A Dawn of Death

by Gin Jones

  Both women had set aside their usual projects—making chemo caps for patients who had lost their hair due to medical treatments—and were busy putting together an entire layette for Helen's niece's first child. Betty was knitting an afghan out of a soft, washable, variegated yarn in a pastel rainbow. Josie was crocheting a pair of pale purple booties, having already finished, to Helen's knowledge, a dozen others in a variety of pastels.

  Laura was going to be thrilled. She'd hinted often enough that she would treasure handmade items from the baby's great-aunt, even after Helen had explained she really didn't have advanced enough skills with a crochet hook to do much more than the one simple pattern she'd memorized for chemo caps. She'd only been crocheting for about a year, and the first few months she'd been terrible at it. Now she was competent enough with her simple pattern, but Josie could make twenty perfect complicated stitches in the time it took Helen to make one basic double crochet stitch.

  When Helen had tentatively asked Betty and Josie about where to start with crocheting baby clothes, they'd offered to make everything themselves. There was a time when Helen would have declined their assistance simply out of stubbornness, but she'd come around to realizing that it was better, not just for herself but for the people who cared about her, if she accepted their help occasionally. If Helen didn't want them helping in unhelpful ways, she had to let them help with things they really could do better than she could. Like anything involving yarn. In the end, Helen had ordered a wide variety of baby yarns from the local yarn shop, Cottage Fibers, and had them delivered to Betty and Josie with the understanding that anything they didn't use for Laura's baby would be added to the stash for the Charity Caps Day volunteers who made preemie caps.

  Helen pulled one of the heavy wing-back chairs over to a spot where she was as close as possible to the sometimes hard-of-hearing Betty without being too close to the heat of the fireplace.

  "Well?" Josie said before Helen even had a chance to sit down. "What really happened to Sheryl Toth?"

  "I don't know." Helen dropped into her chair. "I was hoping you two could tell me. You usually have the best gossip in town. Did Detective Peterson make his regular visit to his uncle yesterday?"

  "He was here," Betty said, bending down to get a replacement skein after coming to the end of the first one. "He just didn't have anything useful to say other than that they put the time of death at right around 6 a.m. The official line is that it was an accident but that they're just dotting all the i's and crossing all the t's to rule out homicide."

  "So what do you think?" Josie said. "We trust you to figure out what really happened before anyone else does."

  Helen might have let the praise go to her head, except she was fairly certain her five remaining pea seedlings had better insights into what had happened to Sheryl Toth than Detective Peterson did.

  "All I know is that she was lying beside her own bulldozer in a place where it shouldn't even have been. The employee who usually operates it didn't know it was going to be there. Dale thinks it was some sort of message to the gardeners and the selectmen."

  Betty nodded. "That sounds like something Sheryl would do."

  "It could just have been an accident." Helen started to reach for her yarn bag, belatedly remembering that she hadn't planned to come here today, so she hadn't brought it with her to tuck into the space between her hip and the arm of the chair. It felt odd to be sitting here without it. Today was the first time in close to a year that she'd visited her friends here without having yarn in her lap and a crochet hook in her hand.

  She forced herself to lean back and relax. "I'm a little worried that the investigation is going to be politicized. If the people who want the land sold have any evidence at all, or even credible speculation, that Sheryl was killed by someone in the garden club, they could use that to sway public opinion in favor of punishing the killer by selling the land."

  "So you're going to find out what really happened." Josie gave Betty a triumphant look. "I told you Helen would get to the bottom of it. You're going to owe me a month's worth of desserts when she does. Get ready to pay up."

  Betty didn't look up from what was apparently a complicated stitch, even for her. "Not unless Helen actually proves it was murder."

  "I hadn't really planned on getting involved with another murder investigation. I'm going to be busy growing all my food. Well, except meat and dairy. And tea." Helen had found that a small amount of caffeine, not too much and definitely not combined with sugar, seemed to help stave off any recurrence of the lupus fog she'd experienced last fall. "Can I even grow tea in Massachusetts? I don't remember seeing it in any of my catalogs."

  Betty and Josie looked at each other and shrugged. Betty explained, "We're not really gardeners. Or tea drinkers."

  "It's much too healthy for my tastes," Josie said. "I stick to plain water since we're not allowed anything here that's actually fun to drink. I don't suppose you'd consider growing grapes and making your own wine, would you?"

  "Not this year," Helen said. "And not in the future either if the garden gets sold before I find out whether it's something I feel as passionately about as you two do about your needlework."

  "What about your crocheting?" Josie asked, pointing at Helen's empty hands. "Have you given that up? You were finally getting the hang of it."

  "I just forgot my bag today," Helen said. "I do enjoy crocheting, but it's not that important to me. I find it relaxing, and it's for a good cause when I make the chemo caps, but it's not all that fulfilling for me. Not the way my work used to be." Politics had been messy and filled with people who were in it for the wrong reasons, but it had also been incredibly satisfying on those too-rare occasions when she'd been able to help her husband get good legislation enacted or sway public opinion in favor of good policies. "From what I've read, gardening might give me that same feeling that I'm doing something worthwhile."

  "What about your volunteer work with the Friends of the Library?" Betty asked.

  "That's on hold for the summer while the focus is on children's programs, which isn't my area of expertise."

  "The library's going to need your organizational help before the fall," Betty said. "I've heard they're planning to oust the volunteer who's been in charge of the end-of-summer potluck dinner for the last ten years. It's a popular event and their biggest fundraiser, so they won't get rid of her unless they have someone to replace her. I bet they're counting on you."

  "Just so long as they don't ask me to do any actual cooking." If she had to donate something edible, she could always import some of the croissants from Clear Flour Bakery. The ones Lily had brought yesterday with Gruyere cheese would make an outstanding appetizer, and all Helen would have to do would be to cut them into small slices.

  "If you're organizing the potluck," Josie said eagerly, "maybe you could get us sprung from here so we could attend."

  "Walter and I used to go every year," Betty said, her hands still for a moment. "I haven't gone since he died, but I would like to."

  "My niece did try to get you a day pass once, and I have to say, if Lily wasn't able to arrange it, I doubt I'd have any better luck."

  "You can do it," Betty said. "Martha Waddell likes you."

  Martha was the assistant director of the nursing home with aspirations to become its first female director, a promotion she considered long overdue, although, it would also make her the youngest director ever. She did like Helen and felt indebted to her because of the role Helen had played in reassuring the nursing home's residents that they were safe from a con man known as the Gingerbread Man. Still, Martha would never let her emotions sway her professional decisions. If she didn't think it was safe for a resident to leave the grounds even for an hour or two, she wouldn't budge, no matter how much she was personally indebted to the person asking for the favor.

  "I'll do my best, but there's no rush to discuss it with Martha, is there?" Helen asked. "I'll be talking to my visiting nurse tomorrow, and she might have some ideas
for how to convince Martha that you'll be safe at the potluck dinner."

  "Plenty of time," Betty said. "If the dinner is scheduled for the same date as usual, you've got months to work on Martha."

  There was a commotion behind Helen over by the double doors that opened into the activity room. She turned to see Geoff Loring, a reporter for the Wharton Times, being waved at by the half-dozen patients in wheelchairs lined up to face the massive front windows.

  Geoff was the very image of bland from his dirty-blond hair to his generic sports shirt, khakis, and loafers. He had nice but forgettable facial features, and his expression was usually halfway between cheerful and solemn. He did have a lovely smile that made him look both wiser than he really was and younger than his actual early thirties. He seldom bestowed that smile on Helen though.

  Geoff started to make a visual sweep of the room, so Helen ducked back behind the cover of the wing-back chair before he could be scared off by her presence.

  "I'm sorry to leave so soon, but it feels too weird to be here without something to work on, and I'd like to see what Geoff knows about Sheryl's death."

  "Good luck," Josie said. "Do you want us to create a distraction so he won't see you sneaking up on him?"

  "I think I can manage on my own this time," Helen said, although Josie was right that the most difficult part of getting information out of Geoff was cornering him before could run away from her.

  * * *

  Apparently Geoff hadn't noticed Helen hidden behind the bulk of the wing-back chair. By the time she emerged from its cover, he was passing the wheelchairs at the huge front windows on his way to a woman working on a jigsaw puzzle in the corner.

  His target was younger than most of the residents here, probably early sixties, but with the characteristic signs of having suffered a stroke: her left arm was limp, and the left side of her face drooped. She wore what looked like brand new and top quality but unadorned navy sweatpants and sweatshirt, clothes she could pull on with just one hand. She was seated at a small table set at an angle, so she was practically boxed into the corner.

  "Hello," he said to her. "I'm Geoff Loring. Reporter with the Wharton Times."

  The woman didn't acknowledge her visitor. She reached across the table to collect a puzzle piece, and her left arm flopped against the edge of the table. She winced and then used her right hand to place her left hand back in her lap.

  Geoff tried again, this time speaking louder, presumably under what Helen thought was a mistaken belief that the puzzler was hard of hearing rather than ignoring him. "Is this your first day here? I'm Geoff Loring. Reporter."

  The woman studied the puzzle piece she'd just retrieved then set it down beside five or six pieces that from halfway across the room looked identical—standard jigsaw shapes, all printed in an uninterrupted sky blue.

  "It's okay," Geoff said, proving that he did have the persistence of a reporter if not the fearlessness. "I don't do exposés, just personal interest stories. I thought you might have something interesting to share. I'll leave my business card in case you ever want to have a nice little chat. You can ask around. Everyone here will vouch for me."

  Geoff turned, only then catching sight of Helen. He started and grabbed his right forearm, rubbing where it had been broken awhile back when he'd been pursuing a story that he'd thought would make his dreams of winning a Pulitzer Prize come true. It had turned out to be his last attempt at investigative journalism.

  "Are you stalking me?" Geoff demanded.

  "Why would you think that?" Helen nodded over her shoulder to where Betty and Josie were sitting. "Can't I just visit my friends?"

  Geoff looked in the direction of the fireplace. Betty and Josie must have waved since he stopped rubbing his arm to wave back.

  "Today isn't Charity Caps Day." His voice was drenched in suspicion even as he bestowed his beautiful smile on Betty and Josie, two of his best sources of leads on stories that didn't involve any risk to him. "And you don't usually visit in the morning."

  Helen hoped he couldn't see the triumph she felt. He'd given her exactly the opening she needed. "I meant to spend the morning at the community garden, but I couldn't do much there because of the ongoing police investigation, so I came here instead."

  "Then you aren't investigating Sheryl Toth's death?"

  "Why would I be interested in a simple accident?" Helen said. "That's all it was, wasn't it?"

  Geoff glanced at the woman working on the jigsaw puzzle as if hoping she might have thawed toward him. She continued to ignore him though.

  He clearly would have preferred to interview the puzzler, but deep down, buried beneath the fear of what might happen to him if he pursued a serious lead, lurked the soul of a dedicated storyteller. He preferred his stories to be entirely free of blood and guts, of course, and to have happy endings, but he couldn't resist sharing a good one.

  "The police think it's an accident, and I'm more than willing to believe them, especially since it's none of my business." Geoff rubbed his arm again. "But I can't help thinking that emotions are running high over the title to the garden's land, and Sheryl was right in the middle of it all."

  "Everyone keeps mentioning the possibility that the town will sell the land out from under the gardeners as if I knew what they were talking about, but I don't," Helen said. "What's that all about?"

  Geoff leaned against the back of a nearby chair. "It's complicated, and the board of selectmen are pretty evenly divided on the issue."

  "But why is it even an issue?" Helen said. "I thought the garden had been in that location for years and years. Why sell it now? Is the town in financial trouble?"

  "No more than any other small town," Geoff said. "But windfall monies burn a hole through a politician's pocket faster than they do for a teen who's just gotten his first paycheck from McDonald's. See, the town didn't own the garden land until recently. Fred Lawson did. He was a Wharton native and dedicated gardener. One of the founders of the garden club that operates the community garden, in fact. Even after he retired to Florida, he let the gardeners use his land."

  "Then how can the town sell it?"

  "Fred died, leaving the garden's land to the town. Dale Meeke-Mason and the rest of the gardeners think he meant to leave it specifically for the purpose of a community garden, but apparently his will didn't put any restrictions on the use. It just gives the land to the town, no strings attached."

  "I get it now. It all boils down to whether the selectmen think its best use is as a community garden or as cash for some other worthwhile programs." Helen had seen her husband weighing two potentially good options before, and it was never easy.

  "Pretty much," Geoff agreed. "Fred only died a couple of months ago, and Dale was the first to hear about it. She thought she'd lined up the votes she needed to have the land immediately declared a permanent part of the town's Park and Rec Department. Once that happened, Paul Young would certainly have endorsed its use as a community garden. The town doesn't really have any other direct use for it. The ballparks next door are popular, but they're not booked anywhere near capacity. I don't know what happened exactly, but one of the selectmen, the only woman in the group, proposed getting an appraisal of the land before any decision was made, and then it snowballed to the point where Sheryl Toth was eyeing the land for development. Dale was livid, of course. Being undermined by another woman only made it worse, I think."

  Geoff began sidling toward the exit. Helen let him go. If she pushed him too hard, he might never give her a chance to ask questions in the future, no matter how benign they were. Besides, it was almost noon, time for lunch with Tate. She could grill him on what he knew about the bequest and anything else he might have heard about Sheryl's death.

  Assuming, of course, she could make the questions sound like idle curiosity. He'd always grumbled about being retired, but he'd still given her legal advice until a few months ago when he'd abruptly severed their attorney-client relationship in order to ask her out to dinner. She'd
agreed to the relationship change and had no regrets about it. At least she hadn't until now. She didn't want to go back to being strictly professional acquaintances, but she would have liked to ask him about Fred Lawson's will.

  Helen had never been very good at accepting limitations. Sometimes there was no point in struggling against them—like when her doctor insisted on a particular medication routine—but some were worth the effort. She was convinced there had to be a way that she could have a personal relationship with Tate without having to give up his professional expertise.

  It wasn't like she'd need his legal advice very often, just when she was investigating a suspicious death. Which, contrary to what everyone seemed to think, wasn't an everyday occurrence for her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Helen couldn't remember ever discussing it, but somehow she and Tate had fallen into the habit of sharing lunch every weekday in her garage, which he used as his woodworking studio. She provided the meals on Mondays and Wednesdays. He brought something on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and on Fridays they had takeout delivered. They weren't dates exactly, more like a daily routine they'd each adopted independently, as if it were just a coincidence that the other person was in the same place at the same time.

  Today was Helen's turn to provide the food, and she hadn't planned anything ahead of time, so she called in an order to the local sub shop. When they were on the way home after picking up the sandwiches, she let Jack know she had other errands for after lunch if he had the time to drive her.

  At the cottage, Jack carried the bag into the garage and pulled back the drop cloth draped over a small table in the far corner before setting down the food. "I'll be back in an hour," he said on his way out.

  Tate turned off the lathe and removed his eye and ear protection. It was chilly in the unheated garage, so he was wearing heavy boots, jeans, and a thick navy sweatshirt, all of which were heavily coated with sawdust. Somehow, though, he managed to look every bit as commanding as the time she'd seen him in a courtroom dressed in a three-piece suit and wing tips. His height and lean build contributed to the image, along with the distinguished touches of gray in his dark hair.