A Draw of Death (Helen Binney Mysteries Book 3) (15 page)

Before heading back to the gates, Helen detoured over to the side yard to take a quick look at the cameras on the exterior of the mansion. If anyone asked what she was doing, she could always claim to be looking for the cat.

Helen spent a solid five minutes searching the side of the house from a variety of angles, and she still couldn't see anything that looked like a camera. If, as she suspected, the killer had bypassed the gates and arrived by way of Freddie's property, he wouldn't have seen anything to scare him off. It was at least possible that an outsider had come from that direction, avoiding the need to deal with the locked gates or climb over the briar-infested stone walls. Unfortunately, it was also still possible that one of the workers had followed the same path. They would have known about the planned exterior cameras, but not that Marty had finished the installation, so they wouldn't have been worried about being caught on camera.

Helen took the long route back to the front gates, searching for the cat and any sign of trespassers who might have come through the woods between Vic's yard and Freddie's.

Helen continued along the tree line in the direction of the driveway. She caught glimpses of Freddie's white house and the van backed up to almost touch the garage, but no tortoiseshell cat or anything that would convince Hank Peterson to consider suspects other than the renovation crews.

Marty was still working near the gates, so Helen asked him to watch while she slipped through the opening so no unwanted visitors would get in. She needn't have bothered, since no one was paying any attention to the entrance. At first she thought it was because they'd figured out they could just go around the wall and through Freddie Wade's property, but then she saw the real reason. The heckler from the library event was walking toward the fan-van. He was dressed much like before, in dark corduroy pants, an off-white heavy sweater, and a bulky down vest. He even wore the same mutinous expression and rigid body stance that dared someone to engage with him.

Jack was over in front of the fan-van, mingling with the poker players, probably talking about game theory, instead of staying in the car and playing on his phone as he usually did while waiting for her. He had his back to the heckler and seemed oblivious to his presence.

She couldn't remember the heckler's name, but she'd had plenty of experience dealing with people whose names she didn't know. Her ex-husband had a phenomenal memory for names, so they had chosen a code word that let him know she needed a hint. If her memory didn't improve soon, she'd have to work out a similar arrangement with Jack, since he knew everyone in town.

Behind the heckler a pick-up truck was parked diagonally across the road. It was so thoroughly plastered with faded, peeling "Vote Yes on Question 3" stickers that it was hard to see the underlying black paint. Obscuring some of the stickers on the passenger door was a large magnetic sign advertising the Compulsive Gambling Recovery Group. In the bed was a jumble of picket signs with the same information.

The heckler apparently had no sense of self-preservation. Waving those signs in front of Vic's fans was like telling Hank Peterson that an amateur could investigate a murder better than he could. It was bound to end with someone in jail. Especially now, while the fans' emotions were already in high gear, it wouldn't take much to push them into doing something foolish in defense of their idol's reputation. They might well consider the anti-gambling signs to be directed at Vic personally, since he was apparently well-known for encouraging others to try poker, and he also had ties to the first casino built in Massachusetts.

Even the heckler seemed to realize he was asking for trouble. He had one of the signs in his hand, and he was hunched over, anticipating that he might become a target for rocks or other projectiles. Still, he abandoned the relative safety of his truck, heading in the direction of the gates. He walked slowly and with an extra bit of a hesitation each time he put down his right foot, as if he were still contemplating turning around. There was no lack of determination on his face, though, so the pause could just have been because he had an ingrown toenail or a callus, and it hurt when he walked.

Helen glanced back at the fan-van, but no one seemed to have taken the bait. At least not yet. The fans probably hadn't had a chance to finish their current hand, and the heckler hadn't had a chance to really get their attention. Only the two young reporters had noticed his approach. They were standing outside their respective vehicles, looking back and forth between the two camps. The reporters were tensed like runners at the start of race, waiting for the signal to run, except that the "finish line" in this case would be wherever the fight broke out. 

The fans might well oblige. Their idol Vic had never gotten physical with his opponents, but that didn't necessarily mean that they follow his example by limiting themselves to verbal sparring. Helen didn't know if the heckler was likely to do anything more than shout like he'd done at the library. Then, Terri's powerful presence had been able to keep him from getting physical, but she wasn't here today.

Jack was the next to notice the brewing trouble, and he hurried over to Helen's side. "I'm sorry, Ms. Binney. I was watching the game, and I didn't notice Donald arrive. I might be able to get around his truck on this side of the road so we can leave, but there's at least a 50/50 chance we'd get stuck in the wetlands. It's been cold recently, but not enough for the deepest spots to freeze solid."

Donald
.
That was the heckler's name.
And she hadn't even had to use a code word to prompt Jack. Just one more reason why having a driver was better than having a husband.

Along with Helen's relief came the rest of the name: Donald Glennon. Her ex-husband would have told her to use a mnemonic trick, spelling out the name with the first two letters of three words that described the person. Like GLasses, ENergetic, ANnoying. Spelled wrong, perhaps, but phonetically close enough to Glennon. She'd have to make a conscious effort to make those associations in the future if her brain didn't get its act together soon.

Meanwhile, she was the only one likely to be able to stop the impending battle. The reporters weren't going to interfere, at least not to reduce the conflict, and both Donald and the fans were too entrenched in their respective positions.

"Good afternoon, Donald." Helen exaggerated her limp slightly as she approached him. For once, it might be to her advantage to have someone think she was a weakling, not worth fighting with. "I was hoping we'd get a chance to talk. We haven't been formally introduced. I'm Helen Binney, and I'm on the speakers' committee for the Friends of the Library. I thought you might like to speak about your side of the gambling issue sometime."

He peered at her suspiciously. "Why didn't you ask me before?"

"I'm new to town and didn't realize we had an expert on the subject."

His defensively hunched shoulders relaxed at the compliment. "I've made it my business to know all the perils of gambling. I just wish I'd known more about it before my mother got caught up in it."

"I'm sure you did what you could. Perhaps we could go somewhere for coffee and talk about it."

"Oh, no." Donald planted his feet more solidly and winced briefly when his right foot hit the ground. "I'm not leaving here. Not until I've said my piece."

"Go ahead, then. Tell me."

"No, I mean…" He pointed in the direction of the fan-van. "I mean, I want to tell them."

And that was exactly what she didn't want him doing. Helen looked to see what the fans were up to. The long-haired one with the black band around his bald spot was claiming all the chips in the middle of the table, and the other players were standing up. 

"I'm sure they've heard you speak before," Helen said, "but I haven't. And I'm in a position to do something about gambling issues. Did you know I used to be married to the governor? I still have some influence there."

"Frank Faria?" Donald's face reddened, and he was practically running in place, shifting from foot to foot and wincing every time the right one hit the ground. She'd never seen anyone who was literally hopping mad before. "It's all his fault. He was supposed to veto the casino legislation. He'd done it before, but then he caved in the end. It's your fault too. You could have influenced him to do the right thing."

Jack moved closer so he could intervene if Donald became physical. It would be better if Jack stayed out of it, though. If a fight broke out, the local police would assume he had started it, just because of his family's reputation. She held a hand out to stop Jack.

"Perhaps if I'd known more about the risks, I would have been able to change Frank's mind." Helen nodded at the back of Donald's truck where the signs were piled up. "It's too late now to stop the casinos, but it looks like there's still mitigation work to be done. Why don't you tell me about your current project?"

"You really want to know?" His feet slowed down. "You're not just trying to shut me up?"

"I really want to know." Just not here in full view of the fans and the reporters. She needed to get him somewhere that was at least a little bit less confrontational. She tapped her cane. "I need to sit down while I listen." She'd prefer to be inside her nice, warm car, but it was too close to the fans, and letting Donald get any nearer to them wasn't a good idea. Sitting inside the cab of his truck wasn't a good idea either. She didn't think Donald would go so far as to kidnap her, but despite what Tate seemed to think about the extent of her common sense, she preferred not to take unnecessary risks. "Why don't I come on over to the back of your truck? I can sit on the tailgate while you tell me your story?" 

"I've got brochures," Donald said, as if it were a threat. Most people probably did recoil at the prospect of being handed political screeds.

She was made of sterner stuff. "You can give them to Jack to take back to my car while he warms it up. I'll read them when I get home."

Donald nodded and hurried over to drop the tailgate for her. He continued around to the cab to collect some of his brochures while she figured out how to climb aboard.

After her first attempt to scoot up onto the tailgate fell several inches too short, Helen let Jack help her into place.

Once she was settled, he said, "I don't like this. I should stay here with you."

"Donald isn't going to do anything to me," Helen said. "He's more likely to get aggressive with another man, and you've got too much work to do for your first Christmas in business to risk Detective Peterson throwing you in jail."

"I don't care." Jack was usually better about not helping her unless she asked, but sometimes he was as over-protective as her nieces. "I'm not leaving you."

He wouldn't believe her if she threatened to fire him, any more than her nieces believed her threats to disinherit them, so she said, "Fine. Just stay out of Donald's line of sight. And keep an eye on the fans and the reporters. Let me know if they start planning to storm the truck."

Donald emerged from the cab and handed a three-inch-thick stack of brochures to Jack before jumping up to sit next to Helen. He wasn't that much taller than she was, but he landed on the tailgate on the first try, with several inches to spare.

Show-off.

Helen quashed her irritation and said, "So, tell me about your mother and how she got addicted to gambling."

"It was the gaming industry's fault," Donald said. "They target vulnerable people, make them think gambling is the answer to all their problems. But it isn't. It's just the start. The next thing they know, their lives are ruined."

"From what you've said, your mother was a strong, smart woman," Helen said. "Are you sure that gambling was a problem for her? Isn't it possible she knew what she was doing, and she would have resented your telling her she couldn't have a little fun?"

"A little fun?" His voice rose. "She lost every penny she'd worked so hard for. She had nothing left in the end."

"She had you and your siblings," Helen said. "I'm sure she thought you were more important than money."

He snorted. "That's easy for someone like you to say. You've got more money than you'll ever spend. It's not so easy when you're living from pension check to pension check. And then you get sick. Poor people die from conditions that rich people survive."

"Is that what happened to your mother? She got sick?"

Donald nodded and his hands gripped his thighs just above his knees as if he were bodily preventing himself from leaping off the truck to go attack Vic's fans. "We'd have helped her out financially, but she was too embarrassed to tell us, so she kept putting off going to the doctor until it was too late."

"I'm so sorry."

He let go of one knee to brush at his face. "I can't help my mom, but I can help other mothers, other families, so it doesn't happen to them. We've got to make people more aware of the risks. I almost gave up hope when the anti-casino referendum failed, but then I met the founder of this new organization for helping gambling addicts. He's put together a great team. They really know what they're doing, and they've been showing me how I can help."

"I'm sure you and the organization are doing important work," Helen said. "But this isn't the right place to do it. Did you tell your new mentors that you were coming here today?"