A Draw of Death (Helen Binney Mysteries Book 3)

by Gin Jones

  Helen made her way back to the road and along Vic's front property line. The cat had apparently tired of teasing the fans and wasn't lurking on the top of the wall. The reporters had tired of their game too—waiting for a story to break—and had left. The fans were a hardier group. In fact, it looked like a few more people had arrived. They had two card tables set up now, each with six players engaged in what appeared to be an impromptu, multi-hand poker tournament.

  Larry Warner, the fan with the black headband around his long hair, was just watching the event rather than playing, so Helen went over to ask him if he'd seen Freddie and her sons leave.

  "They started packing up the van a little after you left this morning," he said. "Backed it right into the garage, so we couldn't see what they were filling it with. It had to have been a lot of stuff, because it took about forty-five minutes, with lots of her nagging and the boys running in and out of the house and doors slamming every two minutes. They just left a few minutes before you got here."

  That much time to pack suggested a bigger trip than simply going to a single soccer practice or even multiple events if each of the boys was involved in a different sport. "Had they done that much packing the other days you were here?"

  He shook his head. "It looked to me like they were going on vacation this time. After they'd finished packing the back, Freddie pulled the van forward to close the garage door behind it, and the kids waited for her in the driveway. They each had a little wheeled suitcase that they dragged into the van when they climbed into their seats."

  On vacation, or on the lam? Freddie might have realized that her list of license plate numbers, rather than proving someone else had been at the mansion, would actually prove that no one else had driven within range of her cameras on the night Vic had died. That might cause even Detective Peterson to consider Freddie a suspect. If she'd already committed murder to protect her sons, she wouldn't have any qualms about doing whatever else was necessary to make sure they stayed together as a family.

  "I'd love to know if she comes back." Helen dug in her yarn bag for a business card. She gave it to Larry, who stuck it in his wallet.

  "I'll let you know the minute they come back," he said. "The very minute. If they come back."

  "That would be great." She didn't want to get Tate's hopes up just yet, but if Freddie had really fled the jurisdiction, even Detective Peterson would have to reconsider his assumption that Stevie was guilty. Of course, Freddie wasn't the only suspect Peterson should be talking to but wasn't. "Have the police questioned you or any of your colleagues?"

  "I tried to tell the male detective—I didn't get his name. Kinda short but with a big ego. He'd be a rotten poker player. I could read every thought he had, without even trying. Every single thought."

  "That sounds like Detective Peterson. Not really a good listener either. I'd like to hear what you tried to tell him, though."

  "See, it's like this." Larry's headband had fallen down over his eyes, and he absently tugged it back in place. "Vic really was a nice guy. No one from any of his television shows was mad at him. That PR person who was with him at the library, she might have been mad at him, but she dealt with bigger problems than that, so she wouldn't have killed him. The only person who really hated him was Donald Glennon. And I heard that the people who give him his marching orders, the founders of the Compulsive Gambling Recovery Group, are getting the bulk of Vic's estate. That gives him twice the motive to kill Vic."

  "Where'd you hear about the inheritance?" Helen asked, surprised that the word had spread so quickly. Or maybe his fans had known all along. "Had Vic told people about his will before he died?"

  "I just heard it this morning from the Internet," Larry said. "But wouldn't the beneficiary know about it as soon as the will was written?"

  "Apparently not." Helen watched as the current poker hand finished, and someone she didn't recognize claimed all the chips. "You know, there's another group that has a financial motive for killing Vic."

  "Who?"

  Helen nodded at the two tables of poker players. "Your fan club. You're getting a bequest in the will, and the memorabilia you have probably skyrocketed in value as soon as Vic died."

  Larry shook his head. "None of us would ever sell our memorabilia. Never, ever, ever. It would be like, like, like selling our kids."

  Helen had a vision of a bunch of long-haired elementary-school kids sitting around a table, smoking cigars and holding cards that were too big for their hands. "Are you sure all of the club members as devoted as you are?"

  Larry peered at his fellow fans suspiciously. "I think so."

  "If you find out otherwise, you've got my number," Helen said. "I'd be interested to know if you see anyone rushing out to sell their memorabilia."

  "I would too," Larry said, tugging his fallen headband up and over his head to retie it. "It's got to be grounds for revoking their membership."

  * * *

  Helen tried the buzzer at the gate, but no one responded. She considered going back to Freddie's yard and trekking through the side property line to search for the cat. For all she knew, though, it had been caught already, and there was too much risk that the fans would follow her.

  She'd just have to come back later. Helen headed for her car, intending to go home, but her phone rang as soon as they left the no-service zone. There was a text from Terri Greene, saying that Donald Glennon was at the library, demanding an immediate date and time for his anti-gambling speech.

  Helen texted back that she'd be there in five minutes, and she'd handle him. There was no rush to schedule his speech, but she'd forgotten to ask him before about his alibi, and this might be a good opportunity to do it.

  Jay and Zee dropped Helen off at the path to the library annex. Even though it was only early afternoon, the skies were gray and the side yard was in the shadow of the building. Helen had never noticed before how gloomy this area could be, probably because there were usually other people around. She could really use Marianne's cheerful presence now.

  As soon as Helen entered the annex, she could hear Donald's raised voice through the heavy, closed door of the meeting room. He had his back to the door, so he couldn't see Helen through its window, but Terri could. She herded Donald over to the far end of the room and somehow convinced him to stay there while she came out to talk to Helen.

  "He's lost it," Terri said. "I've never seen him this worked up before. He wouldn't accept that you were the only person who could schedule a speech. Usually he'll back down if I threaten to go over his head to his boss or in this case to the leaders of the Compulsive Gambling Recovery Group, but not today."

  "The murder has everyone on edge," Helen said. "Especially the most likely suspects. Donald's got to know that people will suspect him of the crime, since he's got the most obvious motive. He's probably hoping to show people he's passionate about his cause but that he's not a killer."

  "Is he actually a suspect?" Terri said. "I thought the police were focused on the various contractors at the mansion."

  "They are, but until they actually make an arrest, Donald and all the other potential suspects will be on edge, wondering if everyone's thinking they did it."

  "Who else might be a suspect?"

  "Anyone who can't account for his or her whereabouts between midnight and 4 a.m. on Sunday morning."

  "Which has to be most of the town," Terri said. "I'm probably one of only a handful of adults who have witnesses to being awake then and nowhere near Vic Rezendes's house. My team had an away game, and we had to leave at 4:30. I was at the school with the bus driver by 4:00."

  Thank goodness at least one possible suspect had an alibi.

  "Wait," Terri said. "You actually thought I might have killed Vic for making the Friends of the Library look bad on Saturday? If I killed everyone in this town who ever annoyed me, there'd be no one left. In fact, you should be really thankful that I'm not a violent person, or you'd be at the top of my hit list."

  "It wasn't pers
onal." Helen liked Terri and had hoped they could be friends. As long as the other woman wasn't a killer, of course. "I had to consider everyone. If I made assumptions like Detective Peterson does, I'd never have figured out what happened to Angie or who had killed my nurse."

  "I'll never understand how you managed to have such a long career in politics when you're this blunt with people."

  "I was different in that setting," Helen said. "I can play the game when I have to, but I didn't think it was necessary any longer. I'm only blunt with people who can handle it. Politicians are all a bunch of wimps, so I watched my words around them. You're tougher than that."

  Terri threw her arms up in the air in defeat. "I don't know whether to accept the compliment or to do the real-world equivalent of blocking you on Facebook."

  "Accept the compliment," Helen said. "I really do admire you, and you couldn't possibly have killed Vic if the bus driver can confirm your alibi."

  Terri laughed ruefully. "Not even willing to take my word for it?"

  "I'm just being thorough," Helen said. "The future of Tate's niece, Stevie, is on the line here."

  "That's who they think killed Vic?"

  Helen nodded. "So, am I still on the speaker's committee for the Friends of the Library, or will I be blocked from that as well as from your friendship?"

  Terri glanced over her shoulder at where Donald was waiting. "I might consider forgiving you if you can get Donald to calm down and go away. Do me a favor and don't be too blunt with him. Assume he's a big political wimp."

  * * *

  If Helen had to be politically correct to help the Friends of the Library, she could do it, but she didn't have to like it. She stomped into the meeting room and over to the table where Donald was sitting.

  "I told you I'd work out a time for you to speak at the library," she said, placing her cane on the table with a thump. "But it takes time to do it right. Vic's speech was planned a couple of months in advance so we could advertise it and make sure everyone knew about it. I'll do the same thing for you, if you give me the chance."

  "There's no time to waste," Donald said, his determination plain on his face. "Every day we wait, more people get addicted."

  "I'm not suggesting you stop your other activities. I just want to make sure we get you the biggest possible audience. I know it's hard to accept that you can't save everyone, but rushing isn't going to help. Better to do it right, get the word out properly, and reach as many people as you can."

  "I could come back a second time. And a third. As many times as you want."

  Donald's desire to save people from themselves appeared well-intentioned, but that didn't do anything to lessen Helen's irritation with him. She was tired of people trying to save her from herself, and she imagined that people who enjoyed going to casinos felt the same way about anti-gambling crusaders.

  "It's generous of you to consider doing more than one speech." Helen forced herself to maintain a pleasant tone, since snapping at him wouldn't deter him, and she had promised Terri she'd take it easy on him. Her tone wouldn't have fooled Terri, but Donald was so wrapped up in his cause that he didn't seem to notice he was only being humored. "For now, though, let's make sure you get the best possible audience and everything is lined up for you to make a good impression. With the inheritance the Compulsive Gambling Recovery Group is getting, there might even be new services and resources for you to tell people about in a little while. You should have that information before you do your speech."

  "What inheritance?" Donald looked genuinely puzzled.

  "From Vic's estate," Helen said. "At least, that's what I've heard. He left the bulk of his estate to the Compulsive Gambling Recovery Group."

  "Seriously?" He jumped to his feet. "I need to check it out, see what the group's plans are. I bet they're going to issue a press release, and they'll probably have new responsibilities for me to carry out."

  "Slow down." She picked up her cane in case she needed to hobble after him if he bolted before they came to an agreement about scheduling his speech after enough time had passed for emotions to settle down. Preferably after she'd gotten Tate or someone equally interesting to repair the damage Vic had done to the library's reputation for offering worthwhile lectures. "It's likely to be months before you see the money or even know how much it will be. It's too soon to go public with anything yet. You'll get better mileage out of it if you at least wait until the investigation into Vic's murder is resolved. You don't want anyone thinking that someone affiliated with the Compulsive Gambling Recovery Group might have killed him for the bequest."

  Apparently she hadn't been as non-blunt as she'd intended to be, because Donald laughed and sat back down. "You mean, someone like me? That's just ridiculous. No one would believe I killed Rezendes for the money. If I'd done it, it would have been for what he did to my mother and to keep him from doing it to other people just like her."

  "Either way, it's probably best if everyone affiliated with the Compulsive Gambling Recovery Group stays out of the public eye until the killer is caught. You wouldn't be doing the group any favors by reminding the public that one of their more outspoken members had a reason to kill Vic."

  "I'll have to check to see what the group wants me to do, but no one can really believe I killed Vic," Donald said. "I hated him, sure, and I wanted him to take back everything he's ever said about the joy of gambling, but he couldn't do that if he was dead. Besides, I'm probably the only person in town who actually has an alibi at what I've read was the time of death. I'm the early-morning on-air personality at the local radio station WHTN-AM on the weekends. My shift is every Saturday and Sunday from 4:00 to 8:00. I get there around 3:30, and the newspaper said he was killed at 4:00."

  Helen vaguely recalled some TV show, maybe an old Columbo episode, where a disc jockey had been the killer. He'd faked an alibi by queuing up a bunch of songs, adding something pre-recorded to run in between the music, and then sneaking out to kill the victim with just enough time to get back to the station before the music ran out. That might have been tricky back in the 1970s, but these days, a pre-school kid could probably rig something up.

  "Aren't radio stations highly automated these days? You could have pre-recorded the beginning of your shift."

  "Not at WHTN," Donald said. "We're not that state-of-the-art. Someone has to be there at the top of the hour to connect to the AP news feed."

  "Someone could have covered for you."

  "Except no one did. In fact, there are at least two people in town who were awake at four that morning. The guy with the shift before mine and me. He could confirm I was there. Plus, there's a sign-in log for FCC purposes and video cameras for overnight security, since staff are coming and going in the middle of the night."

  Any one of those things alone might be suspect, but all of them together added up to what even Tate would have to admit was an airtight alibi, easily as good as Nora's.

  Helen was rapidly running out of suspects she wouldn't mind seeing in jail. She had to be missing something important.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Helen had meant to go back to Vic's place to look for the cat again, but she only remembered after she'd gotten out of her car at home and Zee had asked if Helen needed to go anywhere the next day. Tate was outside the garage, unloading some wood blanks from his car's trunk, and she could feel him watching her, waiting for her answer. She'd look like a fool if she turned around and got back into the car.

  The cat would have to wait. Not just so Helen wouldn't have to appear foolish, but also because Tate looked terrible, or at least as terrible as his handsome face would allow. Deep lines were forming on his forehead and around his mouth from the frown that had replaced his usual, neutral expression. Stevie had been right to be concerned about the stress she was causing her uncle. He was demonstrating why lawyers were advised not to represent family members in serious cases. If Stevie was wrongly convicted of a crime, Tate would feel the emotional consequences just as much as if the miscar
riage of justice had happened to him.

  Helen owed it to him to do whatever she could to keep Stevie out of jail. She wondered if it was just as bad for an investigator to work on a case where she had a personal stake in the outcome. She didn't know Stevie herself, but Helen was starting to think that her relationship with Tate might well impair her judgment.

  Tate came over to her car. "Trying to decide whether I'm worth your time or if there's someone else you'd rather bother instead?"

  "You're too easy a target while you're distracted by Stevie's situation." Helen ignored him while she arranged for Jay and Zee to pick her up in the morning to go back to Vic's mansion. "It's too cold to stay out here and squabble. Let's go inside."

  "My place or yours?"

  The cold of the garage helped to keep her alert. "Yours."

  Tate grabbed another armful of blanks and led the way into the garage.

  While he stacked the wood on a shelf on the back wall, Helen brushed the most recent accumulation of sawdust off her usual director's chair and climbed into it. "What's the latest on Stevie's situation?"

  Tate turned and leaned against the shelf he'd just filled. "Not good. They definitely want to pin the murder on her. They found the murder weapon, and it's one of Stevie's tools."

  So the rust patches on Marty's wrecking bar really were rust and not Vic's blood. Good news for Marty, but not so good for Stevie.

  "That doesn't necessarily mean she was the one who used it to kill Vic," Helen said.

  "It's covered with her fingerprints."

  "Of course it is. It belonged to her. It would be more suspicious if she'd wiped her prints off. The killer probably wore gloves so he wouldn't leave any of his own prints."

  Tate pushed away from the shelving and dropped into his own director's chair with a grunt of frustration. "So how come you haven't figured it out who the killer is yet? I'd owe you big-time if you identified him before Hank tosses Stevie into jail."

  "Enough to come speak at the library about legal issues?"