A Dawn of Death

by Gin Jones

  "So, what's the problem?"

  Jack pulled up next to the entrance to Wharton Meadows just beyond the Dear Crossing sign. "It's the owner. Wes Quattrone. I don't trust him. At first, I thought it was because he was an outsider, but that's not it. His wife comes from California too, and she fits in great, a definite asset to the entire community, not just to Wharton Meadows. I like her just fine. Everyone does. But not him. He's a jerk and doesn't care about the town or the people. He hides it pretty well most of the time, but I bet he's got some real skeletons in his closet."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The tour took about half an hour under the guidance of a perky woman in her fifties. The facilities were impressive but definitely straining at the seams from over-enrollment. Not that the tour guide pointed out that fact, and Helen might not have noticed if she hadn't already heard about the expansion plans. She'd also noticed some signs of wear and tear inside the buildings, which surprised her a little since the landscaping was maintained with such perfection. Perhaps it was just a matter of timing, and she'd just happened to be here when the grounds had undergone their spring cleanup. In another few weeks, the grass would be less precisely cut, and weeds would have sprouted in the flowerbeds.

  According to Helen's guide, Wes Quattrone was anxious to meet Wharton's most famous retiree, so the last stop on the tour was his office suite that took up most of the top floor of the administrative building. In the reception area, his assistant, a mousy-looking middle-aged woman, was dwarfed by an extra-large executive's desk chair and an equally oversized desk cluttered with electronics and framed pictures of happy residents.

  The assistant immediately jumped to her feet and raced around to the front of the desk, disproving Helen's initial impression that the woman was small and unremarkable. She was actually quite tall and potentially quite impressive looking, but her hunched shoulders and timid nervous manner suggested that she didn't see herself as big and powerful. "You must be Helen Binney."

  Helen nodded.

  "He's expecting you," the assistant said as she opened the door.

  Quattrone was seated behind his desk—it was even larger than the assistant's but free of any visible electronics, and he dominated his surroundings instead of being dwarfed by them—talking into his Bluetooth headset. He waved to acknowledge Helen and gestured for her to come inside. He held up one finger to indicate he'd only be tied up for another minute.

  The office was easily four times the size of the substantial waiting area, unaffected by the overcrowding that the residents experienced. The desk and chair were dark and unremarkable other than their size, revealing nothing interesting about their occupant. The decor was functional and clutter-free but could have been found in any corporate executive office. The only impressive architectural feature was an almost unbroken expanse of windows that wrapped around the corner of the building, providing an excellent view of the entrance to Wharton Meadows. Helen found it interesting that Quattrone had sited his office where he could look outside the community rather than at the buildings and people he was responsible for.

  The windows also gave Helen a new perspective on the community garden. From the second-floor vantage point, she could see how the rainwater had accumulated in the low spots, creating little canals in the pathways between the slightly raised beds. The next time she could visit her plot without sinking to her knees in mud, she'd probably find another pea plant missing, washed away in the floods.

  Helen turned her attention from the garden to the display in front of the windows. A banquet table held an architect's model of what an expansion to Wharton Meadows would look like. Helen wandered over to take a closer look at it while Quattrone was occupied with his call. She had a feeling he'd be tied up for more than a minute.

  The model consisted of two three-story buildings in the same unremarkable style as the ones in the existing property, plus a much larger structure that, if the expansion happened, would be Wharton's first ever multilevel parking facility. A cutaway in the model of the residential buildings showed that there were apartments on the upper floors and medical offices on the ground floor.

  How on earth would they fit all of those structures on the garden's land which couldn't be more than two acres? Helen looked more closely at the property lines the architect had drawn on the plywood base. They made it clear that the proposal wasn't just for the garden land but also the farmhouse parcel on the corner. The architect had noted that the project could be divided at the property line so as to allow the work to be done in stages if and when each parcel became available for purchase.

  Quattrone ended his call and strolled over to the mock-up. He was of average height and weight but seemed somehow wider than most people. His shoulders appeared unnaturally broad, which could have been due to the tailoring of his conservative navy suit, but she didn't think that completely explained his appearance since his face was also broad. His medium-brown hair had artificial blond highlights. It was about an inch or two too long for his otherwise conservative appearance, which she suspected was an intentional choice, adding just a touch of "bad boy" to his image.

  "It's great to meet you," he said, holding out his hand. "What do you think?"

  Helen shook the hand that was almost too wide for her to grip. "I think it's ambitious."

  "Can't get anything done without a little bit of ambition," he said. "You, of all people, should know that. You wouldn't have ended up in the Governor's Mansion without a good deal of ambition."

  "I left that to my husband. He had enough for both of us."

  "I don't believe that." Quattrone winked at her. "I know a mover and shaker when I see one."

  "You should get your eyes checked then."

  "Oh no," he said with a laugh. "You're not fooling me."

  He was as blind as Detective Peterson, Helen thought, except that he gave her more credit than she deserved instead of less. Still, there was no point in antagonizing him. Not until she'd gotten what she needed, which was to find out how desperate he was to purchase the garden land.

  "Let's say you're right." She waved her hand at the architect's model. "Is this what I should be moving and shaking?"

  "I wouldn't go so far as to say we'd like an earthquake," he said, "but yes, this is the future of Wharton Meadows. There's so much more I could offer our residents if we had just a little more space. Most of the specialized services our guests could use, especially for advanced dementia patients, are only available in residential facilities closer to Boston, too far for their families to visit them. If I could expand across the street, everyone would benefit. I've considered building in a number of locations within about a five-mile radius where I could run a shuttle between the sites, but every time I found an interesting parcel of land, a particularly persistent local developer snapped it out from under my nose."

  "Sheryl Toth?"

  "That's her," Quattrone said. "I don't know how she did it, but she always managed to get whatever she wanted, and she wanted pretty much every bit of undeveloped land in Wharton."

  "No one is that good a land speculator," Helen said. "Or that lucky."

  "Exactly my thought," Quattrone said. "But you know how it is in small towns. If you weren't born and raised here, no one wants to do business with you. Unless you're willing to pay them off, of course, but that's not my style."

  Actually, Helen thought that seemed like exactly his style. It certainly wasn't his blustery personality that had made him successful.

  He continued. "I thought my actions—and the cash that I've brought into the community by hiring locals—would speak louder than words, but it's like everyone here is deaf. I bought Wharton Meadows five years ago, and I've worked hard to make it successful, but the Chamber of Commerce still can't spell my name right in their newsletters."

  "Five years isn't all that long."

  "It's enough to see how this town works and whose palm needs to be greased," Quattrone said. "Unfortunately, that didn't get me the same inside information tha
t Sheryl had. She had the local real estate brokers in her pocket. They told her about available land before it was officially placed on the market. From what I've been told, the land for Wharton Meadows was the only parcel she'd ever coveted but failed to get. And that was just because it was never listed for sale. The property owner had run up some debt, and a venture capitalist bought up the mortgage. A few months later, he convinced the owner to do a deed in lieu of foreclosure. Apparently they sweetened the deal by promising to name the administrative building after him."

  And look how well that had turned out, Helen thought. She vaguely recalled seeing a name over the front door as she entered, but no one—not even Quattrone or the perky tour guide—called it anything other than "the administrative building."

  Quattrone didn't seem to notice Helen's lack of response. He just kept talking. "When I heard about the town inheriting the garden land, I knew I finally had an even playing field. Sheryl didn't have an unfair advantage this time."

  "I would have thought there'd be more opportunity for her to do backroom deals in a political setting rather than less."

  "Normally, there would be, but I have some solid incentives to offer the selectmen if they choose my project. Towns can take factors other than the best price into consideration when determining whether to sell their land. Having a state-of-the-art memory loss facility would be great for the town. Besides, I happen to know that one of the selectmen needs advanced dementia services for a family member, and another one has been encouraging more commercial use in the town. I can pay more for the land than any residential contractor and still turn a profit. Unfortunately, there's an even bigger challenge ahead of me now. It's one that you might be able to help with."

  Helen doubted it, but she was curious what he thought was a bigger problem than Sheryl. "What is it?"

  Quattrone's broad face hardened. "It's that awful town clerk, Dale Meeke-Mason."

  "She's good at her job, from what I've heard."

  "You wouldn't think that if you had to work with her." Quattrone herded Helen around to the far left corner of the model where she could see an area previously hidden by the two residential buildings. There was a square of open space, mostly lawn, with gravel paths radiating out from the center to the corners and midpoints of the perimeter, cutting the area into eight wedges. In the middle, where all the paths converged, there was a shade tree surrounded by little benches.

  "We tried to anticipate Dale's objections. Even threw in a sop to her current obsession with outdoor line drying." He pointed at the perfectly scaled little beach umbrellas that dotted the green space.

  It was only then that Helen realized they weren't umbrellas. They were outdoor line dryers, complete with tiny T-shirts and jeans hanging from them. Dale would definitely approve of them. She could probably even calculate exactly how much energy was used by the laundry facilities at Wharton Meadows, how much was attributable to the dryers, and how much these lines would save.

  "Did you tell Dale about your plans?"

  "She didn't give me a chance." The last traces of Quattrone's initially pleasant demeanor disappeared, and he didn't even try to hide his anger. "Made it clear that absolutely no concessions we offered would be enough if it meant changing the garden's location. I didn't understand half of what she was talking about. Something about tradition, black gold, and organic compliance years. I can't negotiate with a fanatic. That's why you have to find a way around her for me."

  Helen was tougher than she looked, but Dale rode a Harley and wore army boots that she'd earned with a stint in the military. There were times when Helen was willing to push her limits, but she wasn't about to take on Dale directly. Few sane people would, even in perfect physical health.

  She decided she must have misunderstood Quattrone. "You want me to move and shake Dale? On an issue she's passionate about?"

  "I do."

  Helen hadn't paid much attention to how close Quattrone was to her, but it struck her now that he was looming over her, boxing her into the corner between the table and the wall. She was used to being much smaller than most of the people she worked with, but few had ever tried to take advantage of that fact. At least, not more than once.

  She wasn't entirely sure he intended to be threatening her, so she gave him the benefit of the doubt. "I think I've seen enough. If you'll excuse me, my driver is waiting for me."

  He didn't move. "Not until you agree to talk to the clerk. Annie said you were the only person who might make Dale see reason. You care about the town and its people, don't you? Wharton needs the services we'll be able to provide with the expansion."

  Even if Helen were willing to sacrifice her pea plants to help out Wharton Meadows—which she wasn't—she refused to be coerced into anything.

  "I can't convince Dale of something I'm not convinced of myself," Helen said coldly. "Now get out of my way. It's time for me to leave."

  Quattrone's face turned red, and his hands formed fists, although he had enough self-control not to raise them.

  Helen wondered if she'd miscalculated just how far he was willing to go to get his way. Maybe he really did think he could use his size and strength to intimidate her. Was that why his assistant was so timid? And what about Annie? Had he used implied threats of violence successfully with her? Perhaps even taken it a step further, from verbal abuse to actual violence? As the Domestic Violence Officer, Detective Almeida might know if there'd ever been police intervention due to an altercation between Wes and Annie.

  Still, Helen stood her ground, refusing to back farther into the corner and running out of patience. If Quattrone didn't get out of her way right now, she was going to show him just how much of a mover and shaker she could be.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A knock on the door followed by the assistant timidly peeking inside saved Quattrone from Helen's wrath. Judging by the irritated look on his face, the poor woman was probably going to get a lecture from him later when he ought to be thanking her for rescuing him from a bad situation.

  According to the assistant, whose voice trembled as she spoke, there was a call that Quattrone had been expecting for weeks and absolutely had to take.

  He moved away from the table slowly, obviously reluctant to free Helen.

  "I was just leaving anyway," Helen said as she crossed the room, quashing the urge to run.

  Once outside Quattrone's office and around the corner out of sight of the assistant, the adrenaline began to dissipate. Helen realized her hands were shaking and her legs were wobbly, although not as badly as in the aftermath of the near accident yesterday. She pushed the button for the elevator and then leaned against the wall to wait for it.

  By the time the doors opened, she was feeling more herself. Stepping out into the lobby, she decided she ought to stop and thank Annie for arranging the tour and even for setting up the appointment with her husband. It certainly wasn't her fault that Wes was, as Jack had warned, a jerk.

  According to a floor plan mounted on the wall beside a directory, Annie's office was in a far corner of the first floor, so Helen headed in that direction.

  Along the way, Helen was stopped twice by people asking if she was lost, which she hadn't been, but now, after the last turn down a dimly lit hallway, she thought maybe she was. She was on the verge of retracing her steps when she heard a male voice ahead of her down yet another hallway to the right. She could ask him for directions.

  Then she recognized the voice as belonging to Marty Drumm. What was he doing here? Employees of Toth Construction weren't likely to be welcome around here, considering how Wes Quattrone felt about Sheryl. Of course, Annie didn't have the same hatred for Sheryl. Perhaps she'd arranged to talk to Marty about the possibility of buying the unbuildable land for the garden. In that case, Marty was probably heading for Annie's office, and all Helen had to do was follow the sound of his voice.

  She'd only taken a few steps when she heard Annie speak from somewhere out of sight. Her voice carried across the distance and was
tinged with irritation. "You're not supposed to have anything with the Toth name on it while you're here."

  "I forgot I was wearing the jacket," Marty said.

  Helen didn't want to intrude, so she peered around the corner to see if it looked like their conversation was just getting started or was winding down. Annie stood in the only doorway at the end of a short stub of a hallway. A dozen turquoise T-shirts and matching baseball caps were stacked on her outstretched hands.

  "I'm counting on you to make sure it doesn't happen again," Annie said. "It's not that big a deal when it's just your jacket, but you absolutely, positively have to make sure you cover up the name on the earthmoving equipment, right?"

  "Sure. That's easy. It's just…" Marty reached toward the shirts but paused uncertainly with one hand above and one below the pile. "Are you sure about this contract? I mean, the cash will come in handy to keep the crew paid while the legal stuff gets straightened out, and Sheryl always said you were a good customer, but can Wharton Meadows afford it? It's an expensive project, and we could do it in stages, spread out the payments a bit."

  "No," Annie said with the sort of conviction that Dale's voice usually carried. "I want it done now."

  Marty's hands still hovered uncertainly. "It's just that I heard you've had some cash flow problems recently."

  "Nothing you need to worry about." Annie shoved the shirts into his chest and let go of them.

  He caught them automatically. "Maybe I should speak to the boss."

  This time, Annie didn't bother to hide her irritation. "I am the boss on this job. Just remember to keep the Toth name out of it, and give the invoices to me and no one else. Unless you don't want the contract. I can find someone else."

  "No, no," Marty said, still sounding uncertain. "It's just that I'm not used to this part of the work. Sheryl always arranged the contracts."

  Annie patted his hand, her good humor restored. "And you're doing a great job of carrying on her work. I'm sure she'd be proud of you."