by Gin Jones
Tate had taken a huge bite out of his sandwich, so it took a moment for him to swallow it and respond. "What about the guy who owns the martial arts studio? I would think he'd be high on everyone's suspect list."
"Kolya Zubov didn't kill Danica."
"How do you know?" Some of the mayonnaise had dripped from the roll onto his hand, and he wiped it on his napkin. "He's certainly strong enough and skilled enough to kill someone. You saw how he picked up a massive leather recliner once with his patient still in it to carry him around the nursing home."
That had been a startling display of strength, Helen thought as she chewed her own bit of lobster roll. Kolya hadn't even seemed aware that he'd done anything out of the ordinary. "He doesn't have a motive, though. Danica was a protégée and likely to reflect well on him during an upcoming competition. Why would he want to kill her?"
Tate shrugged. "You always say it's important to keep an open mind during an investigation. Just considering all the possibilities."
Helen knew he was right, but she'd been mistaken about Kolya once before, thinking poorly of him, just because he did look a bit scary. She owed it to him to believe in him now. That wasn't a reason that Tate—or a court of law—would accept, though, so she settled for repeating, "Kolya didn't do it. I just know it."
"Whatever you say."
He hadn't added the "Ms. Binney" at the end, but he sounded as deferential to her as Jack always was. That was normal for Jack, but not for Tate. Not even when he was in a lobster-roll-fueled grateful mood. She didn't know how to make him be himself, but perhaps if she kept him talking about Danica's death, he'd eventually forget he was trying to sugarcoat everything.
"Kolya didn't kill Danica, but he's got a secret that he's reluctant to discuss, and that makes him a target during the investigation. I'm sure it's something completely innocent." Helen remembered some of the steamier stories Betty and Josie had come up with in the past about Kolya's possible whereabouts. "Or at least it's got nothing to do with Danica's death."
"Want me to have a talk with him?"
"You?"
"I do have some interrogation skills, after all."
"I know that," Helen said. "It's just that you've never shown any inclination to use them now that you're retired."
"If you don't want me to, I won't." He peered at the second half of his sandwich as if it required all of his attention.
Helen wasn't fooled. He was never that fascinated by food, not even his favorites. He was pretending not to care about their conversation. Why didn't he just tell her what was on his mind? She was almost annoyed enough to consider Josie's suggestion of a food fight to get his attention. Although, it would be a shame to waste any food that came out of the Seafood Shack.
Perhaps Tate realized that holding back wasn't getting the reaction he was hoping for from Helen, because he wrapped up the remainder of his sandwich and leaned back in his seat to look at her with his full attention. "It's just…"
She held her breath, waiting for him to finish his sentence. Probably another lecture on not taking any risks and not getting herself arrested by Detective Hank Peterson. Or by anyone, for that matter. Landing in jail wouldn't be any more pleasant if it was Almeida who filed the charges.
Instead of finishing his sentence, Tate dropped his gaze and got to his feet. "Never mind. Thanks for the lobster roll. But now I'd better get back to work. And I'm sure you have things to do."
Helen frowned. He was trying to get rid of her. He did that all the time, but this was different. He was doing it nicely. No complaints about how she was always interrupting his hobby or dragging him back into a career he'd long been looking forward to retiring from.
"What is wrong with you?" she asked, getting to her feet and stomping over to where he already stood beside his lathe.
He paused in the process of draping the ear protection around his neck. "What's wrong with me?"
Helen nodded, not sure she wanted to know the answer. She had a bad feeling that what was wrong with him was her.
He picked up his goggles and fidgeted with the strap. She recognized the move for what it was: buying himself some time to rehearse and edit whatever he was going to say. If he needed to find just the right words, then he wasn't planning to tell her what he really thought.
Her anxiety skyrocketed. Tate could operate the potentially dangerous lathe and talk at the same time, so what was so difficult about answering her question?
The ability to think on his feet and to sort in a flash through all the pros and cons of anything he might say in front of a judge or a jury had been absolute necessities in his previous career, and he'd been very, very good at his job. The fact that he needed to take some time to think now meant that he had a lot of complicated thoughts running through his head. He shouldn't have to filter his words with her. He could tell her straight out what was wrong. He always had before.
Tate finally had the goggles adjusted to his satisfaction and he placed them on his head. "Look, there's nothing wrong with me. I'm fine."
Hearing her own favorite two words tossed back at her was unsettling. She was almost never fine when she claimed to be. Although, to be fair, sometimes she was.
So, which was it with Tate?
"Thanks again for the lobster roll," he said. "I won't keep you any longer, though. I'm sure you've got better things to do than watch me work."
Helen sighed. Tate was good at being superficially nice. She'd seen him charm people at the courthouse and other professional venues, but he'd never bothered to put on his social mask with her. It was part of why she'd been so attracted to him.
She considered responding in kind—she had years and years of experience with being oh-so-nice to people when she'd have preferred to dope-slap them—but that wouldn't fix anything.
No, all she could do for now was to continue to be herself. Tate was no fool, and eventually he would see that his excessive niceness wasn't either appreciated or necessary, and he might as well tell her whatever was on his mind no matter how troubling it was. She just hoped he would have his epiphany while there was still a chance for them to work together to find a solution.
* * *
Helen left Tate alone with his woodworking, so he wouldn't have to put on a happy face for her. Not that she could have seen his expression while he was working, when the most revealing parts of his face were covered with oversized goggles. Maybe she should get him one of the high-tech face masks she'd seen in one of his magazines, the kind that covered the user from forehead to chin, so he could truly be inscrutable.
Back inside the cottage, Helen settled into her recliner with a purring Vicky on her lap. She called Lily to see if she had any information on what was happening at the nursing home.
"I can't quite put my finger on it," Lily said. "All I can tell is that it's not for sale, but something big is happening, and the director of the nursing home is at the center of it."
No wonder Martha had been away from the office so much recently. Anything that affected her boss also affected her too, since she claimed—and rightly so—that the bulk of the actual work done at the director level was done by her.
"Any guesses about what's happening? Even if you can't confirm them?"
"Not a solid one." It sounded like Lily was wandering around her condo, moving household accessories to a new spot, then deciding she liked them better where they'd been originally and putting them back. She'd done that as a child too, working off her frustration by redecorating whenever she'd felt stymied in whatever project she'd been working on, as if any action was better than no action at all.
Next came the sound of Lily dropping into an upholstered chair. "There are several basic explanations for this kind of commotion at a nursing home, but I can't begin to say which one might be involved here. It could be either some really good news like major funding for a new program or some really bad news like an investigation into accounting irregularities. Whatever it is, my instincts are telling me it should come to a
head in the next forty-eight hours, but everyone's being really secretive about it. That secrecy, all by itself, is suspicious. Quite a few people are involved in whatever's going on, so there ought to be someone just dying to spill the beans, but no one is talking. Not even whispering. Just silently fake-smiling at me. I hate that."
Like aunt, like niece, Helen thought. If Tate didn't start acting more like himself soon, she might have to sic Lily on him.
"Still, it's useful for me to know that Betty and Josie aren't imagining things." If Lily hadn't been able to get any solid answers, it was probably because the locals had closed ranks against an outsider. "Now that I'm sure something is going on, I can follow up with some of my own contacts."
"You've got time to do that?" Lily asked suspiciously. "You aren't too busy with…oh, I don't know…investigating the murder of a certain young athlete who died in the shower of the gym you just happen to belong to?"
Helen should have known the news would get back to her nieces. "Adam's a blabbermouth. Sometimes I think you're only dating him so you can seduce information out of him about me."
"Getting the dirt on your escapades is just a nice bonus," Lily said, her voice sounding dreamily soft. "I don't need a reason to seduce Adam."
Now that Lily was distracted with something other than her aunt's possible meddling in a police investigation, it was time for Helen to end the call. "Oh, sorry. Here comes Jack. I've got to go."
"Wait," Lily said, her voice back to its normal sharpness. "I've got a favor to ask in return for the work I've done on the nursing home."
Helen knew better than to make any open-ended promises. Not paying close enough attention was what had gotten her saddled with her first, disastrous visiting nurse. "What favor?"
"Nothing you'll find too burdensome," Lily said. "It's about Adam. Sort of. He's really worried that the police will blame his paralegal for that young woman's death. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that Spencer was dating her, and it was a rocky relationship."
"I'd heard about that. From Tate, in fact. Not because I was interfering with the police investigation. Did you know that Detective Almeida has been assigned to it?" She could hear Lily start typing, so Helen added, "The full name's Eleanor Almeida. Do you need me to spell it for you?"
"No, no," Lily said distractedly. "I've found her bio at the Wharton Police Department website. Junior detective. I'm guessing that means she doesn't have much experience."
"She's young, but that just means she doesn't have any bad habits yet. As far as I can tell, she's doing a good job of resisting Hank Peterson's terrible advice on how to investigate a crime."
"Still, I'd feel better if you talked to Spencer about accepting some help to make sure he doesn't become a suspect. He keeps saying he doesn't need anyone to talk to the police for him. Maybe he'll listen to you."
"That's all you want me to do? Convince him to let Tate help him?" Helen asked. "I've already got a few other suspects in mind. I could have a little chat with them too."
"I would never ask you to do anything that would get you into trouble," Lily said. "And don't pretend that I did. In case I wasn't clear before, I am emphatically not asking you to find Danica's killer. I just want someone to knock some sense into Spencer's stubborn head, and if anyone can do that, it's you."
"Does Adam know you're asking me to get involved?"
"Not exactly," Lily said. "He doesn't need to know. He'll probably think you're just doing what you usually do. You don't have to lie to him, just don't volunteer that I asked you to do it."
"Are you worried that Adam will think you're interested in Spencer?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Lily said without even the briefest of hesitations. "I'm not doing this for Spencer. I'm doing this for Adam. And for myself. He's been too worried about Spencer to come visit me in Boston. We talk all the time, of course, but he's been distracted. I want to be the only person who distracts Adam. Once he stops worrying about Spencer, I'll be able to do just that. Maybe take him away for a long weekend somewhere special."
"So it's not Spencer's good looks that has you so concerned about what happens to him?"
"I'd say 'what good looks?' but you've always been too good at detecting my lies," Lily said. "No one could fail to notice how handsome he is, but I'm not interested in Spencer romantically. He's a great sounding board, especially when I'm frustrated because you're doing something crazy and you won't listen to me. He knows how distressing that can be since he's caring for his parents and he has to be the mature one in the family."
"Shared interests can lead to intimacy," Helen said. "That's what brought your Uncle Frank and me together and kept us together for so long."
"That was you, not me," Lily said emphatically. "Spencer is gorgeous, but there are a lot of gorgeous people in the world. Some of them are even as nice as Spencer is too, but I don't love any of them. I love Adam."
"I'll talk to Spencer," Helen said before ending the call. She hadn't gotten any solid answers about what was happening at the nursing home, but the rest of the conversation had gone better than it could have. She was particularly pleased that Lily had finally admitted how she felt about Adam. And pleased that she was so firm in her conviction. Adam was clearly head over heels, and until now, Helen hadn't been entirely sure her niece had equally strong feelings.
And yet, Helen couldn't help thinking that relationships were more complicated than Lily believed. With luck, her niece would never learn differently. When Helen had been Lily's age, she'd been married to her ex-husband, and things had, indeed, seemed simple enough. They'd loved each other and been committed to a shared future together. And then the next thing she'd known, it was twenty years later, and they'd grown apart and were on the verge of separating permanently. At least she hadn't experienced a great deal of uncertainty about their relationship at either the end or the beginning. Not like Kolya and Mia were going through, with their longing glances and fear of rejection. And not like she herself was experiencing with Tate at the moment, wondering what he wouldn't tell her and how she could get him to open up.
Her ex-husband had never had to be cajoled to share his thoughts, and while she could play that kind of game if she had to, she really didn't have the energy to do it these days. Certainly not on a regular basis. If Tate didn't break down and tell her what was wrong by the end of the week, she was going to have a serious talk with him, even if it meant pulling the circuit breaker on his woodworking studio, so he couldn't hide behind the noise of his lathe.
But first, she was going to have a serious talk—and perhaps a metaphorical slap upside the head—with the equally stubborn Spencer Nagle.
That might actually kill two birds with one thwap of her cane, she thought. Despite Tate's claim to be happily retired, he did appreciate a legal challenge. If Tate could throw himself into the task of representing Spencer, he wouldn't have time to be so nice to Helen, and their relationship could go back to normal.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Adam Bancroft's law office—previously belonging to his Uncle Tate—was in a weathered-looking cape not unlike Helen's own cottage, except that it was on a tiny lot in a more urban zone with few trees.
Neither Tate nor Adam cared much about the appearance of their office space, certainly not compared to some of the lawyers who'd worked for Helen's ex-husband. When she'd first consulted Tate about a restraining order, the reception area had been dingy and dusty with only the bare minimum of bland but functional pieces of furniture. That had begun to change within days of Spencer Nagle's hiring. The leather-upholstered armchairs had been cleaned and conditioned, the faded plaid sofa had been reupholstered in a neutral gray tweed, and the clunky beige business phone had been replaced with a streamlined, black one with a video screen and a dozen flashing lights. Spencer's vintage wooden desk had apparently been sent out for refinishing since Helen's last visit and now was almost as eye-catching as the man behind it.
Although, she realized, Spencer didn't look quite himself tod
ay. He still had the intensely blue eyes, square jaw, and cleft chin that made people stop and stare at him. But there was a cut on his neck where he'd cut himself shaving this morning, some puffiness around the eyes that made him look older than his mid-thirties, and noticeable wrinkles in his beige linen jacket. Even more atypical was his failure to coordinate his Bluetooth equipment with his clothing. The red accents in the headset clashed with the orange in his tie.
Spencer might be claiming he wasn't concerned about being a suspect in Danica's death, but his sartorial lapses spoke much louder than his words. He was definitely worried about something.
"Hello, Ms. Binney." Spencer stood to greet her. He was always formal in the office. For all she knew, he was equally formal in private and had referred to Danica as Ms. Darling. "What can Mr. Bancroft do for you today?"
"Nothing." Helen gestured for him to sit again, so she wouldn't have to crane her neck back to look up at him. "I'm here to see you."
Spencer's grin seemed forced, but at least he made the effort as he settled back into the new desk chair upholstered in a blue that came close to matching his eyes. "Are you sure? I was hoping you'd have some work for the boss. You know how much I like telling lawyers what to do. It's definitely a major perk of being a paralegal. Especially an indispensable one like me."