by Maggie King
Helen’s indifference to interior decor prevailed in the dispirited bathroom with its faint locker room smell. Probably few people ventured in there, if any. The translucent glass of a transomlike window high on the wall above the mildewed shower allowed the only possibility of natural light. A large and threadbare brown bath mat didn’t quite hide the worn linoleum. I pretended to vomit, running water in the sink to cover the sound. A couple of gobs of aqua toothpaste clung to the bowl of the sink. I gingerly dried my hands with an uninviting hand towel that looked to be a find from a fleabag motel yard sale. Assuming such establishments held yard sales. I waited two minutes before emerging from the bathroom, trying for a still-sick effect. I was alone.
I looked for the photo collage by the door going out to the hall. Evan had said it was just inside the door and he could see it from the den. I found it about six feet from the door mounted on a pegboard over a faux French Provincial dresser. Either Evan had superior eyesight or he’d lied and had been in Helen’s bedroom. Or, most likely, Helen had moved the display to a place where she could gaze at it lovingly when she awoke in the morning, because the dresser faced her bed. I had no trouble recognizing the images, as I’d just seen a number of them in Evan’s bookcase. The same baby, the same five-year-old, the same Little League player, the same senior yearbook picture, the same awkward-looking teenage prom attendees, the same picture I’d glimpsed in Helen’s trunk after the memorial service. In short, the same Evan Arness. At least a dozen pictures showed combinations of Evan, Helen, and Art sitting either on that uncomfortable love seat out in the living room or at the dinette table.
I studied a familiar picture of Evan in a well-cut dark suit accessorized with a boutonniere. Was that taken on his and Carlene’s wedding day? I recalled seeing a picture of the two of them just a couple of hours before with Carlene wearing an ivory midcalf-length dress. Seeing the edge of an ivory skirt in this picture made me realize that Helen had cropped Carlene out of her own wedding picture.
I continued to study the display, seeing a small photo of Evan and Helen that I’d missed before. Helen looked happy, girlish. It looked like Evan and Carlene’s family room in the background, so likely they had posed for this shot at a turkey dinner. Either that or Helen had spliced the photographs together, no doubt courtesy of skills she’d picked up at her editing class.
This further confirmed the conclusion I’d already made—Helen was in love with Evan. But this bizarre collection was way too creepy a way for a sixty-year-old to express love. If she was sixteen, it would be normal. Doodling arrow-pierced hearts filled with “E.A. and H.A. forever,” long heartfelt conversations with girlfriends, picking apart daisies (loves me, loves me not) were all part of the rite of passage.
Realizing that I had a limited window of opportunity in this room, I got out my cell phone, activated the camera feature, and started clicking. I darted around the room, looking for other pictures. On the same wall as the Evan shrine I found an eight-by-ten photo showing an attractive woman, dark hair fashioned in a fifties-style pageboy. Wearing a glittering evening dress and white gloves, she held a white rabbit. The woman looked somewhat familiar. I tried to imagine her with contemporary hairstyle and clothing, but that didn’t help to identify her. A second picture showed the woman with a tuxedo-clad man pulling the rabbit out of a top hat. I looked from the first picture to the second and back again, realizing that the now-blond Helen and the then-brunette woman were one and the same. But wait—Helen wouldn’t have been old enough in the fifties. Either this was her mother or Helen was in a retro costume. One other picture featured a dark-haired boy, likely Art, with Helen and a man who looked enough like Art to be his father.
I’d never been in Helen’s bedroom and the lack of beigeness surprised me. I found myself in a flower garden, surrounded by a riotous assortment of pinks, yellows, and teals. The same floral pattern repeated itself in the comforter, dust ruffle, pillow shams, bolsters, tied-back curtains, and pleated lamp shades. Even the dresser, which I’d at first thought beige, was a pale pink.
What was up with the nice bedroom and the not-nice rest of the apartment? Helen herself was always well turned out. I guessed she didn’t want to showcase her love for Evan in a squalid room.
I turned my attention to the assortment of books by her bed. A thick Bible with a bookmark stuck in the middle of what looked to be the Old Testament sat atop one of the nightstands. John MacDonald’s Nightmare in Pink topped a precarious-looking stack in front of the nightstand. Suddenly that pesky thought I’d had earlier in the day came to life full force in my brain: Helen at book group, The Deep Blue Good-by spread open across her lap as she waved her arms about—arms covered in long bell-shaped sleeves, sleeves that fluttered about as she emphasized her points. Most of us had learned long ago not to sit next to her at book group—more than one person had been socked by a waving arm. The long sleeves, if I remembered correctly, covered her fingertips when she stood with arms at her side. Too long. Sleeves like those could cover up a lot of deeds. Like poisoning a mug of tea.
A number of the piled books lent credence to the long sleeves and poisoning idea. Deadly Doses: A Writer’s Guide to Poisons was a case in point. Either Helen was joining the legions of crime writers or she was using the tome as a reference tool for a real-life murder strategy. At this point I suspected the latter and set to snapping pictures of the stacks. I gasped when I saw Bitter Almonds, Gregg Olsen’s chronicle of the Seattle poisonings at the hands of Stella Nickell—one of the books I had picked up earlier in the day. I gasped again at Human Poisoning from Native and Cultivated Plants. Click, click went the camera. Was I at last looking at something that resembled proof, that issue that had weighed me down from the onset of this investigation?
Deadly Harvest. When I’d spotted that title in Helen’s trunk, I assumed that it was the traditional mystery that someone had recommended in book group a while back. A Washington—or Oregon—setting. But now I read the full title of Deadly Harvest: A Guide to Common Poisonous Plants. Interesting. Since this box was shoved in a corner behind the nightstand, it took minor bodily contortions to digitally capture the book title.
Lucy and I needed to visit Evan again on the way home and pry him away from his bed and Janet. I checked my watch and figured I could call him from the car. Time to get a move on. I pocketed my phone.
There had to be other clues to back my suspicion of Helen as killer. I didn’t know what I expected to find: a vial of white powdery stuff with the bitter almond aroma sitting atop her dresser? I looked at the dresser as if to verify the absurdity of the notion. Then I got an idea.
It didn’t take long to find Helen’s underwear drawer in the dresser and start rummaging. People must think that burglars and amateur investigators didn’t know about the underwear drawer as a favorite hiding place for valuables and secret items, like safe-deposit box keys, cash, love letters . . .
And, in Helen’s case, a brass cyanide vial container.
I found the item in a zippered plastic bag under a pile of half-slips heavily scented with lavender sachets. It so resembled the container in Sam’s collage that I felt confident in identifying it. I almost picked up the bag but remembered in time to use a tissue from the box on the dresser and not leave fingerprints. I shook the container out of the bag. The cap was stamped but too small to read the inscription without a magnifying glass. Remembering from our Web research that the cap was the press-on type, I used another tissue to pull it off the container and removed the glass vial. The top of the vial had been snapped off and a few grains of white powder clung to the sides of the glass. I held my breath, not wanting to inhale any fumes.
I stood at the end of the dresser so I faced the door and could see if anyone came into the room. That precaution didn’t keep me from nearly jumping out of my skin when the doorknob moved. No time for a mad dash to the bathroom and a groan or two for effect. No time to hide the container with the telltale remnants of a deadly poison.
Helen l
oomed before me. I felt sure her deer-in-the-headlights look mirrored my own. We had mutually caught each other.
Helen rallied and her expression turned to indignation as she demanded, “Just what do you think you’re doing, Hazel?”
My adrenaline charge must have short-circuited my brain because I couldn’t respond.
Helen pressed on. “Why are you looking through my things?”
I found my voice—sort of. I choked out, “Just—just curious, that’s all.” Trembling, I swept the container, bag, and tissues back into the still-open drawer. “I’m so sorry.” I whispered. Sorry on so many levels.
Helen raised an eyebrow in a questioning slant, but she decided to play it nice. “How are you feeling?” She moved toward the nightstand.
“Not—not good.”
“I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.” She opened the drawer.
Yikes, I thought. Tea? Lucy and I needed to beat it out of this place pronto. “Thanks so much, but Lucy and I will be going now.”
“Not so fast. We need to talk.” I caught Helen’s menacing tone.
That was when I saw the gun.
CHAPTER 24
LATER, WHEN ASKED WHAT kind of gun, all I could say was that it was small, something easily carried in a purse or pocket. I knew next to nothing about guns and would just as soon keep it that way. Helen pointed the thing right at me, in the vicinity of my pounding heart. A trapdoor opened in my stomach and my whole body succumbed to fear.
Why I stood there like a ninny, not running while I had the chance, not realizing that she was getting a gun out of her drawer, I couldn’t explain. It stood to reason that she’d stash her gun in her nightstand drawer—wasn’t that where gun owners traditionally kept their weapons? Granted, my window of opportunity had been small, but still. So I was left in the throes of the fight-or-flight response with no resources for fighting or fleeing.
Helen crab-stepped to the door, never taking her eyes or the gun off of me. Opening the door, she barked, “Art, get down here. Something’s wrong with the toilet.”
A few seconds later, I heard a low mumble of words. Then Helen turned back to me. “Get moving,” she ordered, waving the gun toward the door.
I obeyed. Really, what choice did I have? Helen jammed the gun into the small of my back and prodded me into the living room where Art, trying his best to look intimidating, guarded the door that led to the outside. And freedom. Hmm. I wondered if this meant that Helen had enlisted her son to help her kill Carlene. And was he a willing partner or had she bullied him? I suspected the latter.
Lucy sat on the uncomfortable love seat. Per Helen’s instruction, I took the matching chair. She kept the gun trained on me. Lucy gasped and I looked over at her. The blood had beaten a hasty retreat from her face and her eyes looked like saucers.
Helen turned the gun on Lucy. “No funny business, you two.”
Nothing funny about this business. With a trembling hand, I reached into my pocket for my phone and, finding the Velcro-padded key, pressed Vince’s number. I banked on Helen thinking I still kept my phone buried in my purse.
She pounced on me. “What are you doing?”
“Just getting a tissue.” I said as I pulled out a wrinkled Kleenex. “See?” My voice quavered so much I could barely get the words out. And I wasn’t sure I had pressed the speed-dial button firmly enough for the call to go through. Hopefully I’d have another chance. If I lived long enough. I admonished myself to hold positive, uplifting thoughts. For good measure, I added a quick but fervent prayer.
“Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Art spoke for the first time, sounding puckish. “Mom, is that gun even loaded?”
When his mother looked daggers at him, he shrugged. “Just trying to lighten the mood a bit.”
Helen sat on the sofa that completed the three-piece “conversational” grouping. “Honestly, Art, you’ll have these ladies nervous wrecks, wondering if the gun’s loaded or not.”
Like we weren’t nervous wrecks already, I thought. Lucy and I stole quick glances at each other. What was with the gun, anyway? Was it loaded? Was Helen going off the deep end? If so, who knew what she would do. I imagined an unloaded gun could become a loaded one easily enough. Would it help if I emulated Art and injected humor? But even if I could come up with some knee-slapper, humor and guns didn’t combine well, and besides, I suspected that Helen’s threatening me with a gun, unloaded or not, had to do with one Evan Arness.
It didn’t take long for Helen to prove me right. “So, Hazel, what’s going on with you and Evan?” When I took a deep breath and glanced at Lucy, she raged, “Don’t look at Lucy! Just answer the question.”
I had to find a way to disarm Helen—literally and figuratively. I had little talent in the disarming department, but as our survival hung in the balance I had to put forth my best effort. Or as best as I could manage with a mouth as dry as cotton.
“Me and Evan?” I rasped. “What would be going on with us?”
“I know you’re sleeping with him. I won’t have it. You’re just like that—that Jezebel, ruining his life.”
I took it Carlene was “that Jezebel.” I shook my head. “No, not . . . not sleeping together.” My voice kicked in. “Not even thinking about it.”
“That’s not the way it looked last week at the lunch. The two of you looked awfully chummy. I was right beside you.” Her eyes narrowed. “If you find him so attractive, you shouldn’t have divorced him. It’s simply shameful, you getting your claws into the dear man so soon after losing his wife. Although if he only knew what a tramp that woman was . . . First I had to deal with her and now you.”
I didn’t like the sound of that: “dealing” with me. Aloud I said, “Helen, Evan had too much to drink and was feeling rather, um, emotional.” Helen looked unconvinced, so I forced a smile and added, “That’s all.”
Lucy spoke up, her voice hoarse. “Hazel . . .” She cleared her throat and, with a shaking finger, pointed to me. “She’s . . . she’s back with Vince.”
I nodded. “Yes, in fact we’re getting married.” Where did that come from? I guess one will say anything when facing the business end of a gun.
“Humph!” Helen looked suspicious but turned her attention back to Carlene. “That Carlene was a first-class tramp. Put my boy through all that. You know, Evan used to come over here for dinner and he really enjoyed himself. We had a lovely time, didn’t we, Art?”
“Lovely.” Art leaned against the wall and rolled his eyes. It sounded like he hadn’t enjoyed the dinners any more than Evan had. Helen either didn’t catch his sarcastic tone or chose to ignore it—or, the most likely possibility, she was just plain clueless. I caught her use of “my boy.” She’d used the same phrase when she first told me about the parking lot incident involving the man in the car. At the time I thought she referred to Art. Now it sounded like Evan, but it was an odd way for her to refer to the object of her affection.
“And then she came along and ruined it all. No more dinners. I invited both of them but they only came over once.”
Lucy said, “Maybe Carlene was jealous of you. Didn’t want the competition.”
Helen gave Lucy a rueful smile. She still held the gun but placed it next to her on the sofa. Shaking her head, she said in a small voice, “After that I only saw him at school, but not very often.”
Helen’s words and pained demeanor made me wonder if Evan had left out key details of his relationship with her. There had to have been more involved than threesome dinners with Art—if the relationship had grown intimate, it would explain Helen’s obsession with my—thankfully—former husband. But to the point of killing his wife?
Had it not been for the gun at Helen’s side I might have felt sympathy. Her grip on it had loosened, but not enough to rush her. If I could take on Helen while Lucy kept Art at bay . . . Lucy’s knitting needles could do some bodily damage and surely I had a sharp object in my purse, but I doubted that the mother-son duo would wait
politely while I unearthed it.
Thoughts of my purse made me look around for it. I didn’t see it by the chair where I’d sat earlier—nor did I see Lucy’s purse or knitting bag.
“What are you looking for?”
“Um, nothing.”
Helen smirked. “Your purses are in a safe place. I didn’t want you digging your phone out from the bottom of your purse. And I’m sure Lucy keeps hers in a more accessible place.”
With my fledgling overtaking-the-captors plan thwarted, at least temporarily, I sighed. Where was Kat when we needed her most? A well-placed karate chop or two from our missing bodyguard and we’d be out of that apartment in a flash.
Moving on to the next item on her agenda, Helen asked, “And why did you call Donna McCarthy, asking questions about me?”
I braced myself, hoping to sound believable. “Well, it occurred to me that Donna might not know about Carlene, so I gave her a call. After all, she and Evan had been friends back in their coworking days. While we talked, I thought of you. You see, at the memorial service Art said you were from Rochester and that you’d worked for an insurance company. I thought, what were the odds it was Acer? Small world.” I added a little laugh, but Helen just stared at me with no expression. “How did you find out, Helen—did Donna call or e-mail you?”
“No, my friend Carol Mobley called and told me about it. She and Donna are in the same Bible study group.” Carol, the gossipy high school friend. According to Donna, that friend thought Helen might have had a baby in high school.
Apparently Helen bought my explanation that sounded thin and unconvincing to my ears, because she circled back to her earlier point. “Now back to Evan . . . Stay away from him.” She pointed the gun at me, as if to illustrate the consequences of not keeping my distance from lover-boy Evan. “I finally got rid of Carlene and I don’t want to have to get rid of you.”