A Darling of Death

by Gin Jones

  "Then you come up with something we can do," Josie snapped. Her fingers hadn't stopped untangling the yarn, even while dreaming up her food fight plan, and the ball was almost completely rewound.

  Betty looked at Helen. "Will you talk some sense into Miss Civil Disobedience?"

  "It's too soon to plan any retaliatory actions. We need to know what we're objecting to first. If it's bad, then we can come up with a plan of action." Helen gave Josie a stern look. "One that doesn't involve any literal fights."

  "Okay," Josie said cheerfully, returning the neatly rewound ball to Helen's lap. "We won't take it to the streets until you tell us you've run out of other options for dealing with the man."

  "Good," Helen said, although she knew Josie would just come up with another wild scheme if she didn't get the right answers to the nursing home residents' concerns and get them quickly. Helen sympathized with the urge to do something—anything—to fix problems, but she was trying to accept that sometimes there just weren't any solutions, and nothing a person did would change that. She hadn't quite made it all the way to acceptance when it came to fixing her health issues, which was, she knew, part of why she'd been so irritable lately. Fortunately, she didn't think the situation was quite that hopeless here at the nursing home. There were answers to be found here, and the problems, whatever they were, could be fixed with a bit of hard work and determination.

  Helen left the neatly rewound yarn ball in her lap next to her abandoned cap, so she could concentrate on a realistic plan for resolving the nursing home mystery. She knew Lily was doing her best with her inquiries, but she was two hours away in Boston, and so were most of her contacts. She'd get answers eventually, but they might not come quickly enough to head off a catastrophe. Surely someone here in Wharton would know exactly what was going on.

  It dawned on her suddenly that she hadn't seen Geoff Loring, reporter for the Wharton Times, recently. He often hung out at the nursing home where the residents were a rich source of leads for the personal interest stories he most enjoyed writing. "Have you talked to Geoff Loring about your suspicions? It's not his usual type of story, but it's in his best interest to keep the management here from changing. The new owners might not give him such free access to the people living here."

  "He's out of town." Betty started casting on the stitches for a new cap with the leftover turquoise yarn. "On vacation."

  "Learning to meditate." Josie had picked up her own project, and her crochet hook was moving too fast for Helen to follow. "Don't be surprised if he closes his eyes and starts chanting the next time he sees you."

  Geoff still hadn't forgiven Helen for his run-in with some thugs during the investigation of her first visiting nurse's death. His injuries hadn't been her fault, but he had come to associate her with danger to himself, and he generally did his best to avoid her.

  Betty smiled. "He'll be relieved when he gets back next week to find out he missed Danica's murder investigation."

  Josie leaned toward Helen. "So, do you know who killed her?"

  "I'm sure the police will figure it out." Helen had to force herself to sound convincing. She'd thought she was fully confident in Almeida's work until the possibility had arisen that someone she cared about—two someones actually: Kolya and Spencer—might be a prime suspect. Still, Helen had no reason to believe either of them would be unfairly treated. She didn't need to do anything more than she'd already done by encouraging Mia to cooperate with the investigation. She might have a word with Kolya on the same subject later on if she saw him at his House of Sambo, and Tate would make sure Spencer wasn't charged with a crime he hadn't committed. There really wasn't anything more she could do.

  "Detective Almeida is probably already on the killer's trail. At the very least, she must have a longer list of suspects than I do. I've heard Danica left quite a trail of angry ex-boyfriends in her wake. I don't even know who they are."

  "Sure, you do," Josie said. "One of them, at least. You know Spencer Nagle. Tate's nephew's paralegal."

  Helen had seen, time and again, that Betty and Josie knew all about everything going on in town, despite being unable to leave the nursing home. She still couldn't figure out how they amassed all their usually reliable information.

  "I knew they were dating, but not that they'd broken up before she died. Are you sure?"

  "That's what we've been told," Josie said. "By what Geoff would call reliable sources."

  Betty nodded in agreement and glanced toward the windows that overlooked the front driveway. "His parents are here if you want to meet them."

  That would explain where Betty and Josie had gotten their information in this instance. "I don't want to bother them. I've heard they're not in the best of health."

  "They'd love to talk to you," Josie said, while Betty set down her knitting and headed in the direction of the windows and the line of wheelchairs in front of them. "They're worried the police are going to blame Spencer for what happened to Danica, and you can set their minds at ease."

  Betty returned with the couple. The woman was still spry, but an orderly pushed the wheelchair of the drooping elderly man who seemed to be focused on his knees. Helen didn't need an introduction to know that they were Spencer's parents. The man had Spencer's tall, broad build, although the muscle had softened with age. He also had his son's facial structure, with a strong jaw line and dimpled chin. The woman, while short and petite, had her son's cheerful eyes and sense of fashion. Unlike most of the women in the nursing home who wore clothes designed for comfort, she was wearing a tailored jacket and skirt with nylons and pumps with two-inch heels.

  Helen started to stand to give up her seat, but her hip locked, and she fell back into her chair.

  "I don't need a seat," the woman said, placing her hand on the shoulder of the man in the wheelchair. "I'm Karen Nagle, and this is my husband, Tracy."

  He didn't seem to be aware that he'd been introduced, so Helen focused on Karen. "It's nice to meet you. I've talked to your son a few times. He's lovely. And not just in his appearance."

  "Not everyone gets beyond the superficial with him," Karen said. "I'm glad you did, because we're hoping you'll take an interest in the murder of his girlfriend."

  Her husband grunted and waved his right hand a couple of inches above his lap.

  "Oh, excuse me," Karen said. "Spencer's ex-girlfriend. We never did like that woman, although she tried really hard to impress us, giving us gifts and bragging about her business successes. My husband was a much better judge of her character than I was. He always thought she was trouble. I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt since Spencer seemed happy and was so obviously smitten with her. All the way up to the very end."

  "When was that?"

  "It's a little hard to say for sure. Spencer tried to pretend everything was fine even after it was over, but we're only senile, not stupid. And he comes to visit every day, so we could tell right away that something was wrong." Karen glanced down at her husband and then nodded as if he'd said something to her. "That's right. It was about ten days ago. The relationship had always been rocky, but that was when it changed, and not for the better."

  That would have been right around the time Tate's nephew had observed the couple shouting at each other. Too close to Danica's murder for comfort, Helen thought.

  "Did you ever tell him you were concerned about the relationship?"

  Karen shook her head. "I wish now that we had, but there are some things that parents need to stay out of, and a child's romances is one of them. At least until things get violent. We were starting to think it was time to step in, but then, practically overnight, they stopped seeing each other. We were so relieved."

  "Any idea what caused the breakup?"

  "We'd like to think it was because Spencer finally saw just how bad she was. She had a temper, and she liked to pick fights just so she could have something to win. The last time we all went out to dinner together, she had a big argument with a waiter over her entree not
perfectly matching the description in the menu. And she'd already eaten it and told us it was wonderful. She just enjoyed harassing the waiter."

  "But she'd been like that from the beginning, I gather. What changed about her that made Spencer see the light?"

  Karen sighed. "I don't know. All I'm sure about is that things had been getting worse for a couple of weeks. Even Spencer thought so, and he told us he was worried about her not being herself. He thought she might have been ill or something. In the end, I think she hit him in anger, not the sort of playful swat a partner might do. He didn't say that's what happened, but it's the only thing I can think of that he couldn't have forgiven her."

  So much for Helen's theory that punching things at the gym might help to vent her anger and reduce her irritability. Danica had spent plenty of time hitting things at the Zubov House of Sambo, and apparently she'd still had enough anger left over to hit people after leaving the workout mat.

  The real question, though, was whether Spencer might have felt the same anger and lashed out physically in return. If so, it would definitely give the police a reason to suspect him of the murder. "How did Spencer take the breakup?"

  Karen wordlessly consulted her husband again. "Spencer was sad, but he'd apparently seen it coming, possibly from the very beginning. But even if he'd been angry, he would never have hurt anyone."

  "Not even if Danica goaded him?" Helen said, thinking of the way she'd picked on her sparring partner, trying to get him to fight her even when he was injured.

  Karen shook her head. "He would have simply walked away from her. He learned that lesson as a kid, taking martial arts classes."

  Helen hoped Karen was right, but a mother's character testimony wouldn't be particularly persuasive in a criminal trial. Still, it did raise another question. "Do you know if Spencer was a member of the Zubov House of Sambo?"

  "Oh, yes," Karen said. "He was one of the first to join. He's always talking about how great the owner is. Before the place opened, Spencer had been worrying that his desk job was going to make him fat. He'd noticed that one of his favorite suits no longer fit him right, and he'd tried some other gyms, but didn't trust any of the trainers that worked at them. He was thrilled to find Mr. Zubov."

  Helen was glad to hear that Kolya's reputation was gaining him customers, but it would probably have been better for Spencer if he hadn't ever been anywhere near where Danica died. His breakup with Danica gave him a motive for murder, but he wasn't the only one in that position, apparently, considering what Mia had said about her trail of angry ex-boyfriends. Helen was more concerned that his membership and training at Zubov's House of Sambo provided him with both the means and the opportunity to have killed her.

  Helen hadn't meant to worry Spencer's parents, but either her facial expression or her prolonged silence had given away her concerns. Karen took Helen's hand in both of her small, weak ones. "Will you help Spencer?" she asked. "Make sure the police understand he couldn't possibly have hurt Danica?"

  "He has a lawyer for that." Even Helen didn't find that fact as reassuring as she'd have liked. Tate was a good lawyer, but he was limited by the available evidence, which in this case seemed to be mounting against Spencer. "He'll let me know if there's anything I can do."

  Spencer's father made his right hand into a loose fist, raised it about two inches off his lap, and made a punching motion. His wife translated, "And then you'll help, right? Find the real killer and make sure he's locked up, so Spencer won't be blamed."

  "If it looks like Spencer's in trouble, I'll do what I can," Helen agreed, making a fist and shaking it with mock ferocity for Tracy's benefit.

  He gave her a weak smile, and his wife gave her a more enthusiastic one.

  Helen was glad she could reassure them a little, even if she felt guilty about possibly offering them false hope. Even assuming she could figure out who the killer was, there might not be anything she could do to get him charged with the murder. And she certainly couldn't punch the killer. She needed more lessons from Mia and Kolya before she could hit anything.

  * * *

  Helen took it for granted that Jack, with his superhuman sense of timing, would be waiting for her when she emerged from the nursing home, having pulled the car up to the very bottom of the stairs leading to the main entrance. He knew it would irritate her if he got out and stood beside the door to open it for her as if she were so decrepit she couldn't do it for herself, so he'd be waiting in the driver's seat, playing games on his phone, respecting her desire to be as independent as possible and not have a fuss made over her.

  Except the car wasn't idling in the driveway when Helen stepped out into the humidity of the summer afternoon. Jack himself was at the base of the steps, though, pacing up and down the sidewalk.

  As soon as he saw her, he rushed up the stairs to walk down them with her, ready to lend a hand, but not being intrusive about it. "I'm so sorry." His words came out in an anxious rush. "Zee came to pick me up for the trip to my house because she wanted to show off the handling on the van they'd purchased for their new business, and I was only gone for twenty minutes, not even the full thirty I'd planned, I swear. I left the loaner car in the parking lot, way far in the corner, where there's some shade, and it should have been safe from even the worst driver imaginable." He pointed in the direction of the far end of the building where the loading docks were.

  Helen walked with him to where she could see the white Subaru Forester across from the loading docks, parked facing out, and with the back end practically but not quite touching the overgrown landscaping. She headed across the hot asphalt to get a closer look at whatever had Jack so upset. "I can't imagine how it wouldn't be safe from other vehicles there. Unless some kid was using the wide open space to learn how to drive."

  His thin chest inflated with professional pride as he walked beside her. "Oh, no, nothing like that. It was definitely safe from any vehicles there."

  "But not from some other problem?"

  "No." He deflated again. "See, I always check all around the vehicle before I get in if it's been out of my sight for more than a few seconds. And when I saw what had happened, I knew you'd want to call the police."

  "It's that bad?"

  "You'll see."

  He refused to say anything more until they were within six feet of the car. "It's on the other side."

  He led the way, walking backwards around the front of the car, blocking her view even as she rounded the far end of the bumper. Finally, he moved out of her line of sight, his arms gesturing toward the passenger side door as if he were Vanna White drawing attention to a word puzzle.

  He hadn't needed to be so dramatic about it. There was no chance she'd have missed it. A quick glance was enough to draw her attention to deep scratches in the two passenger-side doors of the loaner vehicle.

  Not just scratches, she realized as she looked more carefully. They formed words, a message keyed into the paint. The back door read, DIE LIKE DANI, and the front door read NOSY BITCH.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "Are you all right, Ms. Binney?" Jack asked, breaking through her frozen shock.

  "I'm fine." Even though it was Helen's standard answer to that question, something she didn't have to even think about, she had to force the words out.

  Jack didn't look at all convinced. Still, he knew better than to fuss over her. He stayed as near as he could to offer his support if it was needed without quite going over the line into hovering.

  She handed him her phone, not trusting her shaking hands to hold onto it while she placed the call. "Detective Almeida's number is in my contacts. Might as well call her rather than 9-1-1 since there's no real rush for anyone to respond. The damage has been done, and the vandal is probably long gone."

  Jack made the call, and then they went over to have a seat at the picnic tables while they waited for Almeida.

  Helen couldn't recall ever seeing Jack quite this angry before, and she thought most of the fury was self-directed. "You didn't d
o anything wrong," she assured him. "No one could have foreseen this."

  "Still," Jack said, "I feel responsible. It's my job to keep you safe."

  She raised her eyebrows. "No, your job is to drive my car. I'm responsible for my own safety."

  "Okay, so keeping you safe is something I do as your friend," Jack insisted. "And I don't mean safe in general terms, just safe from anything related to the car."

  She could accept that much help from him, she supposed. Driving and cars were his expertise, after all, and she'd helped him in the past on matters that fell within her expertise, so it wasn't a one-sided relationship.

  Jack looked at the car again and sighed. "Even if you don't blame me, my cousin will. He's going to kill me for getting his car damaged."

  "My insurance will cover it. I'll sic my niece on them to make sure." Helen gestured for Jack to return her phone so she could make the call now that she was over the worst of her shock.

  Lily didn't answer, but Helen left a carefully worded voicemail message explaining about the vandalism without mentioning the threat that it contained. That extra detail wasn't relevant to the insurance and would only have caused Lily and her sister to worry unnecessarily.

  Almeida arrived about five minutes later and parked her SUV a few spaces away from the vandalized vehicle on the side that was undamaged. She got out and stripped off her navy blazer. Her white button-down shirt rapidly lost its crispness in the heat and humidity outside her air-conditioned vehicle.

  Helen waved as she left her seat at the picnic table to head over to the passenger side of her loaner car. Almeida had already made a circuit of the vehicle and squatted down to peer closely at the writing on the car's door.

  "Thanks for coming." Helen hoped she sounded more in control of her fear than when she'd had Jack make the call to report the vandalism. "I hope I didn't call you away from something more important. You did say things had been slow lately."