by Gin Jones
He sighed. "Yeah."
He had to be even more worried than he appeared. That wasn't good for him or for Stevie. All that worry was probably making his brain as sluggish as Helen's. He needed a break from the stress, and the woodworking that usually relaxed him wasn't enough of a distraction today.
Fortunately, she had a foolproof way to get Tate's mind off of Stevie's situation. All Helen had to do was tell him she was going to do something risky, so he'd feel the need to save her from herself. "So now you want me to get involved? I thought you didn't want me interfering with police investigations."
"I'm all in favor of you gathering useful information. It's getting caught that I advise against." He leaned forward. "You really need to be careful with this one. Whoever killed Vic was really into violence. I got a look at the preliminary autopsy notes, and apparently Vic was tied to his chair for several hours before he died."
"Why would someone do that?"
"Trying to get some information from him, I assume."
"About what? His secret to winning at poker? Vic offered online classes on exactly that subject. The fees weren't cheap, but they certainly weren't as extreme as a life sentence for murder."
"You're assuming the killer was rational. They usually aren't." Tate flopped against the back of the director's chair. "Perhaps someone with a gambling problem thought Vic had some secret for his success other than the skills discussed in the classes. The killer could have spent several hours trying to get the secret from Vic and then killed him in frustration or disappointment when he realized there really wasn't a secret."
"If that's what happened, we'll never find the culprit," Helen said. "I read Donald's brochure last night, and it claimed there were somewhere between forty and eighty thousand compulsive gamblers in Massachusetts. That's an awful lot of suspects to question."
"I told you it didn't look good for Stevie. There's no obviously better suspect, and Hank is trying to build a murder-one case, claiming that the length of time Vic was tied up is evidence of intent to murder. At least we don't have the death penalty here, but the facts make it hard to present any sort of self-defense or accidental death defense. I need a credible alternative suspect to establish reasonable doubt." He stared across the room at the shelves of wood, but he didn't seem to be focused on anything there. "Actually, Stevie's official counsel needs that. I've got a call in to a colleague to take over the case."
If Tate was preparing to bring in a paid attorney, things really were getting serious.
Tate stood and paced between the workbench and Helen. He didn't seem to notice her silence and kept on talking, perhaps as much for his own benefit as for hers. "I just can't see a way out for Stevie. Everything really does point to her. She doesn't have an alibi, and the alarm system was sabotaged with brute force, not any technical knowledge, so it wasn't beyond her skills. The police can point to a credible motive, since she was heard arguing with Vic about something he'd said to one of her crew, and she's known to be very protective of her employees. Add in her prints on the murder weapon, and they've got a decent chance at a conviction."
"When you put it that way, it does make it sound like Stevie is guilty."
"What about Vic's competition in the poker world, or on the reality shows?" Tate said. "You talked to some of his fans, didn't you? Did they tell you anything about his competitors? Could one of them have wanted him dead?"
Helen shook her head. "I'd like to blame someone from outside Wharton, but Vic's fans are pretty convincing when they say he didn't have any real enemies. Apparently his arguments were all an act. Art thinks his boss had some real enemies. He wasn't specific about who they were, though, which makes me think it wasn't that big a deal. It's more likely that any problems seemed worse to Art than they really were, since he was the one who had to resolve them. If there had been actual death threats or physical violence, the fans would have known about it, and Art could have named some names."
"What about Freddie?" Tate said. "Any luck getting her list of license plate numbers?"
"She wasn't home," Helen said. "We'll have to wait until she comes back from wherever she's disappeared to."
"Freddie's missing?"
Helen resisted the urge to smack herself on the forehead. She'd forgotten another important detail. She'd meant to tell him about Freddie's disappearance as soon as she saw him.
She couldn't let him see just how rattled she was, so she went on the attack. "What? You didn't already know? What's wrong with your sources? Freddie packed up the kids and left this afternoon."
"Sounds like an admission of guilt to me. She skipped town and went underground because she'd killed Vic and didn't want to risk being separated from her kids." He nodded thoughtfully. "I could work with that."
"And if she comes home and it turns out that she was just visiting the boys' grandparents or something? Then what?"
Tate slumped. "I don't know. What else have you got?"
"Nothing yet. Vic's estate is all going to the Compulsive Gambling Recovery Group and the Betting with the Pros fans. Donald has an alibi, and I don't think either group knew about the will before Vic died."
"So you're just giving up and throwing Stevie to Hank Peterson's mercy?"
She wouldn't throw anyone, not even Nora Manning, to Peterson's mercy. "Of course not."
"It looks to me like you're completely stumped," Tate said. "The killer must be a real mastermind this time, not someone who simply made a bad decision and then made it worse for themselves."
"I'm not stumped." More like lost in the fog. "I'll figure it out before Peterson does."
"Of course you will," he said, but the worry lines on his face deepened. "You like meddling. And proving that other people are wrong. I just wish you'd stop dawdling on this particular case."
"I'm working as fast as I can." Helen couldn't put into words just how frustrated she was herself at how little progress she was making. "I want the matter resolved quickly too so I can go back to enjoying my retirement."
The skepticism on his face displaced some of the worry lines. "Doing what?"
"I'm still working on that." Helen was used to him doubting her and was actually glad to see him focused on something other than Stevie's problems.
"No one tells you how important a hobby is until you're already retired, and then it's too late. Plus, everyone always denigrates the idea of a hobby saying, 'isn't that cute?' But it's not cute, it's absolutely necessary for any sort of meaningful life. I mean, what's a person supposed to do during her so-called Golden Years? Veg out in front of the TV?" Helen had done that for a couple of months after moving to Wharton, catching up with some of the pop-culture she'd missed during her career. But it hadn't taken her long to get bored and start thinking, Forty years of this? No way. "I was too busy running the governor's mansion to have a hobby before. But I'm sure I can find one now if people will just stop dying long enough for me to learn a new skill or two."
"Finding a hobby you're really passionate about doesn't work like that," Tate said. "You can't force it, and it's not necessarily logical."
"I can't just sit around and wait for inspiration." She knew that wouldn't work to unmask a killer, and she didn't think it would work for finding a hobby either. "I'm thinking about starting a vegetable garden in the spring. Working in the soil is supposed to be soothing, as well as good for keeping my joints flexible."
"It's not terribly exciting, though. Certainly not compared to a murder investigation."
But at least it wouldn't leave Helen feeling as helpless as she did right now. No matter how hard she concentrated, she couldn't see even a glimmer of a solution to Vic's murder.
What had Tate said about the killer being a mastermind? Helen thought he was wrong about that. She'd dealt with masterminds, and in her experience anyone with that kind of intelligence had better things to do than kill people. No, whoever had killed Vic had been an ordinary person—she was sure of it. The only reason he'd escaped detection so far was becaus
e Hank Peterson was incompetent and Helen's brain wasn't working properly.
She couldn't afford to sit back and do nothing until the lupus fog went away on its own. Not with Stevie's freedom and Tate's peace of mind on the line. She needed a cure, and she needed it now.
* * *
While she waited for Rebecca to arrive for the regular Thursday visit, Helen checked her phone for messages. There were three voicemails from Lily, all amounting to the same thing: where was the detailed schedule Helen had promised to send? She'd better send it right now before she forgot again.
Helen was on her way to the desk to check her calendar when she heard Rebecca's car in the driveway. Sending her nieces the schedule could wait a few more minutes.
Once inside, Rebecca went straight to setting up her laptop and retrieving her blood pressure cuff, stethoscope, and thermometer. Helen had learned it was futile to fight the basic monitoring, but she was afraid she'd forget what she wanted to ask if she waited too long. Fortunately, Rebecca stuck to her usual obsession with blood pressure and body temperature, instead of last week's seemingly endless questions about things like Helen's favorite food and what kind of music she preferred.
It only took a few minutes before Rebecca was satisfied that her patient's signs were still vital. While she put away her equipment, Helen said, "So what did you find out about lupus fog? What can I do to get rid of it?"
"Nothing that's scientifically proven," Rebecca said. "It's all just speculation at this point. The way lupus symptoms wax and wane makes it extra hard to tell whether any improvement is due to the treatment or just part of a natural cycle."
"What good is medical science if it can't fix something as simple as memory lapses?"
"It's not simple. Scientists are just beginning to have a clue about how the brain functions. Replacing an organ—any organ except the brain, that is—is child's play compared to fiddling with the brain's function." Rebecca made a note in her laptop. "All I can suggest is some gentle exercise like Tai Chi or Yoga. There's some anecdotal evidence that it could help. Or perhaps you could experiment with biofeedback. Neither of those things would hurt, and they might help over the long run."
"I don't have that much time. There must be something that could help temporarily. What about caffeine? That helps with alertness, doesn't it?"
She glanced at her laptop. "You don't normally drink coffee or anything else with caffeine. I suppose a single cup of coffee or tea wouldn't hurt, but don't start with the concentrated stuff like energy drinks. Just keep in mind that caffeine could actually make the fog worse if it interferes with your sleeping."
"There's nothing for it to interfere with," Helen said. "I'm already not sleeping much."
"Perhaps I should schedule an extra visit or two. Just to be sure you're okay."
"I won't have any time to actually have a life if my days are all spent checking in with you and my nieces." Helen finally remembered what else she'd wanted to ask Rebecca. "Speaking of my nieces, have they told you what they're up to? They've been hovering even worse than usual lately."
Rebecca suddenly turned to her computer screen and studied it as if there were detailed notes there about Lily and Laura that might explain their odd behavior lately. "They just worry about you. They've probably picked up on the fact that you're not yourself at the moment. Or you could be imagining their hovering. You can't trust your brain until the fog lifts."
Rebecca was lying. Helen was certain of it. Lily and Laura must have told Rebecca what they were up to and enlisted her help in asking all those questions last week. Helen had a sudden, panicked thought that the nieces had needed that information to enroll her in a matchmaking service. She had no intention of dating anyone. She was perfectly happy being on her own with just a few friends to call on. Friends were good. Husbands, not so much. Wannabe husbands even less so.
Surely her nieces knew she wouldn't go along with them interfering in her love life. She hoped. Whatever they were doing, they must have convinced Rebecca it would contribute to Helen's well-being. Rebecca was a sucker for anything that would help her patients. That didn't make her collusion with her nieces right, and Helen refused to let Rebecca off the hook too easily.
"I'm not imagining their strange behavior. They're different somehow. I know it. The fog could become a blizzard whiteout, and I'd still be able to tell when they're up to something. The only difference is that usually I can figure out what it is, and now I can't. There must be something I can do to get back to normal."
Rebecca finally looked away from her computer, a forced smile doing nothing to soften the worry lines in her forehead. "Forcing a solution will only make it worse. From what I've read, it's sort of like quicksand: the more you struggle, the deeper you get sucked into the muck. Just relax—try some meditation and gentle exercise. Give it a few more days, and I'm sure you'll be back to your usual self."
"Cranky and opinionated?"
"Exactly." This time the smile was genuine. "See? You're starting to get better already."
CHAPTER TWENTY
After Rebecca left, Helen prowled around the cottage, as if she might find something there that would help Tate to protect Stevie. It struck her that her nieces would claim she was meddling in other people's lives worse than they ever did. But what she did was different. She hadn't asked for any help, and Tate had. Admittedly, he'd worded his request like a lawyer, burying it in a warning, so he could claim he hadn't meant to encourage her if things didn't work out the way he'd hoped. But he had asked her to figure out who the killer was.
The phone rang, another call from Lily. Probably looking for the schedule Helen had promised her and promptly forgotten about.
She knew she was too tired and too sluggish to keep up with her quick-witted niece right now. Helen would be bound to say something she regretted, either because she lost her temper or simply because she couldn't express her thoughts properly.
Helen let the call go to voicemail and went over to her computer to prepare the schedule her nieces wanted. There still wasn't much to put on it. Tomorrow morning, she planned to return to the mansion to look for the cat, on Monday there was a Friends of the Library meeting, and after that she didn't have anything specific scheduled until Thursday's Charity Cap Day.
Helen stared at the list. That couldn't be all she did in a week. She had to be forgetting something. Lots of somethings. She used to do more than that in a single hour in the governor's mansion. She still did more than the list reflected, but most of her activities these days just sort of happened without any advance planning. Wasn't that supposed to be the joy of being retired, after all? She didn't have to follow a schedule. And she certainly didn't have to account to her nieces for any spur-of-the-moment activities she chose to do. They were lucky she even bothered to send them anything at all.
Before she could change her mind, Helen emailed her schedule to Lily. Then, anticipating that the nieces would want even more details, Helen turned off her phone. Rebecca said she needed to relax, and that was exactly what she was going to do for the rest of the day. Sit and crochet and think about Vic's murder. After that, she'd go to bed early and hope that a good night's sleep would help.
Unfortunately, she couldn't will herself to relax or to sleep deeply. After another restless night, Helen awoke with the nagging feeling that if Vic's killer wasn't identified in the next day or two, he never would be.
Desperate for answers, she decided to try the one remedy that might work quickly. She checked her cupboards for something with caffeine but found nothing. Laura had given her several boxes of tea as a housewarming present, but they were all decaf. Helen almost wished she hadn't been so hasty several months ago when she'd poured out her original nurse's stash of diet cola.
When Jay and Zee arrived, Helen was already seated in the back of her car. She didn't wait for them to ask where she wanted to go. "Vic's mansion. But first we need to stop at the nearest convenience store. I need a soda."
"We don't need to go to
the store for that," Zee said. "Just tell Jay what you want. I'm sure he can find something in the cooler."
It figured. They'd been trained by Jack, after all, and he considered it part of his duties to make sure there were basic refreshments on board any vehicle he drove. She just hadn't realized they'd managed to keep a stocked cooler in her car.
"I don't care what it is, as long as it's got caffeine." Helen remembered what Rebecca had said about high-energy drinks. "Just not too much caffeine. A regular dose. And not diet." She'd never much liked the taste of artificial sweeteners, and they reminded her of her original visiting nurse, and not in a good way.
"Sure thing, Ms. Bee." Jay jumped out and ran around to the trunk. At least someone did what Helen asked without arguing about it.
After a few seconds, Jay returned with a Pepsi. He opened it for her and passed it over the back of his seat. Zee put the car in gear and headed down the driveway.
Helen took a sip from the can. "How is your California job search coming along?"
"There's a casting call that we'd be perfect for," Jay said. "It isn't a speaking role or anything, but one of us is sure to get it, and then we could sneak the other one onto the set and maybe even swap places so we'd both be in the movie."
"Don't be ridiculous," Zee said. "We're looking for jobs behind the camera, not in front of it."
Jay sighed. "I know. It's too late to get tickets and make it to the call now anyway."
The soda was filling Helen's stomach, but it didn't seem to have reached her brain yet. She was so tired, it was all she could do to form a coherent sentence. What was it that had bothered her about Jay's comments? Oh, right. He did whatever his sister told him to do, even when it wasn't what he wanted to do. That was no way to live. "If you want to be an actor, Jay, why don't you go to the casting call on your own?"
"I can't do that," he said without any apparent rancor. "Zee's the brains of the operation. I'd screw it up if I went alone."
