A Draw of Death (Helen Binney Mysteries Book 3)

by Gin Jones

  * * * * *

  Want to get an email alert when the next Helen Binney Mystery is available?

  Sign up for our newsletter today

  and as a bonus receive a FREE ebook!

  * * * * *

  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

  * * * * *

  BOOKS BY GIN JONES

  Helen Binney Mysteries:

  A Dose of Death

  A Denial of Death

  A Draw of Death

  A (Gingerbread) Diorama of Death

  Danger Cove Quilting Mysteries

  Four-Patch of Trouble

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  If you enjoyed this Helen Binney Mystery,

  check out the new Danger Cove Mysteries series

  SECRET OF THE PAINTED LADY

  A DANGER COVE

  RENOVATION MYSTERY

  by

  CHRISTINA A. BURKE

  &

  ELIZABETH ASHBY

  CHAPTER ONE

  "Sold!" yelled the auctioneer. "To the little lady in the ball cap. Hold up your number, please."

  I groaned inwardly. I'd just paid a small fortune for a Victorian over a century old. Would a little respect be too much to ask?

  "Name?" asked the auctioneer.

  "Alex Jordan, Finials and Facades Renovation and Restoration Services," I replied with a glance around. The courthouse steps had cleared out, and only a few die-hard flippers were there for the last sale of the day. Aging Victorians (I preferred to think of them as Painted Ladies) registered with the exacting Washington State Historic Society were not sought-after properties with this crowd. Most of these guys were looking to make a quick buck.

  Not that I wasn't in need of a payday, but I wasn't your run-of-the-mill flipper. Over the past two years, I had purchased three dilapidated Painted Ladies in my home town of Danger Cove, Washington, and painstakingly restored them to their former glory. I'd also sold them for a tidy profit. Two were now B&Bs, and one was owned by a wealthy antique dealer. Not too shabby for a little lady.

  Danger Cove was the perfect place to find bargains in the Victorian market. It was a quaint little coastal town just enough off the beaten path to make it interesting but close enough to Seattle to keep the tourists coming. Main Street, lined with shops and restaurants, fairly hummed with shoppers during the fall and spring. The town had its roots in the fishing industry, and many a fortune had been made at the turn of the last century, spawning the large estates of the wealthy families. Over time, ups and downs in the town's economy had eroded much of the old money, leaving the estates in disrepair. Opportunities abounded as long as there was money to invest.

  A black Cadillac roared up to the steps of the courthouse. The remaining buyers and the auctioneer gave a collective groan. Local real estate developer and Texas transplant, Jack Condor, liked big talk and big hats. He was wearing a glaring white ten-gallon number today.

  Jack stepped out of his car and waved a beefy arm at the auctioneer. "Current bid plus ten percent, Phil."

  Phil didn't seem to appreciate the familiar use of his name. "Bidding's closed, Mr. Condor."

  "Why, I say, Phil, that just can't be." Jack made a big show of looking at the time on his Rolex.

  "Oh, it be," replied Phil stubbornly. This wasn't his first run-in with Jack Condor. "And Miss Jordan's the new owner."

  Jack's face went red above his loud, checkered sport jacket.

  The man beside me tipped his I Brake for Brunettes trucker hat to one side and said to his partner, "Don't he remind you of someone? A cartoon character?"

  His partner cocked his head. "Nope, just looks like a big blowhard to me. Got his feathers all in a bunch."

  The man snapped his fingers. "That's it! He's like that big chicken from the Looney Tunes. What's his name?"

  I giggled and looked over at them. "Foghorn Leghorn?"

  "That's it! Big stupid rooster crowin' around the henhouse." Both men guffawed.

  Jack Condor scowled in our direction. I was able to remain straight faced, until the guy in the hat said loudly, "Bawk, bawk."

  I laughed out loud and sucked in air with a snort.

  Condor walked up the steps, saying, "I don't see what's so funny, Miss Jordan, about being party to an illegal sale. The auction was supposed to be conducted from four to five p.m. My watch shows 4:55."

  "I've been runnin' these auctions since long before you came to town," Phil cut in angrily. "I follow the letter of the law. Auction begins at four and continues until all properties are disposed of or five o'clock. Whichever comes first. Period." Phil gathered up his papers and stalked back into the courthouse.

  Condor turned to me, changing tactics with a sweep of his white hat. "Forgive me, Miss Jordan. I have a client who expressed a sudden interest in the property. A very wealthy client. I'm sure we can come to some agreement." He smiled winningly. He had the sparkling white teeth of a TV star.

  I tamped down another giggle. I just couldn't get that big rooster out of my head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Condor, but I've been waiting to buy Marlton House for months. It'll be my biggest restoration to date, and frankly, I stand to make a lot more than ten percent. Bring your client by when it's finished, and I'll consider an offer then."

  His smile faltered a little. "Twenty percent. Final offer." He stuck out his hand for me to shake.

  I shook my head.

  Condor withdrew his hand and pointed a long finger at me. "You've gotten lucky on a few junked-up old houses. That's not going to keep the wolf away from Grandma's door for long, missy. The whole town knows you're just one flop away from the poorhouse. This game's for the big boys."

  I could feel steam coming from my ears. "That so? Well, I'd put any one of my restored Vics against all your two-bit cardboard condos. This is what actual work looks like." I wiggled my calloused hands in his face. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you? Too busy strutting around town, crowing about yourself, and suckering people into houses they can't afford."

  The two guys behind me stepped up. The guy with the hat said, "You heard the lady. Now quit squawkin' and get walkin'. Make it quick, 'cause I'm getting a taste for fried chicken all of a sudden."

  Condor puffed himself up and turned on his heel. As he opened the car door, he spun toward me. "You'll regret this, Miss Jordan. I promise you."

  His threat hung heavy as the Cadillac roared away. The man in the hat patted my shoulder, saying, "Don't you worry about that fella, sweetie. Those outta-towners are all the same. Come in here actin' like big shots for a couple of years, and then the cove takes the wind out of their sails. We'll send that one packin' one day—mark my word." He nodded sagely.

  His partner added, "Yep. An' if not, my wife makes a mean chicken pot pie."

  They laughed all the way back to their pickup trucks. I mounted the steps of the courthouse and wondered if I'd bitten off more than I could chew.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, after what seemed like reams of paperwork, I had the keys to Marlton House in hand. The weather was still cool despite spring's official arrival last week. I was glad I'd worn a thermal shirt under my heavy corduroy jacket. So I wasn't a fashion plate. Not even close. My standard uniform consisted of a ponytail under a baseball cap, work shirt, jeans, and steel-toed boots. I'd been accused by my more mod friends of hiding behind my work clothes.

  They didn't understand that I was already working handicapped by my small stature in the good ole boy world of construction. No need to draw more attention to myself. And my generous curves had a way of attracting trouble all on their own. The few times
I'd ventured around town in anything but my work clothes had been a disaster. Case in point: the tube-top incident.

  To be fair to myself, my understanding of tube-top design had been limited to pictures of waif-like models in magazines. I now had an up-close-and-personal understanding of the less than supportive nature of the garment. Unfortunately, so did the checkout clerk at the grocery store.

  My phone vibrated. A glance at the screen confirmed it was my grandmother, reminding me to pick up the flowers. Despite being ninety-two, Janiece Jordan (don't ever call her Janice) had embraced technology. Gram hadn't married until she was almost thirty, and said she'd relented and married my grandfather because he could beat her at gin rummy and knew how to hold his liquor and his tongue. My father had been a late-in-life baby. But sadly, my grandfather had died of a heart attack before my father was out of diapers, and Gram had been left to raise him alone. Gram kept with the old ways, as in back when there was plenty of money and there were servants at the family estate of Rockgrove. She didn't feel our deteriorating financial situation should change her high standards, and she continued to run the household with the clockwork accuracy and attention to detail of a first-class hotel. Fresh flowers on Friday were a must. And not just any old flowers would do. They had to be from a specific local florist. Sigh.

  I didn't mind picking up flowers for Gram. In fact when Millie Mason was the owner of Some Enchanted Florist, I looked forward to it. Millie had been the town gossip, always having a little nugget of interesting information for her clients. I'd bought two of my houses because of tips from Millie. The new owner, however, was no Millie.

  I rounded the corner and nodded to two elderly women from Gram's quilting group. I crossed the street and glanced up at the sign for Some Enchanted Florist. I had to admit, grudgingly, that the lighted, professionally designed sign was an improvement on Millie's old hand-painted one. I also liked the display of grab-and-go bouquets on the sidewalk and the hanging plants beside the glass door. It made you feel like you were walking through a garden as you entered the store.

  No, there was nothing wrong with the shop. It was the new owner, George Fontaine, who grated on my nerves. His foreign mannerisms bordered on affectation. His glossy, perfectly coifed black hair. His ridiculous wardrobe. The man wore tailored suits to work in a flower shop! And he called me Alexandra. Nobody called me Alexandra except Gram. Yep, the man was a kook with a capital K.

  His mysterious appearance a year ago as the new owner of the shop had been a source of town gossip for months. Anyone new to Danger Cove drew notice, but George's cultured personality and upscale wardrobe had townspeople calling him "highfalutin." Not to mention, he didn't seem to know a whole lot about being a florist. Millie had agreed to stay on and help with the transition for a couple of months. And while Millie complimented his design ideas, she shook her head at his technique. He clearly had not been a florist by trade but offered no hints about his life before Danger Cove. Eventually, Millie's stamp of approval and his unfailing good manners and hospitality had been enough to win over the town. Unfortunately for me, once George had passed the town sniff-test, he was Bachelor Number One on Gram's list of eligible men. Gram's matchmaking was reaching epic proportions with the passing of each year. She just couldn't understand why I'd prefer digging around old houses to having a husband and a family.

  The tinkling of bells sounded as I opened the door. I was in olfactory overload as the scent of dozens of varieties of flowers hit my nose. George looked up. A beaming smile lit his face as he came out from behind the old-fashioned glass case with a wide Formica countertop.

  "I have something special for Janiece this week," he said without preamble. He walked over to the cooler and pulled out a large bundle of flowers. "Velvet pink dendrobium orchids mixed with all the usual suspects, of course."

  The flowers were beautiful as always, but I couldn't tell the difference between orchids and okra. Instead, I took the opportunity to look for flaws in his perfectly groomed figure. No dandruff on his wide shoulders. No gray hairs in his ebony locks. No smudge of yellow on his starched white collar. Not even a crease at the back of the knee on his linen slacks. How was that even possible? Unless maybe he kept his pants on a hanger and stood around in his underwear when there weren't any customers.

  I smiled at that. He turned around and caught me grinning. "She can smile," he said with just a hint of sarcasm.

  "Of course I can," I replied.

  "Just not around me," he said with a raised brow. Was that a shadow under his eyes?

  I glared at him. "I don't usually have a lot to smile about when I come in here." It came out a little defensively, so I added, "But today I do. I just settled on Marlton House."

  "My congratulations. Where is the house located?" he asked politely, but there was a weary note in his voice. Maybe business wasn't quite measuring up to his expectations. He didn't seem quite so lively today. "Forty-Two South Main Street. Just around the corner from here."

  George whistled softly. "That's some house. I'd love to get a look inside." He had stepped closer when he handed me the flowers, and I could smell his clean yet exotic cologne. I looked up and realized I'd have to crane my neck to make eye contact at this proximity.

  I took a step back, saying, "Yeah, you and Jack Condor both."

  He gave me an odd look. "How so?" His voice was casual, but there was an undertone of interest.

  I shrugged as I handed him my credit card. "He tried to swoop in and buy it out from under me at the courthouse. Luckily, he was too late. He even made an offer to buy it from me at a premium, but I'm not sure I'd have sold it to him at any price."

  George rang up my card and handed me the receipt. "Can't say I blame you. Never trust a man who buys his flowers at the Stop 'n Shop."

  Jack Condor didn't strike me as the flower-buying type. But I didn't have time to discuss the point if I wanted to do a walk-through of Marlton House. It was almost dusk, and the house didn't have the electricity on yet.

  "Thanks for these." I held up the flowers, turning toward the door. "Gram's going to love them."

  "Say, how about I accompany you to Marlton House?" George said smoothly. "I'd love to see inside, and I could hold the flowers." He smiled at me, and his eyes twinkled. I noticed a faint dimple in his right cheek.

  I glanced pointedly at his attire. "No offense, but you're not exactly dressed for the occasion. And don't you have to stay here until closing?"

  "These old things?" He waved a hand and stepped in front of me, flipping the sign over to Closed.

  "After you, Alexandra," he said, holding the door open and taking the flowers from my arms.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Although there was a chill in the air, the outdoor cafes downtown were filled near to capacity with tourists enjoying the last few moments of sunshine. My stomach grumbled as we passed the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery; I looked in longingly. I was starving, and a nice hot croissant would pick me right up. But time was wasting, and I had no intention of having a tête-à-tête with George.

  The wind picked up as we turned the corner, and Marlton House came into view. It was a true Painted Lady. The steep roof, circular tower, and porch with decorative gables defined it as a classic Queen Anne. The style was one of the more recognizable Victorian designs that blended a cottage feel with the unabashed adornment of the Victorian era. Right now, though, the Painted Lady was showing her age. Peeling paint, sagging roof, shingles hanging askew at odd angles. She needed a full facelift.

  "So what's your interest in Marlton House?" I asked. Aside from the occasional comment about a passerby, George had been silent on the walk over.

  "I'm from Boston originally, but my family moved around a lot. I grew up in Europe, London mostly, and I've lived in similar houses. Examples of European architecture of the period. It's interesting to see the American versions. Besides," he said, turning toward me, "these houses have character, and I'm a sucker for anything with character."

  He flashed a di
mple at me. I wondered briefly if he was flirting with me. "Well that explains your accent," I said to cover my flash of embarrassment.

  "What accent?" he asked. "I'm as American as apple pie." He held out his arms.

  I made a face. "Yeah, an apple pie wrapped in upper crust."

  He laughed at my joke. It was warm and throaty and left me even more uncomfortable.

  I was glad when we reached Marlton House. The overgrown shrubbery obscured the large plate glass windows that graced the front of the house. Only the heavy, weathered double door was visible as we wound our way around the brick walkway and up the dilapidated stairs onto the porch.

  George's Italian loafer crunched through a stair, and he stumbled. I glanced down at the scuffed shoe and dirty cuff of his linen pants. "This place's got character, all right. Could you try not to bust it up anymore than necessary? I own it now, remember?"

  George smiled sheepishly. "Will do." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dusted his pants off.

  I rolled my eyes. Who carried a handkerchief around anymore? Jeez. I fumbled in my pocket for the old-fashioned iron key. At the top of my to-do list was having the locksmith in to change the locks. The original ones provided almost no security. I noticed with surprise that a Realtor lockbox was attached to the front door. The house hadn't been available for viewings once it went to sheriff's sale last month. I hadn't been able to do more than peek in the windows and survey the grounds. Which made this flip riskier than most.