by Gin Jones
She just had to take the evidence with her. It was within her reach, but she couldn't carry both the clunky, heavy laptop and the art sculpture, which was the only thing stopping Charlene from attacking.
Helen pulled the front door open and hung her cane on the outer knob, freeing one hand. Moving out of the way of the door as it swung inward gave her an excuse to get a little closer to the laptop.
Charlene took a step closer, her arms reaching out for the sculpture.
"Stay back," Helen warned, raising the sculpture as if she were going to smash it on the floor.
When Charlene didn't move, Helen lifted the sculpture even higher. She ignored the strain in her muscles, while the wobble in her arm made it more credible that she might well drop the fragile piece of art if she wasn't obeyed.
Charlene finally took a step backward, her gaze fixed on the sculpture, apparently unaware of Helen's interest in the laptop.
"You want the sculpture back?" Helen lowered it, adding her other hand to the base. "Here. Catch." She sent the heavy glass sailing toward Charlene, counting on her struggling with its weight, magnified by the momentum of the sculpture's flight.
Helen didn't wait to see what happened to the glass. She snagged the laptop and rushed through the door opening, grabbing her cane from the doorknob on the way past.
There was no crash behind her, so Charlene must have caught the sculpture. Helen hurried down the steps as fast as her hip would permit, hugging the laptop to her chest and praying she wouldn't be the second woman to die while clutching it.
The tossed sculpture bought Helen enough time to reach the bottom of the steps, but then she heard footsteps behind her. She still had fifty feet of front yard to cross to the driveway before she had any chance of being seen by Barry parked in the street. Charlene was going to catch up to her before she reached the driveway.
Helen might not be able to run fast enough to reach the street before she was caught, especially in this heat, but her vocal cords were as strong and nimble as ever, and unaffected by temperature or humidity.
Helen started screaming.
Barry appeared at the base of the driveway, too fast to have been reacting to the sound, running toward her with Tate right beside him. Tate must have gotten her voicemail and realized Charlene was more dangerous than they'd initially thought.
Tate reached her first, while Barry continued to the front porch where he told Charlene in his chant-like speech pattern that the police were on the way and she should contemplate her sins while she waited.
Helen shoved the laptop into Tate's hands. "Here's the evidence you need to save Ralph."
"You just never listen to me, do you?" He took the laptop from her. "I told you to stay out of trouble, and what do you do but confront a desperate criminal all by yourself. Again."
Helen's legs gave out, and she sank to the brittle, dead grass. "Are you planning to tell my nieces I'm not following your advice?"
"I ought to." Tate looked past her at Charlene sitting on the front porch, sobbing. Barry stayed beside her with his eyes closed, holding her hand and murmuring what sounded like a prayer but could just have been him commenting on the weather. "But I won't. I don't want to take the chance they'll actually succeed in dragging you back to Boston to keep a closer eye on you. It's been…interesting having you around here. I'd miss that if you left."
"Does that mean you'll represent me if they try to have me committed for my own safety?"
Police sirens were approaching.
"It depends." He looked toward the sound of approaching sirens before offering her a hand to stand up. As they walked down the driveway to where they could intercept the police and have them contact Detective Peterson, he said, "What kind of exotic wood are you offering as my retainer?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A week later when Jack picked her up to attend the next Charity Caps Day, he held the Subaru Forester's back door open for her, a clear sign he still hadn't forgiven her for letting someone other than him drive her to Charlene's house.
They made the trip in silence. Helen knew from recent experience that when he was in this formal chauffeur mode, he wouldn't talk to her while the car was in motion. At the nursing home Jack jumped out and opened her door before she could do it herself. He knew how much that irritated her.
She slid out of the seat but blocked him from closing the door. "Are you ever going to forgive me and let me sit in the front seat of my own car?"
"I don't know what you mean, Ms. Binney."
She'd promised never again to take a ride from a stranger and that hadn't placated him. He'd acted as if she'd been out hitchhiking in the hunting grounds of a serial killer rather than hiring a well-respected local cabbie who spent his free time in cloistered meditation. She'd even arranged for Ed Clary to install a game console in the Subaru's back seat, which had soothed some of Jack's ruffled feathers but apparently not all of them. She was willing to give him a little more time to get over his snit, though. She knew it was displaced fear or perhaps irrational guilt that he'd been busy with his pottery business while she'd been in danger. He'd get over it eventually, and until then her new car's back seat was perfectly comfortable and easy to get into and out of. She didn’t even miss the powerful front air conditioning vents, since the heat wave had finally broken, replaced by a dry, somewhat cooler than usual stretch of weather.
Helen grabbed her yarn bag and went inside. Martha Waddell was talking to a nurse in the foyer and broke off when she caught sight of Helen. "How do you like the Subaru?"
"I should have listened to you from the beginning." Helen signed the guest register. "It's just right for me."
"I'm glad you like it." Martha turned away to answer her phone and then rushed off to deal with some crisis she would undoubtedly resolve better than her boss ever could.
Helen proceeded to the activity room where, as expected, Betty and Josie were presiding over their cap-making volunteers. What she hadn't expected was the sight of a new addition to the group: Ralph Decker.
He was in the wingback chair near the fireplace where Betty usually sat. Helen claimed Josie's usual spot next to him. Even though it was Ralph's first day here, he was already getting the hang of knitting, using a cheap pair of plastic needles. Helen's latest cap, made with the special, hand-turned, exotic-wood crochet hook Tate had made to celebrate Ralph's release from jail, was yet another misshapen mess.
"Hey, look," Geoff Loring said from near the entrance to the room. "If it isn't our very own Miss Marple."
Some people would never take her seriously.
Helen waited until Geoff came to stand beside her before saying, "Are you back on the criminal beat now, coming to me for a lead on a new story?"
He rubbed the spot where his arm had been broken and shuddered. "Never. I'm here to cover a wedding proposal." He looked around the room and pointed at the elderly couple who'd been alternately cuddling and feuding and going into cardiac arrest and cuddling some more. "There they are now. I hear he's going to pop the question today."
"You'd better hurry on over, then," Helen said. "You don't want someone else to get the scoop."
Fortunately, Geoff was about the only person in town who wasn't taking her seriously now. Even the sales representatives at Wharton Wheels had come running over to see how they could help her on the day she finally tested and then bought the Subaru Forester. They'd been more interested in how she'd solved Angie's death than in helping her buy the car, but they'd all helped her with that too. In the end, she suspected the commission had to be divided a dozen ways.
That experience at the car lot was the first time she could recall, at least since her high school graduation, when she'd been the center of public attention. Throughout her marriage she'd always been in her husband's shadow, working behind the scenes. By the time she'd moved to Wharton, she'd been in the shadow of her lupus.
Solving one murder hadn't changed anything, but now that she'd solved a murder and whatever crime Charle
ne was guilty of, even Detective Peterson thought Helen's opinions might just be worth listening to. She was expected to be the main witness at Charlene's trial, if it ever happened. Tate had told her the case would likely be pled down to a lesser charge than murder, now that the autopsy had confirmed Angie's death was from natural causes.
Josie appeared at Helen's side and reached for the lumpy chemo cap. "I think you've done enough for today."
"I just need more time," Helen said, refusing to let go of her latest disaster. "You told me practice makes perfect."
"Not always." Betty appeared on the other side of Helen's chair. "Sometimes practice only makes more work for us."
"I could go back to knitting again."
Betty shook her head. "Needlework just isn't right for you. You drop too many stitches, and you don't even notice when they happen."
"We love having you visit," Josie added. "You don't have to make caps to do that. It's probably best that you find something other than knitting or crochet to do with your time."
They were probably right. Helen could make more of a difference in the lives of people undergoing cancer treatment if she just contributed some money to Betty and Josie for the yarn.
The only thing she'd been any good at since retiring was pestering people. That had been the gist of her job description in the governor's mansion, actually: nag everyone on her husband's staff until events came together properly. Of course, she'd been paid for that work, and no one had ever tried to kill her. Now that pestering people was a volunteer gig, she didn't need to keep doing it, not if it was likely to get her killed.
She needed to find a new hobby. Something fulfilling like Tate's woodworking and Betty and Josie's needlework but that didn't require that level of manual dexterity. Something that wouldn't leave her feeling overshadowed and overlooked.
There was always the Friends of the Library group. She'd promised Terri Greene she'd come to the next meeting. Maybe she'd find something worthwhile to do there. If not, she'd just keep looking.
She'd just solved two murders in less than six months, after all. Compared to that, how hard could it be to find something interesting to do with her retirement years?
* * * * *
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Wharton, the nursing home, and its denizens are all fictional, but Charity Caps Day was inspired in part by a real-life charitable organization, Headhuggers, which makes and distributes hats for both adult and pediatric patients with hair loss from things like chemo treatment and burns. You can read more about the group, get chemo cap patterns, find local chapters, or make donations (of time, materials or money) here: https://www.Headhuggers.org
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gin Jones is a lawyer who specializes in ghost-writing for other lawyers. She prefers to write fiction, though, since she doesn't have to worry that her sense of humor might get her thrown into jail for contempt of court. In her spare time, Gin makes quilts, grows garlic, and serves on the board of directors for the XLH Network.
To learn more about Gin Jones, visit her online at: http://www.ginjones.com
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BOOKS BY GIN JONES
Helen Binney Mysteries:
A Dose of Death
A Denial of Death
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
If you enjoyed this Helen Binney Mystery, check out this other funny, romantic mystery from Gemma Halliday Publishing:
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MURDER AL DENTE
by
JENNIFER L. HART
PROLOGUE
"Five minutes, Ms. Buckland." Mimi, Chef Zoltan Farnsworth's assistant, poked her head into the closet I'd been given to use as a dressing room.
I grinned at her. "Thanks. He has you herding the entire studio, now, huh? Why do you put up with him, Mimi?" She was a talented pastry chef in her own right, but Zoltan Farnsworth treated her like dirt. Not that that was unusual for him. Farnsworth treated everyone like dirt. It was practically his brand.
"He is not so bad." She paused, seemed to consider, and said in her careful Asian accent, "Well, he is bad."
"Hey, when I'm Flavor TV's next big thing, I'll hire you right out from under his mustache." I took a deep breath, checked my appearance one last time in the chipped mirror, and pasted on a smile. "First I have to go out there and blow their doors off."
"You will do very well, I am sure." Mimi offered me a smile, dipped her head, and bustled off.
I made my way to Studio C where a live audience was already tasting samples of the culinary concoction I'd whipped up. Much to my relief, everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves. My cell buzzed, and I checked the display. A text from Donna Muller, my best friend since high school, and I grinned at her message.
Knock 'em dead!
Donna knew better than pretty much anyone else how hard I'd worked for this moment. After being raised by my very Italian grandmother and great aunt who ran the small town's pasta shop, it was possible I had marinara instead of blood.
One of the techs signaled me, and I quickly stowed my phone, lifted my arms, and let him attach my microphone. We did a sound check, and I was good to go.
"All set?" The producer, Stacy DeAngelo scurried over, tablet in hand. She didn't wait for a response but gave me a light shove in the direction of the stage.
My nerves got the best of me when I saw what appeared to be a sea of faces, all of whom looked at me expectantly. Oh no. I'd told everyone I knew about this. My grandfather, Pops, was tuned in along with my great aunt Cecily. The entire population of Beaverton, N.C, all 21,086 of them, were probably watching the Atlanta based television station.
Kyle was watching. No, no he wasn't. The sheriff had more important things to do on a weekday afternoon than watch his ex-girlfriend make an idiot out of herself on live television.
Then, my canned music started and my feet unfroze. "Is it just me or does pasta get a bad rap?" I asked the audience. Mostly smiles, but a few nods. "Let me tell you, there is not a more versatile food in the world. It can be light or heavy, served as a side dish or the main course, or even dessert."
I lowered my voice to a hush, which of course the microphone projected. "Just don't tell my great aunt Cecily I said that. She's a purist."
Several chuckles. My confidence grew, and I returned to my normal easygoing drawl. "Today, I'm going to show you linguini's true potential when served with fresh clams in a white wine sauce. So, here's what you'll need." I'd been over the spiel at least a thousand times in my head, and as I spoke, I moved around my "kitchen," which was really a set that had been made to look like a cozy country kitchen. Nothing too ostentatious. Flavor was a relatively new cable channel, and I was supposed to be a girl-next-door kind of cook. Al Dente, my brand spanking new cooking show, focused on the ins and outs of pasta, not high end appliances. But the new countertops practically sparkled, and I could see my face in the gleaming stainless steel refrigerator as I extracted the clams.
While the water came to a boil, I added a little background to my instructions. "In Italian, al dente means 'to the tooth.' The perfect al dente pasta will have a little resistance when you bite into it. Nothing ruins a meal like overcooked noodles. Cooking times will vary depending on the shape of pasta and thickness. For instance, vermicelli or angel hair will take less time to cook to al dente perfection than fettuccini or shells."
The first segment of the show seemed to fly by, and before I knew it, I was being signaled that it was time for our three minute intermission.
"You're doing great." Stacy looked up from her iPad, her expression approving. She'd gone to bat for me with the network execs when I'd pitched her the concept for the show. She said she'd seen something in me, and she'd fought hard to get me this chance. I wanted to pro
ve her right. "By this time tomorrow you'll have a ton of sponsors."
I beamed. "I can't believe it, but at one point I actually forgot I was on camera."
"That's how it goes. We're back in ten seconds."
My return to the stage-slash-kitchen was much smoother this time, and I talked about pairing wines with different dishes. Before I knew it, the meal was assembled. "Smells great. Just the right combination of garlic and wine really brings the pasta and clams together in perfect harmony. Don't take my word for it though, what does our audience think?"
Thunderous clapping accompanied by a few wolf whistles. Perfect.
"And we have a special treat for you. Chef Zoltan Farnsworth is here to join me for the tasting." It hadn't been my idea, but the network insisted a guest spot by their number one cooking show host would help boost my numbers.
From the sound of the audience clapping to greet the pastry chef, they were right.
Farnsworth strutted like a peacock and did a little faux air kiss thing in greeting. "It smells…pungent in here," he said with a smug smile.
Jeez, not exactly a compliment. He couldn't have gone for aromatic or fragrant? I made my tone light as I said, "Garlic will do that. One of my favorite scents in the world."
After dishing out a serving for Chef Farnsworth, I sat down to mock eat my own serving of pasta. "How is it?"
"Excellent," Farnsworth said, surprising me. Maybe he wasn't such a bad guy. "Though a bit more salt wouldn't hurt."