A Draw of Death (Helen Binney Mysteries Book 3)

by Gin Jones

  Jack moved closer so he could intervene if Donald became physical. It would be better if Jack stayed out of it, though. If a fight broke out, the local police would assume he had started it, just because of his family's reputation. She held a hand out to stop Jack.

  "Perhaps if I'd known more about the risks, I would have been able to change Frank's mind." Helen nodded at the back of Donald's truck where the signs were piled up. "It's too late now to stop the casinos, but it looks like there's still mitigation work to be done. Why don't you tell me about your current project?"

  "You really want to know?" His feet slowed down. "You're not just trying to shut me up?"

  "I really want to know." Just not here in full view of the fans and the reporters. She needed to get him somewhere that was at least a little bit less confrontational. She tapped her cane. "I need to sit down while I listen." She'd prefer to be inside her nice, warm car, but it was too close to the fans, and letting Donald get any nearer to them wasn't a good idea. Sitting inside the cab of his truck wasn't a good idea either. She didn't think Donald would go so far as to kidnap her, but despite what Tate seemed to think about the extent of her common sense, she preferred not to take unnecessary risks. "Why don't I come on over to the back of your truck? I can sit on the tailgate while you tell me your story?"

  "I've got brochures," Donald said, as if it were a threat. Most people probably did recoil at the prospect of being handed political screeds.

  She was made of sterner stuff. "You can give them to Jack to take back to my car while he warms it up. I'll read them when I get home."

  Donald nodded and hurried over to drop the tailgate for her. He continued around to the cab to collect some of his brochures while she figured out how to climb aboard.

  After her first attempt to scoot up onto the tailgate fell several inches too short, Helen let Jack help her into place.

  Once she was settled, he said, "I don't like this. I should stay here with you."

  "Donald isn't going to do anything to me," Helen said. "He's more likely to get aggressive with another man, and you've got too much work to do for your first Christmas in business to risk Detective Peterson throwing you in jail."

  "I don't care." Jack was usually better about not helping her unless she asked, but sometimes he was as over-protective as her nieces. "I'm not leaving you."

  He wouldn't believe her if she threatened to fire him, any more than her nieces believed her threats to disinherit them, so she said, "Fine. Just stay out of Donald's line of sight. And keep an eye on the fans and the reporters. Let me know if they start planning to storm the truck."

  Donald emerged from the cab and handed a three-inch-thick stack of brochures to Jack before jumping up to sit next to Helen. He wasn't that much taller than she was, but he landed on the tailgate on the first try, with several inches to spare.

  Show-off.

  Helen quashed her irritation and said, "So, tell me about your mother and how she got addicted to gambling."

  "It was the gaming industry's fault," Donald said. "They target vulnerable people, make them think gambling is the answer to all their problems. But it isn't. It's just the start. The next thing they know, their lives are ruined."

  "From what you've said, your mother was a strong, smart woman," Helen said. "Are you sure that gambling was a problem for her? Isn't it possible she knew what she was doing, and she would have resented your telling her she couldn't have a little fun?"

  "A little fun?" His voice rose. "She lost every penny she'd worked so hard for. She had nothing left in the end."

  "She had you and your siblings," Helen said. "I'm sure she thought you were more important than money."

  He snorted. "That's easy for someone like you to say. You've got more money than you'll ever spend. It's not so easy when you're living from pension check to pension check. And then you get sick. Poor people die from conditions that rich people survive."

  "Is that what happened to your mother? She got sick?"

  Donald nodded and his hands gripped his thighs just above his knees as if he were bodily preventing himself from leaping off the truck to go attack Vic's fans. "We'd have helped her out financially, but she was too embarrassed to tell us, so she kept putting off going to the doctor until it was too late."

  "I'm so sorry."

  He let go of one knee to brush at his face. "I can't help my mom, but I can help other mothers, other families, so it doesn't happen to them. We've got to make people more aware of the risks. I almost gave up hope when the anti-casino referendum failed, but then I met the founder of this new organization for helping gambling addicts. He's put together a great team. They really know what they're doing, and they've been showing me how I can help."

  "I'm sure you and the organization are doing important work," Helen said. "But this isn't the right place to do it. Did you tell your new mentors that you were coming here today?"

  Donald shook his head, and a hint of doubt mingled with the determination in his face.

  "I think they would have told you to wait for a better time," Helen said. "And I'm sure your mother wouldn't have wanted you to harass people who are in mourning. Think about how you'd have felt if Vic Rezendes had come to your mother's home or her funeral."

  "But I was told—" He broke off, and this time he did push off from the tailgate, but not to go confront the fans. He turned around to help Helen down. "Never mind. I didn't mean any harm. Just wanted people to listen and not make the same mistakes I did. They need to know the warning signs before it's too late, like it was for me with my mother. But you're right. This isn't the place to do it."

  "The library is a much better place." Helen slid off the tailgate, careful to take her weight on her left leg so as not to irritate her troublesome right hip. "I assume your phone number is on the brochures. I'll call to set up a time for you to speak. Meanwhile, I'd appreciate it if you'd move your truck, so Jack and I can leave. I've got people waiting for me elsewhere."

  Donald nodded and climbed into the cab.

  Jack raced Helen to the car, which wasn't much of a challenge for him. He had the engine running and the heater on full blast before she even reached the passenger side door. At least he hadn't gotten so brazen with his unasked-for assistance that he'd opened the passenger side door and held it for her. Then she really would have had to fire him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Much as it irritated Helen, sometimes she did need to ask for help. Carrying anything that required two hands was beyond her capabilities as long as one of her hands gripped her cane. She had to get Jack to bring the box of yarn into the nursing home for her.

  Helen signed them both in at the front desk and followed Jack into the activity room. He set the box down between Betty's and Josie's wingback chairs. Betty had either finished the yellow scarf she'd been working on or set it aside and was making a chemo cap in a faded red, green, and white variegated yarn. Josie, for once, was making something in a dull gray, which seemed particularly lifeless against the hot pink of her sweatshirt and the lime green of her pants.

  "Oooh." Josie peered at the name on side of the box at her feet. "I haven't been to Cottage Fibers in forever. Is this really for us?"

  "For Charity Caps Day." While Jack opened the box, Helen dragged another wingback chair over to face the fireplace, farther away than the two older women so she wouldn't get roasted.

  Jack waved and headed out to wait in the car where he much preferred playing games on his phone to stitching and bitching.

  Josie glanced from the dull gray yarn in her lap to the rainbow in the box. "Christmas came early this year."

  "For us and for the people who will receive the caps," Betty said. "Thank you."

  "I'm happy to do it." Helen dropped into her chair. "I can consider myself a patron of the arts now, supplying you with yarn and Tate with exotic wood."

  "How is Tate, anyway?" Josie dove into the box of yarn and pulled out several neon-bright skeins to study the labels. "And when are we goin
g to meet him?"

  "Tate is a bit busy right now, with his niece at the top of the suspect list in Vic's murder."

  Josie brushed the soft yarn against her cheek. "On the plus side, he's going to need you to help him find whoever really killed Vic. You'll be spending lots of time together. Maybe a late night in his office, and you're both a little tired, and your inhibitions have dropped, and he's desperate for something to remind him that life isn't always grim, and he suddenly realizes that you're right there next to him, so he turns and kisses you. A long, passionate, finally-found-my-soul mate kind of kiss."

  "You've been watching too many soap operas." Betty continued doggedly working with faded yarn, peeking only occasionally at the new supplies. "It doesn't happen like that in real life."

  "It could." Josie threw one of the neon-colored skeins at her friend. "Especially if Helen is paying attention and makes it happen."

  "One husband, even if it's an ex, is enough for me. I'm not making anything happen with Tate, except to help him keep his niece from being charged with a murder she didn't commit."

  "Are you sure she didn't do it?" Betty tossed the bright yarn back into the box and continued adding rows to her faded red, green, and white cap. "I'm sure she's a good person and all, but from what I've heard, she did have a temper, and she was fiercely protective of her crew, so she might have gotten angry if Vic threatened one of her employees."

  "I might have believed it if she'd hauled off and punched him on the spot, but I can't see her sitting on the anger until four in the morning." Helen dug in her yarn bag for the green chemo cap she was working on. "The only reason Hank Peterson wants to blame her for it is that she's an easy choice of suspect since she found the body, and the murder weapon could have been one of her tools. That's pretty flimsy evidence if you ask me. Especially since they haven't even found the murder weapon."

  Josie sat back from rummaging through the box of yarn and tossed a deep forest green skein at Betty. "You need to make a hat out of this. Much prettier than the yarn you're using now, and still seasonal."

  "After I finish this one. It may not be all that pretty, but it will still be warm. And you know how I hate having unfinished projects." Betty tucked the new skein into her yarn bag. "Has Hank looked into Vic's ties to the gaming industry? That ought to lead to some other suspects."

  "I don't know if Peterson is looking into it, but I talked to one person who definitely hated Vic because of his role in promoting poker. Donald Glennon blames everyone in the gaming industry, including Vic, for his mother's death."

  "Donald's a little too close to the subject," Betty said, "but he's not entirely wrong. The gaming industry knows that retired people are particularly susceptible to the allure of gambling. Unlike younger people, seniors tend to have a lot of free time to go to casinos, and many of them never really planned for what they'd do during retirement, so they don't have any hobbies or other activities they really enjoy. A lot of them are living without a spouse for the first time ever, and their kids have left the nest, so they're feeling a bit lonely and marginalized. That makes them easy pickings when the gaming industry comes along and offers to fill the void in their lives."

  "You make it sound like seniors are all feeble-minded." The over-protectiveness Helen experienced was bad enough now, when she was on the downhill side of her forties. She hated to think how people might treat her in another twenty years. "Like, the first little temptation, and they're immediately and irrevocably on the path to ruin."

  "Not feeble-minded," Betty said. "Just at risk. Josie and I are lucky. We've got each other to lean on. Not everyone has that."

  "BFFs to the end," Josie said.

  "We've also got activities we enjoy." Betty raised her knitting needles as proof. "Not everyone is that fortunate. And the gaming industry really has an unfair advantage. There's a good number of seniors who have a mild, undiagnosed form of dementia that makes them particularly susceptible to temptation. There's also research to suggest that any pleasurable activity, including gambling, can be as addictive as cocaine. It makes the elderly person feel young again, and takes her mind off her aches and pains, at least while she's at the casino. And then she comes home to her dull life, and of course it's tempting to go back, even if it means spending all her savings."

  Helen knew she too was luckier than most. She had substantial financial resources, interesting activities to explore, and people who cared enough to watch for warning signs of trouble.

  "What's the point of having money if you can't spend it?" Josie held up a variegated purple skein. "I'd rather buy yarn than poker chips, but not everyone appreciates a ball of organic cotton the way we do."

  "Of course people should be allowed to spend their own money and make their own choices," Betty said, "but it's troubling the way seniors are targeted with incentive programs and advertising gimmicks that appeal specifically to the most vulnerable retirees."

  Josie finally settled on a hot pink skein of yarn that matched her sweatshirt, abandoning her dull gray creation to start a new cap. She didn't seem to have any problem with unfinished projects. "Everyone's targeted with incentive programs and advertising gimmicks these days. Even Cottage Fibers has a customer loyalty program and special sales. They're trying to make everyone into compulsive needleworkers. That's not so different from compulsive gambling."

  "Whether or not the gaming industry is taking advantage of anyone, it's got a motive to get rid of Vic," Helen said. "He didn't exactly make the gaming industry happy with his antics at the library event. They could have hired someone to shut him up. Permanently." Someone like Nora Manning, PR adviser cum assassin.

  "Don't forget Freddie Wade if you're making a list of suspects," Josie said. "She really couldn't stand him."

  "Can you blame her?" Betty said. "Freddie was predisposed to dislike anyone who moved in next door to her, since she absolutely doted on the previous owners, Abbie and Walt Howard, and the newcomer would be a constant reminder that they were gone. She even came to visit them at least once a week during the six months they were here. Then she got stuck with Vic Rezendes as her neighbor, and to make it worse, he was setting up a gaming hall right next to where she was bringing up four impressionable boys. I would completely understand it if she finally lost her patience with the legal system and took care of him herself. Might even consider it self-defense if she was trying to keep her sons out of his poker-proselytizing clutches."

  "I know you like Freddie and thought she was being kind when she came to visit the Howards," Josie said, "but there's something off about the whole Ware family. The Howards didn't seem all that happy to see Freddie. And the way those boys behave? It's just not normal. Trust me. I was a teacher for forty years. Kids that age never sit still like they did. Not without something seriously wrong in their heads."

  "Just because Freddie drilled some good behavior into her boys doesn't make her into some sort of child abuser." Betty looked at Helen. "Those boys are so polite. You'd have to see it to believe it. They would go around this whole room, introducing themselves, asking if there's anything they can do to help. Always said, 'yes, sir' or 'yes, ma'am' to everyone. Not the sort of behavior you see every day, especially with boys being raised by a single mother."

  "I'm telling you," Josie said, more serious than her friend for once, "there's something off about them."

  Betty shrugged. "You may be right. We only saw them a few minutes a week. Hard to really know anything about them."

  "The Howards saw them all the time," Josie insisted. "They called the kids hooligans. Said the boys were always skulking around in the trees between the two properties. Abbie said they were afraid to let their cat outside, convinced the boys would abuse it."

  Helen wondered if Art knew about that risk. If he did, it was no wonder he was frantic over Vic's cat being outside.

  Betty shook her head skeptically. "The Howards were old fuddy-duddies, practically blind and deaf. They were always chatting up other residents' IV poles, mista
king them for a staff member. They wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between a deer grazing on their lawn and the Wade boys chasing after an escaped soccer ball."

  "They might not have had the best vision or hearing, but they weren't crazy," Josie said. "Besides, even crazy people sometimes get it right."

  Helen thought of Marianne and her conspiracy theories. Could there be something to her fears? "Do you two know a homeless woman named Marianne?"

  Betty and Josie looked at each other blankly and then shook their heads in unison.

  Helen made a mental note, for all the good it would do her, to ask Geoff if he knew anything about Marianne. It was just the sort of story he would be interested in, except for the apparent lack of a happy ending. Perhaps a little media coverage would get Marianne some help.

  "I don't suppose you two ever make gloves, do you? Marianne lost hers recently, and it's shaping up to be a particularly cold winter."

  "I'd be glad to," Betty said. "As soon as I finish this cap."

  "I know just the right yarn for it," Josie said. "I've been saving a single skein of some heavy wool for just the right special project."

  "I hope your Marianne likes bright colors," Betty said.

  Helen remembered the homeless woman's clothes, faded from whatever their original colors were to a grayish blue. "As far as I know, she's not all that particular about her wardrobe."

  * * *

  Geoff Loring was at the other end of the activity room, looking for a story or possibly just hanging out with friends. It was hard to tell the difference with him.

  As Helen approached him, Detective Peterson's uncle, who had been a police officer for thirty years and was frequently treated as if he were still on the force, rolled his wheelchair over next to Geoff and said, "Have you heard the latest?"