A Draw of Death (Helen Binney Mysteries Book 3)

by Gin Jones

  "About what?"

  "The poker guy's murder."

  Geoff jumped to his feet. "Oh, no. I don't do crime stories. Tell it to someone who likes that sort of thing." He half-turned and saw Helen. "Tell her your story. I want nothing to do with it."

  "Okay." Peterson's uncle adjusted his wheelchair to face Helen. "Vic was drugged before he was killed. Hours before. Probably around midnight."

  Geoff covered his ears with his hands and started walking away. "La la la, I can't hear you."

  The uncle grinned smugly, looking exactly like his nephew, and then wheeled off to share what was presumably confidential information with everyone in the room.

  "You can stop singing now," Helen told Geoff. "Mr. Peterson has left for more receptive audiences."

  Geoff cautiously lowered his hands and looked around, relaxing slightly when he saw Peterson's uncle at the far end of the room telling his story to Betty and Josie. Geoff raised his voice, so everyone who'd remembered to wear their hearing aids could hear. "I don't know anything about the murder, and I am definitely not talking to you about it. All I know about Vic Rezendes is his reputation as a poker player. I only know about his living, not his dying."

  "So tell me about Vic Rezendes, the living legend." No one else had been able to give Helen an objective opinion about whether there was anyone in the gaming industry who wanted Vic dead. The fans thought everyone loved Vic, but Art thought a lot of people hated his boss and so did Nora. Unless, of course, they were just trying to perpetuate Vic's bad reputation for the same reasons that it had originally been fabricated: to keep people talking about him, on the theory that all publicity was good publicity. "Was he really as much of a jerk as he appeared to be?"

  "I don't know," Geoff said. "You got him killed before I did my interview."

  "I didn't do anything."

  "You don't have to." Geoff rubbed his right arm where it had been broken earlier in the year. "You just exist, and people around you get themselves killed."

  "That's ridiculous." Helen did feel a tiny, irrational bit of guilt over her first nurse's death, but that was the only one she'd had any real involvement with. "I'd never even heard of Angie Decker before I started looking for her, and I'd barely met Vic Rezendes."

  "All I know is that any time I'm working on a story and you get involved, someone dies." Geoff headed for the exit. "I'm not risking it."

  Helen followed him out of the room. "Wait, I had another question to ask you." Except she couldn't think of what it was. Stupid lupus fog. Geoff kept going, but she caught up with him at the desk. There was a line at the guest log, so he had to wait to sign out. He pointedly kept his back to her.

  "It's nothing to do with Vic's death." Helen remembered that much. Something to do with the library. No, not the library, the woman outside the library. That was it. "It's about Marianne. The homeless woman who hangs out near the library."

  Geoff turned cautiously. "What about Marianne?"

  "That's what I want to know. I'd like to help her, but I don't know if there's anything I can do. I didn't understand much of what she said to me."

  He relaxed finally. "That's Marianne for you. She's really smart—used to be a reporter, in fact, and did some award-winning investigative pieces, the type of work I definitely do not do. Scary, dangerous, life-threatening work. But then she developed some sort of mental illness, probably from spending too much time around people like you. And the next thing I knew she was homeless. Reporting isn't exactly a stable career these days, so no one's got any savings, and we're always living on the financial edge. When her problems first manifested, she could still work, but she handed in a few pieces that weren't quite up to scratch, so she didn't get paid, and then it snowballed from there. No money, so she couldn't get treatment, so she couldn't do the work that would generate some money to get the treatment that would enable her to work."

  "And now she's living on the streets."

  "Not entirely," Geoff said. "She goes to a halfway place to sleep and shower, but she doesn't trust anyone, so she spends as much time as possible outdoors."

  "Just being outside during the day is bad enough in this weather."

  Geoff nodded. "The librarians encourage her to come inside when they can. I think Marianne remembers her days doing background research there. She thinks of going to the library as going to work, like it's her job. She compiles whatever she reads into her little newsletters. It's so sad, really. You can see some of her intelligence still, but she can't quite get the various bits and pieces inside her to line up right. Her writings are full of conspiracy theories, but the facts don't add up to her conclusions."

  "Have you read her newsletter?" Helen said. "I couldn't make any sense out of it. She's afraid of some people she calls Lennias, but I couldn't figure out who they were. She said they were targeting me too."

  "Oh, don't worry about that," Geoff said. "Marianne can understand what she's reading, but only while she's actually looking at the page. Even a few seconds later, she only remembers bits and pieces of the article, and not necessarily the important ones. It took me weeks to figure it out, but the Lennias are millennials. What's been called the 'me, me, me' generation. If you look at her citations, they're all about millennials. Like the Time article that started by calling them lazy, entitled, selfish, and shallow."

  "Older generations always say that sort of thing about the next group to come along," Helen said. "I'm part of Generation X, and we've been called cynical, alienated, and skeptical of authority. I'll admit to the last one, but not the others."

  "You and I understand that the labels are just generalizations, not at all helpful when dealing with individuals," Geoff said. "But Marianne gets it all confused. You never know which bits of which articles she's actually remembering, and then it's like she plays Mad Libs with them, and connects them in some completely illogical way. My best guess for why she thinks the millennials will end the world is that she started with the idea that millennials, as a group, are less interested in environmental issues than prior generations. Then, she added in the various apocalyptic warnings about climate change, and somehow concluded that millennials, by not addressing these environmental issues, were going to cause the end of the world."

  "I can sort of see how she'd get there," Helen said. "But why would she think millennials were trying to kill her specifically? Not just end the world, which would incidentally involve her death, but actually focusing on her personally and assaulting her?"

  "That I can't explain," Geoff said. "I've never seen her afraid for herself. More like she's always anxious like the mythic Cassandra. Marianne believes she's warning about some impending disaster, and no one will listen to her."

  "She's definitely afraid now," Helen said. "And she's not just imagining the escalating threat either. She had some nasty bruises that looked like someone had hit her."

  "That is odd," Geoff said, absently rubbing his right arm. "If it were almost any other homeless person, I'd be inclined to suggest she'd been involved in some sort of altercation, but Marianne isn't like that. She's always cheerful, and she tries to help people. I've seen her pick up a twenty-dollar bill and go running to give it to the person who dropped it, without a moment's hesitation. Of course, I've also seen her pick up a discarded napkin and return it to the person who dropped it, which wasn't as well-received as the lost cash."

  "She said she'd reported the assault to the police, but I doubt they believed her. Besides, she couldn't—or wouldn't—say who did it, except the usual suspect: a Lennia. I suppose that would at least give the police an approximate age for her attacker."

  "Not really," Geoff said. "Somewhere along the way she forgot that millennials are people born in the 1980s or 1990s. Now anyone can be a Lennia if Marianne thinks they fit any part of the profile: lazy, entitled, selfish, or shallow."

  "I guess I should be flattered. She told me I wasn't a Lennia."

  * * *

  Geoff hadn't been able to tell Helen anything else
useful about Marianne, and he'd reached the front of the line to sign out before she could dig any deeper into what he might have known about Vic Rezendes.

  When she returned home, Tate's car was parked in its usual spot. Jack pulled in beside it. "I assume you're going to want to talk to him before you go inside."

  "Of course. The only real question is whether he wants to talk to me." Helen grabbed her yarn bag. "Meanwhile, don't worry about Jay and Zee. If it looks like they're serious suspects in Vic's murder, I'll make sure they have a good lawyer. Oh, and please let them know I'm going to want a ride tomorrow morning, the usual time."

  "Whatever you want, Ms. Binney." Jack locked up her car and waited for her to walk to the garage before he got into his own vehicle and left.

  The interior of the garage wasn't much warmer than the outdoors. From the chill in the air, she thought Tate must have just gotten here. It was almost 4:00, close to the time he usually left for the day. If he'd spent all day with Stevie instead of here in his woodworking studio, he had to be really worried. He'd certainly never taken a whole day off to keep Helen out of trouble.

  The fact that he was sitting in his director's chair and staring at the back wall instead of fidgeting with his tools only made her more concerned. He always claimed that woodworking, like Betty's and Josie's needlework, helped him to relax, but it didn't seem to be working today.

  Helen set her yarn bag down next to the door and climbed into her usual director's chair. She'd been meaning to buy a chair that fit her better and wasn't covered with sawdust, and have it set up out here, but it was one more thing that needed to go on the To Do list app that she couldn't remember to ask Lily about. She'd deal with it after Vic Rezendes's killer was caught.

  "How's Stevie doing?"

  Tate jumped, and then pretended not to have been startled. "She's fine. A lot better than I am. She's in denial, but I can see how bad things are looking for her."

  "Worse than yesterday? Did they find the murder weapon?"

  "Not as far as I can tell. They're still working on the assumption that it was a chisel owned by Stevie."

  "That doesn't make any sense," Helen said. "Why would she go there at 4 a.m., armed with a chisel?"

  "The tools were in the poker room. Stevie and her crew stored their toolboxes in there overnight."

  "Then anyone could have grabbed the tool to kill Vic, not just Stevie and her crew."

  "Not really. They were in a locked closet, and there were no signs of its being tampered with. According to Stevie, only she and Vic had keys."

  "Then Vic could have unlocked the door. Maybe he decided to play carpenter and opened up the closet to rummage around, and then the killer showed up to find all those convenient sharp pointy things right at hand, so he took advantage of one of them." That sounded a bit farfetched even to her slow brain, so Helen tried to come up with another possibility. "Or what if it wasn't a chisel at all, but something that Stevie didn't own?"

  "Like what?"

  Helen vaguely recalled seeing something recently that fit the description of a wide metal tip, sharp but not pointed like a knife. What was it? Eventually, it came to her: "A wrecking bar."

  "Stevie and her crew probably have a dozen wrecking bars, all told."

  "But only the one used by the killer would have traces of blood on it." Had the rust she'd seen on Marty's wrecking bar actually been blood? He had sneaked onto the property the day before the murder, after all. And he knew better than most just how easy it was to get around the gates. Maybe he hadn't been interrupted while testing the exterior cameras, but had intentionally failed to connect them. Still, she had trouble imagining Marty as a killer. The obvious way he worried about his clients' security couldn't be faked, and she couldn't see him turning into the very danger that he worked so hard to protect people from.

  "They're testing everything they found at the murder scene."

  "That's assuming the killer was stupid enough to leave it there, covered with fingerprints and DNA," Helen said. "There must be other possibilities for the murder weapon, who owned it, and where it is now."

  "You'd think so, but Peterson doesn't, and I don't have anything particularly convincing to offer. That's why I'm worried. The longer the police focus on their initial theory that it was someone who worked on the renovations, the harder it will be to get them to consider other options. By the time they do, evidence will be lost."

  That blindered approach sounded like Detective Peterson all right. Back when Helen's nurse had been killed, he'd been so convinced it was a burglary gone wrong that he didn't even consider any other suspects.

  Helen sat and stared at Tate, who, in turn, stared at the back wall. There had to be something they were missing. If the police couldn't find the murder weapon, she and Tate probably couldn't either. That left motive and opportunity. She'd discussed a number of motives with Betty and Josie, but they hadn't reached any definite conclusions, and there was no way to narrow down the suspects based on opportunity. Hardly anyone had an alibi for 4 a.m.

  Wait. What was it Hank Peterson's uncle had said about the murder? "I heard a rumor that Vic was drugged, probably around midnight."

  "I heard it too." Tate continued staring at the back wall, unimpressed with her news.

  "Shouldn't that make it easier for people to establish an alibi? More people are awake at midnight than at 4 a.m."

  "Not construction workers," Tate said to the back wall. "Stevie gets her crew together around 6:30 for some prep work before going to the site, and she doesn't tolerate tardiness or sleep-impaired employees. They should have all been in bed by 10:00, like she was, maybe 11:00 at the latest. They'd all volunteered to put in some overtime on Sunday to finally get the project finished, and she doesn't remember anyone looking particularly sleepy that morning."

  Helen hated even thinking it, but she had to ask. "What about Marty Reed and his crew?"

  "That's just as crazy as suspecting Stevie and her people," Tate said. "Marty never gets upset with anyone, and Jay and Zee are good kids, despite their family's reputation."

  "Did you know that Nora Manning, the gaming industry's PR person, has been staying at his mansion? She was there the night he was killed." Helen tried to find a more comfortable position on the chair. "I wish I could say she'd be a reasonable suspect, but I don't know why she'd want him dead, and she claims to have been at an open mic night at a local bar until well after midnight. If that's true, she actually has an alibi."

  "I'll check it out, just to be sure." Tate reached for his earplugs but only to fidget with the cords connecting them, much like a nun with her rosary.

  "What about Vic's neighbor, Freddie Wade? She really hated him and wanted him gone."

  "She didn't need to kill him to get rid of him," Tate said. "She had legal recourse, and she was doing a good job of pursuing it. It might have taken a year or two, but she was going to win the case. Most of the time when a layperson represents herself in court, she skimps on the preparation, but not Freddie. She is one determined, smart woman. I've seen some of her filings, and she had Vic dead to rights. Metaphorically speaking."

  "How was she going to prove he was doing more than just inviting a few friends over to play cards?"

  A hint of a smile appeared. "She did just what I would have recommended. She's keeping a log of all the license plate numbers that go past her house, complete with the time of day and the state that issued the plate. She had more out-of-state plates than in-state plates on the preliminary list I saw, and she claimed to have time-stamped pictures to back it up."

  "Was she still collecting the license plate numbers this weekend? She might have seen the killer's car go by."

  Tate stopped fidgeting with the earplugs. "You're planning to go ask her, aren't you? I already suggested it to Hank Peterson. You should let him do it."

  Helen waited a moment to see if he'd lecture her on all the ways that visiting Freddie would be a bad idea and lead to her getting arrested, but he didn't. She knew f
rom past experience that he would have gone on at great length about the risks if he'd really meant to discourage her. He'd done it often enough before.

  Tate always meant exactly what he said, and he chose his words carefully. He couldn't ask her to question Freddie in the middle of a police investigation, not without going against all his legal training. He had to warn her. But surely he also knew by now that a mild warning would only encourage her.

  Helen was saved from having to come up with a non-answer by the arrival of Stevie. She barged through the garage door, her hands raised apologetically. "I'm sorry to interrupt your woodworking, Uncle Tate, but I think we've got a problem, and you did say I shouldn't talk to the police without you being present."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  At first, Stevie hadn't even noticed anyone other than her uncle was in the garage, and Helen would have liked to keep it that way. Unfortunately, Tate was fully aware of her presence, and he explained that attorney-client privilege wouldn't apply if there was anyone else in the room.

  Despite Helen's curiosity, she wouldn't do anything to harm Stevie's defense. Tate would never forgive himself if he couldn't save her from being charged with murder.

  Helen slid off the director's chair and left them to their private conversation. She could always grill Tate tomorrow for any information that wasn't confidential. Meanwhile, she could work on an excuse to question Freddie tomorrow about her list of license plate numbers.

  First thing the next morning, Art gave her the opportunity she needed. He called to say, "I've run out of options. That cat is going to drop dead of a stroke if I can't get it back inside for its daily pills. It didn't actually eat the food with the pill in it yesterday, so it's been five days since the last dose, and I can't reach Vic's vet to find out how many missed doses will be fatal."

  "Have you tried trapping it, like they do with feral cats?"

  "That was the first thing I did after the police left on Sunday," Art said. "Broadway won't get near the trap, even when I put its favorite food inside. It's too busy teasing the fans by running back and forth on the front walls, just out of reach."