A Draw of Death (Helen Binney Mysteries Book 3)

by Gin Jones

  If their odd behavior wasn't anything to do with her health, then what on earth could the girls be hiding? Was there a problem with Laura's pregnancy? She was past the riskiest first trimester. She was one of the lucky women who glowed during the pregnancy, and she'd had little in the way of morning sickness or other annoying symptoms. Maybe it was Lily's secret then. She never had problems with her work, so what if it was something more personal? Was her new relationship with Adam Bancroft foundering perhaps? Long-distance relationships, even just across 100 miles, could be difficult. If they were having problems, Lily might not want to put any stress on Helen's friendship with Tate by complaining about his nephew.

  Finally, the babbling faded. Laura opened her mouth to start up again, but Lily pursed her lips and shook her head.

  "Anyway," Lily said, "it's life as usual for us. We'll have some speakers' names for you by the end of the week and a full background check on Nora Manning sooner than that. But you have to keep your end of the bargain. I expect to see your schedule in my email by tomorrow morning. Otherwise, one of us is coming down there to stay with you until the killer is caught."

  "You'll have it." The screen went blank as the girls disconnected.

  That had been almost too easy. Helen might have complained more about the extra oversight, but the fact was that she had nothing much on her schedule for the rest of the week, so it would only take two minutes to summarize it.

  The only thing she planned to do that might be interesting at all wasn't the sort of thing that went into a daily planner. Most of her time for the foreseeable future was going to be spent stewing over who could possibly have stabbed Vic Rezendes at four in the morning.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tate's parking space was still empty the next morning, so Helen went straight to where her own car was warming up. She expected to see Jay and Zee in the front seats, but the wiry, bald person behind the wheel was their Uncle Jack.

  "What's up?" Helen asked as she climbed into the front seat. There were a few flurries in the air, but Jack had trusted his niece and nephew to chauffeur her around town in worse weather. "Are Jay and Zee still trying to fix the security system at Vic's gates?"

  "They finally straightened it out yesterday." Jack left the car in park and turned down the heat so he wouldn't have to shout over the fan. "I told them to take today off so I could talk to you. Zee didn't like being sidelined, so of course Jay complained too, although I think he was secretly pleased he could spend the day looking for casting calls online."

  "Shouldn't you be working on your clay figures?" Cyber Monday was rapidly approaching, and that was a big day for his sales.

  "I've got a batch of figures in the kiln and another batch waiting to be fired. I can afford a couple of hours off to drive you to the grocery store and wherever else you need to go today."

  "Lily didn't put you up to this, did she?" Helen said. "I swear I started to write out my schedule for the week before I went to bed last night, just like she asked. There isn't much on it, though, besides a trip to the grocery store and a visit to Betty and Josie. That's hardly worth sending."

  "Haven't talked to your nieces since…oh, never mind. That doesn't matter. I'm not here on their behalf." Jack turned in the seat, leaving the car idling. "It's about Jay and Zee."

  "You don't have to worry. I've been very happy with their driving. They always show up on time, drive safely, and are courteous without being intrusive. They're doing you proud."

  "I knew they would," Jack said. "They're good kids. But not everyone sees them that way. People don't see past the bad reputation of the Clary clan."

  "Marty Reed doesn't seem to care."

  Jack waved his hand dismissively. "He's practically a Clary himself. Married one of my cousins. He's not the person I'm worried about. It's Hank Peterson. You know how he feels about me. And he's not much more enthusiastic about anyone else with my last name."

  "Still, there's no reason for him to bother Jay and Zee," Helen said. "They've been too busy working for me and Marty to commit any crimes. And in their free time, they daydream about going to Hollywood, so they're not out carousing in bars or anywhere else they might get into trouble."

  "You and I know that, but I'm afraid of where the investigation into the Rezendes murder is heading."

  "Toward Jay and Zee?" Helen said. "I thought they were focused on Tate's niece."

  Jack thumped the steering wheel in frustration. "That's as crazy as blaming Jay and Zee. But the thing is, I heard that they're convinced it was one of the people working on the renovations. That narrows things down to just Stevie and her crew, and Marty and his crew."

  "Which consists of Jay and Zee."

  Jack nodded. "Plus, there's some suspicious stuff about the alarm system. Jay looked at the history of its usage, and for the last week it was like clockwork. On at 8:00 p.m. and then off the next morning at 8:00. Except Vic didn't turn it on Saturday night. Or else someone sabotaged it before then, which is what the cops think, because by the time the body was found, the system wasn't working properly."

  "The whole system or just the gates?"

  "I'm not sure," Jack said. "The gates had been wired with an intercom before Vic bought the place, but there wasn't any security system for the house itself. Marty installed a camera at the gates and then the house security. Everything connects into the same controls inside the house."

  "Do you know why the system wasn't working?"

  "Disconnected wires in the main controls."

  "Could they tell if it was just something that wiggled loose, or was it done intentionally?"

  "For the gates it could have been simple wear and tear. The original system was old, and it's always tricky adding on to existing wiring. Marty wanted to completely replace it and start over fresh, but Vic insisted on doing it the hard way." Jack absently reached up to adjust the rearview mirror. "The house system was brand new, though, and Marty is nothing if not thorough, and so are Jay and Zee. That damage was definitely intentional. The problem was hard to find, because there was a lot of wiring, but it wasn't the sort of sophisticated sabotage that only an expert like Jay and Zee could do. It didn't take any real skill, just grab some random wires and yank. But I bet Peterson won't see it that way. He'll assume it had to be Jay and Zee, just because of their last name."

  "I'm guessing they don't have an alibi for four in the morning."

  Jack shook his head. "They were at home all night. They told me they were searching online for jobs in California and hanging out at an online forum for jobs in the film industry until around midnight. Their computer histories would confirm it. But after that, they can't prove where they were. They had to get up early on Sunday to work at the mansion, so they got a late snack and went to their rooms—alone—around 1:00, and were out cold until 6:00. They can't even really alibi each other, since they're pretty sound sleepers and wouldn't hear the door opening in the next room."

  That didn't sound encouraging. As long as Peterson was in charge of the investigation, Jay and Zee were going to be viewed with suspicion. "There's a new detective working on the case. Eleanor Almeida. Is she local?"

  "The name doesn't sound familiar."

  If Jack hadn't heard of Almeida, she had to be from out of town. "I'll have a talk with her. If she's not already biased against your clan, then maybe she can keep Peterson from jumping to any unsupported conclusions. Although, that might require her to handcuff him to his SUV, considering how fast he is to leap in the wrong direction."

  "It's probably too late for that," Jack said. "Peterson's probably already warned her that Clarys engage in all sorts of petty mischief, generally as juveniles. Records may be sealed, but not Hank Peterson's lips."

  "Still, it wouldn't hurt for me to have a chat with Detective Almeida." Helen said. "But first, I'd like to talk to Marty and see if he can tell me anything more about how the alarm system was vandalized and when. That might be enough to give Jay and Zee an alibi, at least for whenever the wires we
re pulled. If they didn't sabotage the system, there's nothing to link them to the murder."

  Which, unfortunately, put Stevie back in Detective Peterson's crosshairs. "Marty's probably at the mansion," Jack said. "The people milling outside the gates have been setting off the alarm there non-stop now that it's fixed, so he's trying to see what can be done to make it a little less sensitive, at least temporarily."

  "Let's go then," Helen said. "The groceries can wait, or I can ask Jay and Zee to pick them up for me while I'm visiting the nursing home later. If we miss Marty, there's something else I wanted to check the last time I was there, and I didn't get the chance. Maybe I can do it now." Except, first, she'd have to remember what it was. Something other than the cat, something she'd been looking for when Nora and Detective Almeida had interrupted. Something to do with…

  Helen sighed. It was no good. She knew she'd forgotten something, but she couldn't remember what it was. Her memories were acting like shy creatures, sort of like Vic's cat, so that trying to force them to come closer only caused them to burrow more deeply into the shadows.

  * * *

  The flurries had stopped by the time they arrived at the mansion. The lavender fan-van had been moved so that it was parked perpendicular to the street. The rear end was well into the marshy wetlands, putting the vehicle at risk of sinking if the cold weather abated and the ground thawed.

  Jack parked facing the van's passenger side so Helen could get out on the firmer ground on the edge of the asphalt. Yesterday, she'd only seen the other side of the van, which was painted with the poker reality show's logo and the official fan club designation. On the passenger side, they'd painted a grid, four squares wide and three squares high. Each of the outer squares was dedicated to a different participant in Betting with the Pros. Each one contained a crude portrait of the celebrity with some item that was apparently associated with that particular player. The place of honor—the two middle squares—was reserved for Vic Rezendes. They contained a much better executed portrait of Vic and the image of five cards consisting of what she now recognized as his lucky hand, a "broadway."

  On the other side of the road, a pair of TV camera vans blocked her view of the front gates and promised to spit out eager reporters to interview anyone who came near. To avoid them, she would have to stay on the opposite side of the road from the gates until she passed the fan-van. She kept an eye on the uneven ground, watching for any depressions where water might have collected and frozen into black ice. Judging from the various depressions in the ground, it looked like joggers and even an occasional biker appreciated the relative solitude of the dead-end road, although she couldn't understand why they didn't stay on the asphalt instead of veering onto the uneven dirt surface next to it. Perhaps it was less of an impact on the runners' bones, but the softer surface had to be considerably more difficult for a biker. Of course, that could have been viewed as a bonus to a dedicated cyclist, since anyone on a bike out here was likely using it for exercise, not for basic transportation.

  Despite the increasingly chilly air, a square folding table had been set up on the far side of the van. Six people with black armbands around the upper sleeves of their parkas were seated around it, playing poker. Stuck in the ground between the van and the table was a hand-lettered protest sign on a wooden stake. It read, "Occupy Vic's Place." The short, pudgy man she'd seen earlier with the black band covering the transition between his long, dark hair and his bald spot, was sitting closest to the road. The back of the headband had slipped down to the nape of his neck, revealing that the long hair was indeed his own and not an odd wig. As Helen approached, he threw down his cards and stood, knocking over the folding chair. It missed hitting her by a fraction of an inch.

  She must have made a startled sound, because he whipped around and said, "I'm so sorry. Didn't see you there. So sorry."

  "My fault. I didn't mean to sneak up on you. I was admiring the artwork on the van."

  "Pretty cool, huh? Pretty cool."

  Helen gestured at the VIC2WIN license plate. "I gather Vic was a particular favorite."

  He nodded solemnly. "It's a real tragedy. He was a great man. A great man."

  "Even so, I'm surprised you're still here. Three days is a long time to hold a memorial vigil."

  He pointed to the "Occupy Vic's Place" sign. "It started out as a memorial, but now we're committed to making sure the police do their job and arrest Vic's killer. We want to be sure he gets the justice he deserves."

  "What about your families and jobs?"

  He waved his hand dismissively. "Our families understand our priorities. And most of us work in virtual offices, so it doesn't matter where we are physically. Except on the weekends, for tournaments, of course. But we're hoping there'll be an arrest by then."

  Such a dedicated group of fans might be a good source of information on Vic's professional enemies. "How well did you know him?"

  "As well as anyone did. As well as anyone." He held out his hand. "I'm Larry Warner, by the way. President of the fan club."

  "Helen Binney." She was reluctant to take her hand out of her parka's nice warm pocket, but she needed his cooperation. His hand was every bit as icy as she'd expected. "You must have an idea of who wanted Vic Rezendes dead."

  "That's the thing, the thing that doesn't make sense. No one hated him. No one." Larry watched the people at the card table as a new hand of poker was dealt and the game continued without him. "They might have envied his ability to follow his own favorite piece of advice, 'never draw dead,' but you don't kill someone over that."

  "Draw dead?"

  "You know. Draw a hand that can't win, no matter how well it's played. He was a lucky son of a gun. Lucky, lucky, lucky."

  Until, of course, Vic had drawn dead in real life, where no one got the chance to recoup past losses and make a comeback. "Did anyone think his good luck was suspicious? That he might have been cheating?"

  "Not Vic." Larry adjusted the strip of black fabric that had slipped down until it served more as a blindfold than as a headband. "Never Vic. An outsider might have wondered if he was on the up and up, but not anyone who knew him. The man was just lucky."

  "What about all the shouting matches he had on Betting with the Pros?"

  "That was nothing." He waved his hand dismissively. "An outsider might think he was a jerk but not anyone who actually knew him, not even the players he supposedly hated. The trash talk was all scripted. He'd work it all out in advance, and then announce that some A-list celebrity who claimed to be a good poker player was just a poser, and then the A-lister would come sit in on a game with him and Vic would win the pot, and they'd both get some press out of it. Trash talk sells."

  Still, no one was universally liked, especially in competitive situations like poker and reality TV. The set of Betting with the Pros was like competition squared.

  Helen's skepticism must have shown on her face, because Larry added earnestly, "It's true. You'll see when everyone from BWTP shows up for his funeral. The fake fights have been well documented, at least among the real fans. Only the casual viewers got it wrong."

  "If no one involved with the show had a reason to kill Vic, then who did?"

  Larry shook his head, causing the headband to slip again. It would have fallen all the way down to his neck if it hadn't caught on one ear. "I don't know. I wish I did, but I just don't know. It's frustrating, not being able to help find who did this. So frustrating."

  Helen struggled to find something encouraging to say, but she couldn't bring herself to claim that he could count on Hank Peterson to nab the culprit. "I'm sure Vic would have been pleased to know how much his fans cared."

  "That's not enough. Not anywhere near enough in return for all he's done for us."

  "Actually," Helen said. "There is one thing you might be able to do for him. His cat got loose, so if you see it, you should let Vic's assistant know about it."

  "Vic had a cat?" If Larry were playing poker right now, the excited anticipation
on his face would cause everyone else to fold. "Are you sure? I never heard about him having any pets. In fact, about six months ago he was quoted as saying he made sure never to have ties to anything that would make him go home in the middle of a winning streak. That meant no spouse, no pet, and no real estate. He lived for the game."

  "He obviously changed his mind about owning a house, so maybe he got the cat at the same time, and the news hadn't leaked yet." Helen had to wonder if Vic might have also acquired a spouse no one knew about. If so, there was at least one person who was a more likely suspect than Stevie.

  "I'll spread the word about the cat. Looking for it is the least we can do for Vic. Least we can do." Larry took a step toward the poker table and then paused. "Wait. What does it look like?"

  "Tortie-colored Maine coon cat."

  He looked at her blankly, apparently as clueless about feline jargon as Helen was about poker terms.

  "Large, long-haired cat with a mottled black and orange coat. No white."

  "Got it."

  At the poker table a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair was claiming the chips in the middle of the table. Larry took advantage of the break in the game to start rallying his troops to search for Vic's cat.

  Helen braced herself to run the gauntlet between the two television vans idling on either side of the gate.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The two reporters, one male and one female, both young and carrying a microphone, jumped out of their respective vans to confront Helen. As if they'd practiced it, they both shouted simultaneously, "Are you a friend of the deceased?"

  "I didn't know him well enough to give an interview." Helen caught a bit of the fans' excited chatter behind her as they prepared to honor their idol by finding his beloved pet. "I'm here for the cat."