in the Governor's Mansion. Who is she?"
"Jane Silvia." He opened the main door without letting go of her elbow. "She took back her maiden name when my parents divorced."
Helen definitely recognized that name, since she'd researched it recently. Jane Silvia was the representative who'd been putting pressure on the police to make an arrest. No wonder she'd thought the woman looked familiar. Now that Helen knew about the family relationship, she could see the resemblance in their faces and their bone structure, if she ignored the photoshopping of the mother's picture and the way Van had bulked his slight frame up with muscle.
Waiting for Tate outside in the deserted parking lot didn't seem like such a good idea now. Not with Van as her escort. He was still acting as if he were truly concerned for her welfare, but she wasn't sure how long his white knight act would last. Helen recalled Betty's claim that the son of Jane Silvia, an advocate for victims of domestic abuse, was himself rumored to be abusive toward his wife. And Elaine Clary, who had claimed he was more annoying than dangerous, had kept her distance when Van had been in full tantrum mode.
Helen dug in her heels and tried again to free her arm from his grip. He didn't seem to notice her struggles, just kept moving forward. There was no point in calling for help, since the only person who might have been able to deter Van was Kolya, and he was out of hearing range in his office, dealing with Ronny.
Van finally stopped when they were on the sidewalk outside the main entrance. "Where's your driver?"
The massive parking lot was as underutilized as ever, with only three vehicles that presumably belonged to Kolya, Mia, and either Van or his sparring partner. Barry was long gone, and she'd lost track of time while talking to Kolya and then being confronted by Ronny West, but she thought it would be another ten or fifteen minutes before Tate would be here to pick her up for dinner.
"It looks like my ride is delayed," she said. "It's too hot to wait out here. I know it's not much better inside the gym, but at least there's some shelter from the direct sun. If you'll give me my bags, I'll go inside and won't trouble you any further."
"It's no trouble." He raised her bags above his head, as if he were a child playing keep-away. "See? They barely weigh anything
at all."
The crochet hook that Tate had made for her was in one of the bags. Not that she wouldn't abandon it if necessary, but she wasn't ready to do that when it was still possible that Van didn't mean her any harm. He could just have been showing off, not threatening to hold the bags hostage. It was hard to be certain. People frequently made her uncomfortable with well-intentioned but counterproductive attempts to help her.
She wasn't ready to panic quite yet, although she wished there was more traffic to and from the parking lot, so someone might notice if she called for help. At least he didn't have a getaway vehicle, since she assumed the third vehicle in the lot belonged to his sparring partner, and it was unlikely Van even had the keys to it, so he couldn't easily kidnap her. On the other hand, if he was planning to teach her a lesson for having annoyed him, he wouldn't have to take her to another site to hurt her. He only had to move her a few feet so they'd be out of the line of sight for anyone looking out the glass front doors of the House of Sambo. All the transom windows were too high for anyone to see through unless the observer were standing on a ladder, which wasn't terribly likely.
As long as she stayed here in front of the glass doors, it was possible that Kolya or Mia would come out of their offices and notice her outside with Van. Given his checkered history here, they wouldn't need to be told that she didn't want to be alone with him.
"There's some shade over near the road, next to the entrance." Ronny tugged Helen in that direction. "We can wait for your ride there."
He was probably right that it was cooler there than out in the direct sun or even inside the sweltering gym. The only problem was that the shady spot was hidden from both the front door and the road. And it wasn't far from an overgrown area that would be perfect for stashing a body.
She couldn't win a physical battle with him, so she had to hope that, assuming she wasn't imagining the danger, she could use a different type of strength to get away from him. For now, she had to avoid alerting him to her suspicions.
With a last wistful look at the glass doors, Helen let herself be pulled along. She exaggerated her limp and said, "Slow down a bit. I can't walk as fast as you. This weather is wreaking havoc on my joints."
He did as she asked, but even at the slower pace, she was starting to feel a little light-headed. She thought it was from the heat, but then realized she was hyperventilating. She couldn't afford to lose consciousness and be totally at Van's mercy. Helen forced herself to breathe the way Mia had taught her, deeply and calmly, picturing her body moving with fluid confidence.
With the increased oxygen, she was able to think more clearly. She was probably just imagining that she was in danger. Her general irritation with anyone who gave her unwanted help was causing her to think the worst of Van. Well, that plus his history of threatening her and giving his temper free rein. And his far greater physical strength. Unlike her, Van definitely knew how to hit things. If what she'd heard from Betty about his history of domestic abuse was true, he also knew how to hit people, both on and off the Sambo mat.
Before she panicked, though, she needed to figure out if he truly wanted to hurt her or was just making a common mistake by providing unwanted help. He'd acknowledged just now that it hadn't been her fault that his loaner car had been delayed, and he couldn't truly believe it was her fault that his car had been damaged in the first place, so why would he want to hurt her? His wife might not have filed charges against him for hitting her, but he couldn't believe a stranger would give him a pass for the same conduct.
And what would his mother say if he were charged with assault and battery? It would reflect badly on her, possibly even damage her political career. Not that she had much of a career, Helen thought. Three terms in the state legislature without any significant committee appointments or other accomplishments. And she likely wouldn't go any further in her political career if she was always so quick to call in favors, wasting them the way she'd done by calling Detective Peterson about the investigation into Danica's death.
It still didn't make sense to Helen that the two women had been friends. How would they even have met? They were a good twenty to thirty years apart in age, so they hadn't grown up together. Even in a small town like Wharton, that kind of age difference meant that they wouldn't have been likely to know each other personally. They didn't even seem to have any interests in common. As far as Helen knew, the only things Danica had been passionate about were her B&B, Sambo, and unavailable men.
Helen froze, chilled despite the weather.
Danica was attracted to unavailable men. Like the married Van Taylor.
He also matched the physical description for the men Danica was attracted to. His fit, muscular appearance was consistent with the two men Helen knew for certain Danica had pursued—Spencer Nagle and Neil Campbell—and also with the one she was only rumored to have been interested in—Kolya.
Van and Danica had run into each other at the House of Sambo at least once, when Van had flirted with her. What if her response hadn't been an angry slap, as Mia believed, perhaps because it was how she herself would have responded? What if Danica had given Van a playful punch instead, as an invitation to a more intimate relationship?
Was Van the person Danica had dumped Spencer for?
If so, what if Danica had then done something to cause Van to lose his notoriously quick temper and kill her?
It was certainly possible, Helen thought. Van had been at the House of Sambo around the time of the murder. She'd assumed he'd been outside with Detective Almeida and then left before the murder, but he could have finished his statement and come inside while Helen had her back to the entrance, concentrating on the movement of her beautiful lady's hands. He could have avoided notice after the murder if he'd left by way of the emergency exit, which would also explain why the door had been jimmied. Van was apparently an electrician, based on the name, Taylor Electrical, painted on his truck, and presumably someone with that expertise would have known how to disable the alarm to keep it from calling attention to his escape.
It was only conjecture, and Detective Peterson would never believe her, but Almeida would at least listen and then follow up on the theory. Assuming Helen got the chance to pass on the information to her. Unfortunately, she'd forgotten to retrieve her phone after the skirmish inside the House of Sambo.
They'd arrived at the corner of the building, and Helen caught a glimpse of the picnic tables at the loading docks. She'd noticed earlier that the doors were open a few inches for cross-ventilation. Assuming they still were, someone inside might hear if she called for help.
"I need to sit down," she told Van. "I can wait for my ride at the picnic tables."
He looked in that direction and shook his head. "There's no shade there. You'd be better off under the trees."
"In a minute," she said. "I need to sit for a bit or I'm going to pass out before I get to the trees."
"You are one stubborn woman," he said, but he didn't try to redirect her to the trees.
"It's my best quality." Helen made her way over to the first of the two picnic tables that were set up with a short end touching the wall. She straddled the bench at the outer end of the table where she could most easily get up and run if necessary. The dock doors were over four feet up from the ground, too high to reach, and in any event the opening at the bottom was only a very few inches wide. She listened for any sounds that might indicate someone was using the free weights or other exercise equipment near the doors, but heard nothing.
Van dropped her yarn bag and workout backpack on top of the picnic table, just out of her reach, and sat across from her.
"You don't have to wait with me," she said. "I'll be fine on my own."
"Why are you so anxious to get rid of me? I just rescued you from that whiney brat Ronny, so you ought to be grateful." He frowned. "Unless…"
Helen didn't like the speculative way he was looking at her. She hurried to say, "Nothing personal. I just prefer to do things on my own."
&n
bsp; "That's not it," he said. "You figured it out, didn't you? That's why you've been following me all around town since Danica died."
"I haven't been following anyone. It's just a small town."
"My mother told me about you. She said you were going to be trouble. I didn't realize how much, though. I thought warning you off would be enough."
"You mean the vandalism of my car?"
He confirmed it with a nod. That was one mystery solved, but he still hadn't confessed to the larger crime. Could she provoke him into losing his temper and admitting to murder? Without getting herself beaten up?
She had to try. She was already in trouble, so she might as well make it worthwhile.
"I don't pay much attention to anonymous threats." Helen had placed her cane on the bench beside her, but now she surreptitiously retrieved it, keeping it out of sight and in position to use as a defensive weapon. She wasn't sure it was heavy enough to make much of an impact on Van, but it was all she had. "Back when I was in politics, I got much more credible threats. I wasn't even sure what yours meant. It helps to be specific about what you want your victim to do. Or, in this case, not do."
"I wanted you to stay out of Danica's murder investigation, you stupid bitch." The veins in Van's neck began to bulge like they'd done when he'd been stymied in his attempt to pick up a loaner car. A little more pressure and he ought to be angry enough to lose all his inhibitions about incriminating himself.
"Whatever for?" Helen said, as if she didn't already know. "I didn't think you'd care if I found evidence that Ronny had killed her."
"I'm not stupid enough to think you believe Ronny did it." He stood and loomed over the end of the picnic table next to her. "You know what really happened."
Helen scooted out of his reach as best she could, until her back hit the wall of the building.
He didn't follow her, but that didn't particularly reassure her. He was in the ideal spot to intercept her, whichever way she ran. And he still hadn't clearly admitted to murder. She had to hear the confession, or the risks she was taking would be for nothing, even if she managed to get away from him.
