A Draw of Death (Helen Binney Mysteries Book 3)

by Gin Jones

  "Good thing most politicians aren't like that, or my job would be a lot harder," Nora said. "But I doubt you came here to reminisce about the good old days."

  "I'm looking for Art."

  Nora's eyes flickered in the direction of the taped-off doors behind Helen. "I can tell you one thing. He's not in there. Art would never cross the police tape. No sense of adventure. I tried to get him to go out bar-hopping with me Saturday night, but he said he was too tired, and he just wanted to go to bed."

  "It's probably just as well," Helen said. "He's not going to get much sleep over the next few nights. I came to warn him to expect a horde of trespassers. The cat was leading Vic's fans along the front wall toward the neighbor's yard. Once the fans and reporters realize the gates are more for decoration than actual security, there will be people setting up camp in the front yard."

  "I should have demanded hazardous-duty pay for taking on this job instead of volunteering for it," Nora said.

  "I didn't think you did anything unless you were paid," Helen said. "Were you and Vic friends?"

  "Hardly." Nora tugged on her scarf and looked away for a moment. Apparently deciding there was no harm in explaining, she continued, "I'd met him a few times, but I'd never actually been his handler. I thought I was being so sharp taking this gig, when I was actually being played. I've always wanted to go to the spa over in the next town, so when Vic invited me to stay here on Saturday night so we could work out some issues for my employer, I figured it was the perfect opportunity. My transportation costs would be picked up by my employer, and I could check in at the spa on Sunday when the rates drop. No matter how annoying Vic was, I thought getting a deal on the spa treatments would make up for it. It didn't work out that way, of course. Vic was more of a jerk than ever, I cancelled the spa reservation too late to get a refund, and now I'm stuck here waiting for your bumpkin detectives to sort through all of Vic's enemies and figure out who finally snapped and killed him."

  Helen found herself in the odd position of wanting to defend Detective Peterson's reputation, just because it was Nora who was insulting him. Nora might be right about Peterson's skills, or lack thereof, but it was unfair to lump Detective Almeida in with him. The new detective might well be a real asset to the department, assuming Peterson didn't undermine her training by teaching her all of his bad habits.

  In any event, now wasn't the time for Helen to do an about-face on her opinion of the local homicide squad. In other circumstances, she would have been perfectly happy to disagree with Nora on whatever topic came up, but right now it was important to keep the conversation as friendly as it could be. Nora probably knew more than she realized about the murder, certainly more than Peterson had gotten from her, and Helen was desperate enough for information that she'd even be nice to Nora. Within reason.

  "Who do you think the police should be focused on?"

  "It could have been anyone." Nora held up one hand as if to fend off an attack. "Before you ask, no, it wasn't me. I didn't have any reason to want him dead. Vic was annoying, but that's all in a day's work."

  "I was wondering about that," Helen said. "Who sent you here, anyway? Even Vic couldn't afford your rates, and I wouldn't have thought an event as minor as a speech at a small-town library would be worth anyone else paying for your time."

  "Normally it wouldn't have been. But there were rumors that Vic had lost his edge. My employers needed to know if that was true. They had a lot invested in him. They sent me to find out, under the pretense of being his PR person for the library event. Not everything the media say about him is true, but he did like having an entourage."

  "Were the rumors correct?" Helen asked. "Had Vic lost his edge?"

  She shrugged. "I guess it doesn't matter now. But, yeah, it was pretty obvious he was having short-term memory problems. He had trouble remembering anything about his fellow players. It didn't matter so much if all he forgot was their names—he was never any good with names, from what I've heard—but he absolutely needed to know how his opponents played in the past, whether they were risk-takers or not, what their tells were, that sort of thing. It was getting to the point where, on bad days, he couldn't even remember how the bidding had gone on the current hand."

  Helen knew only too well how that kind of memory lapse felt. At least she wasn't on display, with people constantly testing her recall and recording her failures. "Your employer must not have been happy about that."

  "They don't know yet," Nora said. "I was planning to make my report by email on Sunday before I left for the spa, but then Vic died, and his memory lapses weren't all that important. I figured I'd wait to give the report in person on Monday morning, but the local cops had other ideas."

  "Why would they care if you talked to your employer?"

  "Oh, they didn't care if I talked to him. I just couldn't do it in person. You know how the cops on television glare at witnesses and tell everyone not to leave town? Turns out, they really do that. Or at least the ones here do." Nora huffed in frustration. "I really should have left Saturday night when I realized I needed to give my employer some bad news. I told Vic I was leaving then, but I'd really been looking forward to the spa, so I let myself be convinced to stay."

  That sounded reasonable, but the equally likely scenario was that Nora was lying about her relationship with Vic and her reasons for being here. Nora wouldn't even consider it lying, just spinning the truth. It was what she did for a living, after all.

  Helen was certain she hadn't let her skepticism show, but Nora was good at her job, which required her to be able to read people.

  Nora shook her head emphatically. "It wasn't like that. I swear, Vic and I weren't romantically involved. He was just a job and not a very appealing one. There are at least six bedrooms in this place, and I thought maybe I could salvage the spa reservation if I didn't make an overly hasty decision to go home. That's all there was to it."

  "So you were right here in the mansion when he was killed?" Helen had always known the woman was tough, but tough enough to be unfazed by a close brush with murder? "I don't remember seeing you here on Sunday."

  "I was here, but not anywhere near the crime scene. My room is way over there." Nora pointed back over her shoulder to her right, away from the scene of the murder. "I sleep pretty soundly, especially when I'm out late."

  "So you weren't actually here all evening?"

  "Are you kidding?" Nora said. "Vic went to his room at some ridiculously early hour, which I'm told is his usual routine, and I'm more of a night owl. I couldn't stand the quiet here, so I went out to see if there was any night life in Wharton."

  "I don't suppose you found any," Helen said. "Not this time of year. It's a little busier in the summer with the tourists."

  "All I found was a bar with an open-mic comedy event and that only went to 2:00. I stayed until closing and then came back here and crashed until midmorning or so. When I got up, Art told me Vic had locked himself in the poker room, which was fine by me. I don't much like grape juice or grape Pop Tarts, which are about the only breakfast foods Vic ever has in the kitchen, so I went out for breakfast."

  That meant Nora didn't have an alibi for 4 a.m. That didn't mean anything. It would have been more surprising if she did have one for that hour. Most people didn't. Of course, most people hadn't been right here in the house when Vic had been killed.

  Could Nora have had a reason to kill Vic? She obviously took her career seriously, and she'd been responsible for him at an event where he'd called someone's sainted mother stupid. Did Nora care about her job enough to want to kill the person who caused a relatively small black mark on her record? If she was the killer, it would explain her willingness to stay in the house where a murder had just happened. The killer wouldn't consider the house unsafe, since she'd know there was no risk to her. Unlike Art, Nora didn't have to stay right here in the house. Peterson might not have wanted her to return to Springfield, but "don't leave town" was considerably broader than "don't leave the mansion."
Even if Nora couldn't reactivate her reservations at the local spa, there were plenty of B&Bs in the area, most of them desperate for guests this time of year.

  "If your job here is done, why are you still here?" Helen said.

  "Not everyone is as intent on getting rid of me as you are. Some people actually like having me around."

  "I'm sorry." Helen hated having to apologize to the obnoxious woman. "I didn't mean it that way. I was just wondering how you coped with staying in a place where a murder had just happened. Doesn't it bother you?"

  "Why should it?" Nora said. "I can't think of anyone—other than you, perhaps—who wants to kill me. I'm good enough at my job that most people don't even notice me. If I went to a local inn, I'd have to deal with all the people who want to ask me about Vic. As long as I stay here, I've got the gates between me and them."

  "You could handle a couple of cub reporters and dozens of over-excited fans in your sleep."

  "Sure, but if I tell them my story, I won't be able to sell it. As it is, I may not be able to anyway." Nora nodded at the doors with the police tape. "I could make some real money if the cops would let me use the cameras in Vic's poker room. They're good enough quality for a feed to a television talk show. So far, though, the best I've been able to do is a few radio interviews by phone. If the case isn't solved soon, this whole trip will have been a huge waste of my time. It won't take long before a new story replaces this one, and then my story will be worthless."

  "Maybe you should find the killer yourself." Helen certainly wasn't going to rush to judgment, possibly making things worse for Stevie, just so Nora could score a television appearance.

  Nora stood up. "Actually, I hear solving crimes is more your thing these days. Too bad I chose the wrong person to befriend back when you and your husband were in the governor's mansion."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Before heading back to the gates, Helen detoured over to the side yard to take a quick look at the cameras on the exterior of the mansion. If anyone asked what she was doing, she could always claim to be looking for the cat.

  Helen spent a solid five minutes searching the side of the house from a variety of angles, and she still couldn't see anything that looked like a camera. If, as she suspected, the killer had bypassed the gates and arrived by way of Freddie's property, he wouldn't have seen anything to scare him off. It was at least possible that an outsider had come from that direction, avoiding the need to deal with the locked gates or climb over the briar-infested stone walls. Unfortunately, it was also still possible that one of the workers had followed the same path. They would have known about the planned exterior cameras, but not that Marty had finished the installation, so they wouldn't have been worried about being caught on camera.

  Helen took the long route back to the front gates, searching for the cat and any sign of trespassers who might have come through the woods between Vic's yard and Freddie's.

  Helen continued along the tree line in the direction of the driveway. She caught glimpses of Freddie's white house and the van backed up to almost touch the garage, but no tortoiseshell cat or anything that would convince Hank Peterson to consider suspects other than the renovation crews.

  Marty was still working near the gates, so Helen asked him to watch while she slipped through the opening so no unwanted visitors would get in. She needn't have bothered, since no one was paying any attention to the entrance. At first she thought it was because they'd figured out they could just go around the wall and through Freddie Wade's property, but then she saw the real reason. The heckler from the library event was walking toward the fan-van. He was dressed much like before, in dark corduroy pants, an off-white heavy sweater, and a bulky down vest. He even wore the same mutinous expression and rigid body stance that dared someone to engage with him.

  Jack was over in front of the fan-van, mingling with the poker players, probably talking about game theory, instead of staying in the car and playing on his phone as he usually did while waiting for her. He had his back to the heckler and seemed oblivious to his presence.

  She couldn't remember the heckler's name, but she'd had plenty of experience dealing with people whose names she didn't know. Her ex-husband had a phenomenal memory for names, so they had chosen a code word that let him know she needed a hint. If her memory didn't improve soon, she'd have to work out a similar arrangement with Jack, since he knew everyone in town.

  Behind the heckler a pick-up truck was parked diagonally across the road. It was so thoroughly plastered with faded, peeling "Vote Yes on Question 3" stickers that it was hard to see the underlying black paint. Obscuring some of the stickers on the passenger door was a large magnetic sign advertising the Compulsive Gambling Recovery Group. In the bed was a jumble of picket signs with the same information.

  The heckler apparently had no sense of self-preservation. Waving those signs in front of Vic's fans was like telling Hank Peterson that an amateur could investigate a murder better than he could. It was bound to end with someone in jail. Especially now, while the fans' emotions were already in high gear, it wouldn't take much to push them into doing something foolish in defense of their idol's reputation. They might well consider the anti-gambling signs to be directed at Vic personally, since he was apparently well-known for encouraging others to try poker, and he also had ties to the first casino built in Massachusetts.

  Even the heckler seemed to realize he was asking for trouble. He had one of the signs in his hand, and he was hunched over, anticipating that he might become a target for rocks or other projectiles. Still, he abandoned the relative safety of his truck, heading in the direction of the gates. He walked slowly and with an extra bit of a hesitation each time he put down his right foot, as if he were still contemplating turning around. There was no lack of determination on his face, though, so the pause could just have been because he had an ingrown toenail or a callus, and it hurt when he walked.

  Helen glanced back at the fan-van, but no one seemed to have taken the bait. At least not yet. The fans probably hadn't had a chance to finish their current hand, and the heckler hadn't had a chance to really get their attention. Only the two young reporters had noticed his approach. They were standing outside their respective vehicles, looking back and forth between the two camps. The reporters were tensed like runners at the start of race, waiting for the signal to run, except that the "finish line" in this case would be wherever the fight broke out.

  The fans might well oblige. Their idol Vic had never gotten physical with his opponents, but that didn't necessarily mean that they follow his example by limiting themselves to verbal sparring. Helen didn't know if the heckler was likely to do anything more than shout like he'd done at the library. Then, Terri's powerful presence had been able to keep him from getting physical, but she wasn't here today.

  Jack was the next to notice the brewing trouble, and he hurried over to Helen's side. "I'm sorry, Ms. Binney. I was watching the game, and I didn't notice Donald arrive. I might be able to get around his truck on this side of the road so we can leave, but there's at least a 50/50 chance we'd get stuck in the wetlands. It's been cold recently, but not enough for the deepest spots to freeze solid."

  Donald. That was the heckler's name. And she hadn't even had to use a code word to prompt Jack. Just one more reason why having a driver was better than having a husband.

  Along with Helen's relief came the rest of the name: Donald Glennon. Her ex-husband would have told her to use a mnemonic trick, spelling out the name with the first two letters of three words that described the person. Like GLasses, ENergetic, ANnoying. Spelled wrong, perhaps, but phonetically close enough to Glennon. She'd have to make a conscious effort to make those associations in the future if her brain didn't get its act together soon.

  Meanwhile, she was the only one likely to be able to stop the impending battle. The reporters weren't going to interfere, at least not to reduce the conflict, and both Donald and the fans were too entrenched in their respective positions.

>   "Good afternoon, Donald." Helen exaggerated her limp slightly as she approached him. For once, it might be to her advantage to have someone think she was a weakling, not worth fighting with. "I was hoping we'd get a chance to talk. We haven't been formally introduced. I'm Helen Binney, and I'm on the speakers' committee for the Friends of the Library. I thought you might like to speak about your side of the gambling issue sometime."

  He peered at her suspiciously. "Why didn't you ask me before?"

  "I'm new to town and didn't realize we had an expert on the subject."

  His defensively hunched shoulders relaxed at the compliment. "I've made it my business to know all the perils of gambling. I just wish I'd known more about it before my mother got caught up in it."

  "I'm sure you did what you could. Perhaps we could go somewhere for coffee and talk about it."

  "Oh, no." Donald planted his feet more solidly and winced briefly when his right foot hit the ground. "I'm not leaving here. Not until I've said my piece."

  "Go ahead, then. Tell me."

  "No, I mean…" He pointed in the direction of the fan-van. "I mean, I want to tell them."

  And that was exactly what she didn't want him doing. Helen looked to see what the fans were up to. The long-haired one with the black band around his bald spot was claiming all the chips in the middle of the table, and the other players were standing up.

  "I'm sure they've heard you speak before," Helen said, "but I haven't. And I'm in a position to do something about gambling issues. Did you know I used to be married to the governor? I still have some influence there."

  "Frank Faria?" Donald's face reddened, and he was practically running in place, shifting from foot to foot and wincing every time the right one hit the ground. She'd never seen anyone who was literally hopping mad before. "It's all his fault. He was supposed to veto the casino legislation. He'd done it before, but then he caved in the end. It's your fault too. You could have influenced him to do the right thing."