Two weeks later, everything at the Danger Cove Historical Museum was as perfect as I could have wished.
Gil was dancing around the lobby singing "O Tannenbaum," alternating between English and German lyrics, while she waited for Dee to throw the switch that powered the strings of lights on the tree in the middle of the room. The mayor, Edward Kallakala, was mingling with his constituents at what had turned into Danger Cove's premiere social event of the season, and Elizabeth Ashby was keeping to the edges of the crowds, observing everyone and writing in her red-and-green notebook. Even Carl Quincy was there with his service dog.
The background music faded, the ceiling lights dimmed, and the twenty-foot tree sparkled with twinkling white lights, dozens of miniature wooden lighthouses, and hundreds of the red-and-white quilted ornaments. Apparently some of the quilt guild members had continued to make them at home until yesterday, when volunteers on ladders had hung them all.
A discreet sign next to the tree announced that there would be an auction to sell the ornaments on the Saturday after New Year's. According to Gil, the high preregistration numbers for the event were dancing in the heads of the museum's board of directors with more sparkle and allure than the more traditional visions of sugarplums. I had the Scrooge-like thought that the interest in the ornaments might have had more to do with the public's fascination with anything associated with murder than with an appreciation for either miniature quilts or the museum. Trying to hold on to the spirit of the season, I reminded myself that regardless of the buyers' motives, the money was going to a good cause.
Once the oohing and ahing over the tree had subsided, Gil called out for everyone's attention. "I promise not to keep you away from the refreshments much longer, but I have to thank everyone who worked on the ornaments for the tree."
There was a round of polite applause for the volunteers, and then Gil continued. "I also have a surprise announcement. You all know about the tragedy that occurred here a few weeks ago. It was a sad day for the town, the museum, and the quilting community. We can't undo what happened, and there's nothing that will take away the pain of that day for anyone who was involved. Still, I'm honored to announce that the Tree of Life quilt, made by Meg McLaughlin's mother, Sally McLaughlin, and subsequently preserved by Georgia Miller, has been donated to the museum."
A collective appreciative gasp filled the room.
"I know it will be difficult to look at the quilt without thinking of the tragedy surrounding it. But tragedy is part of life, part of art, and part of the discussion that a museum should enable. I, for one, am looking forward to that discussion and encourage you all to watch for an announcement that the quilt has been released by the police to our custody. Jayne Conners has offered to do the necessary restoration work on the quilt, and we all know how amazing her craftsmanship is. When she's done, we'll have a special exhibit inspired by the people who made and cherished the quilt."
Excited but solemn chatter erupted until Gil continued. "I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that you can be among the first to know of the exhibit if you find us on Facebook or follow us on Twitter."
Gil ended her announcements with a reminder that there were refreshments set up along the back wall of the lobby, and there was a rush for the buffet table, where I suspected Officer Fred Fields would be first in line. He was here today unofficially and not in uniform, although there was something about his personality that made his civilian clothes—dark-blue trousers with a pale-blue button-down shirt and a navy bomber jacket—look like a uniform.
Gil danced over to me in time with the background music. "I hope you don't mind that I didn't mention your involvement in solving Alan Miller's murder. You already know how grateful I am, and I didn't think it was the kind of publicity you wanted for your appraisal business."
"I don't know," I said in a teasing tone. "My schedule has been surprisingly full the last couple of weeks. Perhaps I should start advertising that I include a free murder investigation with every appraisal."
"It wouldn't be that much of a stretch, linking quilts with death," Gil said, surprisingly serious. "I don't know as much about textile history as you do, but I've read enough to know that many quilts were associated with death. They were made by or for people who were fighting a terminal illness or made to commemorate a death. I even read about one famous quilt where the center of it depicted a graveyard, complete with coffins labeled with deceased family members."
"I've seen pictures of that quilt," I said. "And it's not like the coffins were a way for a serial killer to keep track of her victims."
Gil laughed. "Are you sure? Perhaps the police missed it, just like they would have missed Meg's connection to Alan Miller if you hadn't gotten involved."
"Maybe after the holidays I'll look into it," I said. "The coffin quilt was from the early eighteen hundreds, so I don't have to worry about being threatened by the killer, if there was one."
Stefan, with Sunny beside him, interrupted to tell Gil that a potential new donor wanted to talk to her. Gil headed off to introduce herself to a white-haired man in black jeans with an expensive-looking jacket and tie.
"Thank you for…" Stefan glanced at Sunny. "For doing what you promised to do. I knew I could count on you."
Sunny gave Stefan a playful punch in the arm. "You don't have to be all mysterious about it. I know you were worried about me and asked Keely to watch out for me. You've got to stop being so protective of me."
"No, I don't," Stefan said with a big grin. He reached out and grabbed Sunny's left hand to display the antique diamond engagement ring on her finger. "This says I'm entitled to protect you just as much as you're entitled to protect me."
"Congratulations," I said.
"We're not actually getting married until next year," Sunny said. "It will take that long to get everything just right."
If anyone could arrange a perfect wedding, Sunny and Stefan could do it.
"We're keeping the celebration small, but you'll be on the guest list," Stefan said. "It's the least we can do after you helped keep Sunny out of jail."
Sunny reclaimed her hand. "You might not want to mention my going to jail too often or too loudly. People might get the wrong idea, and I am trying to run a small business here."
"No one would ever think you belonged in jail," Stefan said, completely ignoring the fact that he'd been afraid of just that when he'd begged me for help.
"Enough talk about jail," Sunny said. "Before Stef distracted me, I wanted to talk to you about participating in a new project at the quilt shop. We're working with the museum and the guild to make a reproduction of the Tree of Life quilt. We'll be raffling it off to raise funds for the museum. Don't worry—it will be clearly marked as a reproduction, right on the backing where it can't be removed by someone trying to pass it off as an antique. We thought you might want to help make it."
"I'm not much of a quilter," I said.
"You only need basic sewing skills," Sunny said. "Trudy has already volunteered to do all the really fussy work."
"Even so, I've been told I don't even know how to iron properly." I was tempted to ask if Jayne had agreed to help too, in which case I would prefer to stay far away. It was kind of her to offer to do the conservation work on the original Tree of Life, especially in light of her mentor's downfall. Someone else might have been a bit humbled by the experience—I'd heard that Jayne had quickly found someone else to serve as the source of the one true way to quilt and was still the same shrill, judgmental, and hypercritical person she'd been before. I definitely didn't need to be around that kind of stress.
The reproduction project was for a good cause though, and I doubted I'd ever get over my need to help people, even if I couldn't do it in a courtroom any longer. "How about if I help with choosing appropriate fabrics for the era, and I'll donate my time for an appraisal at the end to document it?"
Sunny turned to Stefan. "I told you she'd want to help."
"I know," he said. "I should have listened to you. You're always right. I'll try to remember that from now on."
"You can start by coming with me over to the buffet line." Sunny smiled and hooked her arm in his. "I told you the line would get too long if we came over to talk to Keely first, and look, it's longer than the tree is tall."
Stefan mumbled an apology as he let Sunny drag him toward the refreshments.
I was going to join them, except Matt appeared and offered me a mug of mulled cider. For once, he was wearing regular black wool pants and a button-down white shirt instead of his usual cargo pants paired with an oddly colored sport shirt.
Stefan had a valid point about Matt not living up to his potential most of the time, at least when it came to his appearance. He did clean up nicely. I had to wonder why he'd bothered though. Even if I was right that he was the new major donor for the museum, the one who had financed the local quilt registry for quilts with ties to Danger Cove, he wasn't the sort to brag about it. No, more likely Gil had probably convinced him to be here, looking like the online celebrity he was, knowing his presence would distract people from the recent tragic events.
"So," he said, "about that bank vault."
"What about it?" I still wasn't convinced he meant anything by his flirting. Sure, he'd been out of the country for the last twelve weeks, but with modern technology, that was no excuse for not contacting me. At a minimum, he could have sent a brief text from even the most remote areas of the world.
"So I'm still in the doghouse." He sipped his own mug of cider. "Maybe I can buy my way out with a tidbit of information you might find interesting about one of the people suspected of Alan's murder."
"And how would an arts reporter know anything about that?"
"A reporter never reveals his sources," Matt said. "It's about Jayne Conners. I bet you thought she was the killer. I certainly did."
"Just wishful thinking," I said. Jayne wasn't a bad person, so I was glad I'd never had a chance to confide my suspicions about her to Matt or anyone else. I'd told him about overhearing her give the police a false name, but not until after Meg was arrested, when we all knew Jayne hadn't killed anyone.
"Okay, tell me what you know about Jayne, and if it's good enough, we can talk about my bank vault."
"I know why she gave the cops a false name," he said. "She had an outstanding warrant, mostly for being stubborn, as only she can be. She'd ended up in a confrontation with a cop, claiming he was harassing her, because of course she never does anything wrong. She wasn't worried about her fingerprints leading to the warrant, because she figured that would take some time, and she could be taking care of the problem. She just wanted to buy herself some time for the police to find the killer before her name popped up in an outstanding warrant search."
"Okay, that's pretty good information," I conceded. "There's one more thing I need to know before I decide whether it's safe to let you into my vault."
"Sure, anything," Matt said. "If I don't have the answer, I'm sure I can get one. I am a reporter, after all."
"This won't require any investigation. I just want to know where you disappeared to after the quilt show."
"I didn't disappear. In fact, almost the exact opposite. Back before we met, I'd been negotiating with my old client, the travel website, to do a publicity tour that they could live stream." He gestured toward the case where the registry of Danger Cove quilts was stored. "One of the terms was that my fee had to be given to the museum, and for some reason that made it complicated. I got the call during the quilt show that they'd finally agreed to all my terms and wanted me on a plane that afternoon. Three months on the road, starting the next day. The events were live streamed, and snippets of them went viral. I figured you'd see me online and know where I was."
He couldn't have known that I avoided the internet as much as possible, since it was a known stress inducer. I tried to limit its use to reading my email and doing focused searches for information related to my appraisals, while carefully avoiding the chaos of advertising and newsfeeds and assorted internet kerfuffles.
It struck me that Matt had a lot in common with the quilts I appraised. In both cases, the first impression was based entirely on a pleasing appearance, but a closer examination revealed so much more—both good and bad. In a quilt, the imperfections were actually part of what made it so appealing, and I thought the same might be true of Matt.
He might not be perfect, but neither was I—no matter how much I tried. He deserved another chance to show that he meant it when he said he'd call me.
"Are you negotiating any other deals that would prevent you from visiting the bank vault in the near future?"
"Not a one," he said with a smile that could definitely launch a thousand trips.
* * * * *
Meet the local residents, explore our interactive town map, and read about the next Danger Cove mystery!
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Secret of the Painted Lady
Murder and Mai Tais
Death by Scones
Four-Patch of Trouble
Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai
Killer Closet Case
Tree of Life and Death
A Killing in the Market (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)
Killer Colada (coming in 2016!)
* * * * *
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
Elizabeth Ashby was born and raised in Danger Cove and now uses her literary talent to tell stories about the town she knows and loves. Ms. Ashby has penned several Danger Cove Mysteries, which are published by Gemma Halliday Publishing. While she does admit to taking some poetic license in her storytelling, she loves to incorporate the real people and places of her hometown into her stories. She says anyone who visits Danger Cove is fair game for her poisoned pen, so tourists beware! When she's not writing, Ms. Ashby enjoys gardening, taking long walks along the Pacific coastline, and curling up with a hot cup of tea, her cat, Sherlock, and a thrilling novel.
* * * * *
Danger Cove Quilting Mysteries
Four-Patch of Trouble
Tree of Life and Death
Danger Cove Farmers' Market Mysteries
A Killing in the Market
(short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection.)
Helen Binney Mysteries:
A Dose of Death
A Denial of Death
A Draw of Death
A (Gingerbread) Diorama of Death (holiday short story)
A Dawn of Death (coming soon!)
* * * * *
of the first Helen Binney Mystery
A DOSE OF DEATH
by
GIN JONES
CHAPTER ONE
If there was anything that annoyed Helen Binney more than people who tried to help her without waiting to be asked, it was people who were cheerful and efficient while they were providing that unwanted help.
At the moment, it was Helen's nieces who were irritating her. Laura Gray, the younger one, was cheerfully fluffing the sofa's pillows, while her older sister, Lily Binney, efficiently collected the used mugs from the coffee table and carried them to the kitchen sink. The two young women puttered around the cottage's great room that encompassed both the living room and kitchen/dining areas. They tidied things that didn't need tidying, put away things that Helen preferred left out, and just generally turned the comfortable space into a sterile box.
Helen watched her nieces from the safety of her recliner. "I like living here all by myself. It's a nice change for me after twenty years of running the governor's mansion. Go away and leave me alone."
"You don't mean that." Laura's response was as emphatic as her pillow-fluffing and rug-straightening. "We just got here."
Lily returned from the far side of the kitchen island. "She does mean it, Laura. But it doesn't matter. It's obvious that Aunt Helen can't live here alone, so she'll have to move in with one of us, where we can take care of her."
"You're talking as if I'm old and decrepit," Helen said. "I may be retired, but it was early retirement. I don't even qualify to join AARP."
"You're old in spirit," Lily said, coming to a stop behind the sofa, where she could stare down her aunt. "You always have been, according to Dad. And you admitted you were decrepit when you started to use a cane."
It wasn't her mind that was betraying her, it was her body, ravaged by a stupid, unpredictable disease. She could still count on her clear skin, thick brown hair and sharp brown eyes, but the rest of her was falling apart. Helen automatically glanced at the front door, where her cane hung from the knob, so she wouldn't forget to take it with her whenever she went out. It was a practical solution, but she hated the constant reminder of her limitations. Ever since she'd hit forty, her lupus had been taunting her, inflaming her joints, ruining her mood and stealing her independence.
"That's no way to talk to your aunt," she said, "calling me old and decrepit."
"It's the truth." Lily was naturally slender, with model-sharp cheekbones and an equally sharp mind that never forgot anything. "You're the one who told us always to tell the truth, never to hide behind the social lies that you were so good at before you decided to become a hermit."
"I was wrong." Apparently there was something worse than receiving unsolicited and unwanted help: having her own lectures quoted back at her. "Lies are good. You should tell more of them."
Laura, as soft around the edges as the pillow she hugged to her chest, sank onto the sofa. "It would be so nice if you came to live with me and Howie. I've always wanted an extended family for my children."
"You don't have any children yet," Helen said. "And when you do, you won't want me anywhere near them. Children hate me."
"I know that's not true," Laura said, her sweet, oval face becoming even more earnest. "Lily and I always adored you when we were children."
Helen adored her nieces in return, but she wasn't foolish enough to admit it right now. If she showed the least sign of weakness, she would find herself surrounded by grand-nieces and grand-nephews, and Auntie Helen would spend the rest of her life as an unpaid babysitter. She'd worked hard for the last twenty years, coddling one bunch of babies—her ex-husband and his cronies—and she wasn't about to replace them with a new set. No, her job was done, her career as the state's first lady was over, and she had every right to enjoy her retirement. Alone.
Laura smiled encouragingly, and there were still traces of the chubby little round face she'd had as a toddler.
Despite herself, Helen said, "I might be willing to visit you and your myriad of children occasionally."
"That would be lovely." By the look in Laura's eyes, she'd forgotten she was here to browbeat her aunt, and instead was daydreaming about the dozen or more babies she planned to create with her Howie.
"Never mind the babies," Lily said. "You need to decide which of us you'll live with."
"I'll disinherit both of you if you don't stop this foolishness right now."
Lily shrugged. "You probably disinherited us years ago and willed all your money to charity."
"You'll find out eventually." Most of her substantial estate was going to charity, but the girls had also been provided for. They obviously didn't consider being disinherited much of a threat, presumably because they knew she cared about them too much to actually do it, even if they did persist in helping her against her will. Whatever little leverage the threat gave her, though, was better than nothing. She was not moving out of her cottage.
"We don't need your money, Aunt Helen." Laura absently re-fluffed a pillow. "We have perfectly good jobs."
"Then how do you find the time to come bother me?" Helen said, struggling to get out of the recliner. This had gone far enough. It was time to show them to the door. "You should be at work, not spending half the day coming here to bother me."
"We don't work on Sundays." Lily said. "You know, forgetting the day of the week is one of the signs of mental disorientation."
"You are not going to commit me to a mental institution just because I sometimes lose track of the days of the week now that I'm not tied to a calendar." Helen leaned against the arm of the recliner, waiting for the ache in her hip to subside enough to allow her to walk without a pronounced limp. "Especially since I know that you work plenty of weekend hours, Lily Binney, so it's perfectly logical for me to expect you to be working on a Sunday."
"Very good." Lily smiled, her face still sharp, but no longer quite as worried. Lily had never had a sweet little baby face. By the time Laura was born, Lily had already looked and acted like a miniature adult. "You're still mentally alert."
"If anyone even thinks of committing me," Helen said, "I'll get out my Rolodex. You don't want to see what happens then."
"I know what you can do with a few phone numbers," Lily said. "I'm sure it's enough to strike terror in anyone's heart."
Laura ran out of pillows to fluff. "We just want to help, Aunt Helen."
"We don't want to commit you," Lily said, letting some of her frustration show, "but we really think you should come live with one of us so you aren't alone. It isn't safe for you here."
Neither of the girls would be easy to dissuade from their current plan. Lily was single-minded and thick-skinned. Laura was easily distracted, but also easily hurt in confrontations.
"I'm perfectly fine here." Why couldn't they see how happy she was here? The cottage had always been her refuge from her public life as the governor's wife. Vacation time spent here had given her the strength to get through the rest of the year, when she'd worked long hours charming all of her husband's constituents and cronies as he worked his way up the political food chain. "I've spent a good part of every summer here alone for a dozen years. You weren't worried then."
"It's different now," Laura said. "You're older."
"I'm forty-five," Helen said, struggling not to snap at the sensitive Laura. "That doesn't make me feeble."
"No," said Lily. "Your lupus flare-ups make you feeble."
Laura, who should have been used to her sister's blunt comments, still looked shocked. Laura patted Helen's arm. "It's just that you could have been hurt badly when you fell last week, and no one would have known you were in trouble."
"I'm perfectly fine," Helen lied. Her hip still didn't feel right, even though the bruise had faded, and the x-rays had ruled out a fracture. Standing just these few minutes, even leaning against the chair, had caused it to ache again.
"That's not what Dr. Jamison said," Lily insisted. "Your hip joint is already a mess with all the inflammation, and he wants to replace it before it's too late."
"Surgeons always want to chop you up, with the least little provocation," Helen said, although she knew they were probably right about the surgery. "What ever happened to doctor-patient confidentiality, anyway?"
"Dr. Jamison is just trying to help you," Laura said.
"Heaven save me from people trying to help me," Helen muttered. "Looks like I'm going to have to get out the Rolodex after all and call my lawyer."
"You don't have a lawyer any more," Lily said. "You only threaten to call one whenever you've run out of logical arguments. I still remember when you threatened to hire a lawyer to force me to eat my dinner."
Trust Lily to remember that. She'd been all of about four at the time, and Helen had been terrified her niece would starve to death while in Helen's custody, since Lily had refused to eat anything at all for twenty-four hours. Lily had been right not to eat, even if she'd been unable to explain why at the time. It had turned out that she had a stomach virus that would have been much worse if she'd eaten even a fraction of what Helen had pushed at her.
Now was not the time to dwell on past mistakes. She couldn't lose this battle. "This time I mean it. I'm calling my lawyer."
Helen shook off Laura's hand and headed across the great room for her desk, forcing herself not to limp, despite the pain in her hip.
"You don't have to do anything desperate." Laura trailed behind her. "Come live with me and Howie. We'll feed you and drive you where you want to go and spend lots and lots of time with you."
Helen was horrified by the prospect of all that help and would have said so if she hadn't known her niece was only offering what Laura, herself, would have found appealing in the circumstances.
Helen turned to face her loving, helpful nieces. "I've got everything I need right here, thank you. Including a bunch of things neither one of you can provide."
"Like what?" Laura asked.
"Solitude, for one," Helen said. "Peace and quiet, and no one to distract me from my hobbies."
"I didn't know you had any hobbies," Laura said. "Maybe we can do them together. I was thinking about learning to knit so I can make baby clothes."
Lily would never believe Helen was taking up knitting. She needed to come up with something that at least sounded plausible. Helen glanced in the direction of the desk cabinetry that lined the side wall and thought of the boxes hidden inside there, filled with the detritus of her political career. "Scrapbooking," she said. "I'm going to do something with all the pictures and newspaper clippings from my days in the governor's mansion."
"You'll hate scrapbooking," Lily said, ignoring her sister's disapproving look. "I'm giving you one last chance to decide for yourself which one of us you want to live with."
Even if Helen didn't want to live alone, it was an impossible choice. Laura would smother her with attention, and Lily would try to dictate Helen's every move, until one of them snapped. She crossed the room to settle back into her recliner, hoping her face didn't reveal the relief she felt at getting off her feet. "I am not living with either one of you. That's final."
"Something's got to be done." Lily stared at Helen for several long moments, apparently testing their respective resolves. Helen held herself still, refusing to blink, despite the sharp pain in her hip, vaguely aware of Laura's anxious glances back and forth between her sister and her aunt.
Finally, Lily picked up her purse with a frustrated huff. "If you won't move in with one of us, how about getting someone to come live with you?"
"I'm too old for a roommate." Helen caught sight of Laura's face going from worried to dreamy. "And I'm not interested in a lover."
"Why not?" Laura said. "Howie's got an uncle who's a widower. You'd love him."
"No matchmaking," Helen said. "Either one of you tries that, and I'll move to California, and your children will never, ever meet their great-aunt."
Laura looked stricken, and Helen tried not to care.
"What about a visiting nurse, at least?" Lily said. "Someone to bring you meals and monitor your prescriptions and just check in on you, to make sure you haven't fallen again."
"I don't need a babysitter," Helen said.
Laura, whose hurt feelings always healed as quickly and easily as they were bruised, perched on the arm of the recliner and leaned in for a hug. "I'm sure we could find a nice, helpful nurse who would stop by to visit you a few times a week. As long as you're okay, she'd just say hi and then leave right away. That wouldn't be too disruptive for you."
"Forget it, Laura. She isn't going to be reasonable," Lily said, heading for the front door.
"Leaving so soon?" Helen didn't trust Lily's surrender. She was a lot tougher and more single-minded than her sister, at least when it came to any subject other than babies.
"Lily is getting her suitcase out of the car." Laura's voice sped up, the words running together the way they always did when she was trying to forestall an argument. "She's going to move in with you. See, I can't, because of Howie. He wouldn't like it if I left him alone, and we're trying to get pregnant, so of course I have to be home when he is, and Lily isn't married, and she only has her job (Okay it's a demanding one.), but she does come home for at least a few hours a night, and so she's got to be the one who moves in with you, not me, although I would if it weren't for Howie and making a baby."
Laura ran out of breath and words, and looked away guiltily, but she didn't move from her perch on the arm of the recliner, effectively trapping Helen. Through the front window, she could see Lily wrestling a suitcase out of her trunk. She had to be bluffing. Except the luggage looked heavy, far more than she'd need for a single night's stay. If it was a bluff, it was a convincing one.
Maybe it was time to compromise. It would be easier to keep Lily out now than to evict her once she'd settled in.
First, Helen needed to get away from her reluctant guard. "Why don't you go help your sister with that suitcase?"
As soon as Laura stood up, Helen grabbed the lever to drop the footrest and free herself from the recliner. She met the girls as they returned to the front door, and blocked their re-entry. "Let's talk about a compromise. How often would this nurse person have to visit in a week to make you happy?"
Laura said "three" at the same time Lily said "five."
That was what they'd wanted all along, Helen thought with relief. A visiting nurse. "I could probably live with once a week."
Lily looked at Laura and they both said "three times a week."
Lily's hand tightened on the handle of her suitcase, signaling her intent to drag it over the threshold. "That's our final offer."
"Okay. Three times a week." Helen watched to see if Lily would release her grip on the suitcase. "But the nurse just pops in her head, makes sure I'm breathing and not bleeding, and then she leaves."
"Deal," Lily said, abandoning her suitcase. "We'll find the perfect nurse for you, and I'll take care of the payments through the account I manage for you. You won't have to do anything. You can enjoy your retirement, without any stress whatsoever."
"Right," Laura said. "We're here to help you, after all."
Helen understood, however reluctantly, that they were trying to help her. She even understood that maybe, just maybe, they were right in that she needed to have someone check on her occasionally.
But they didn't have to be so damned cheerful and efficient about it.
* * *
Just three days later, Lily and Laura returned. Helen had hoped it would take weeks, maybe even months, for them to find a visiting nurse, but she had agreed to the plan, and she was prepared to make the best of it, to keep her nieces happy. It was for her own good, after all, and she was confident she could handle the three brief visits each week.
The woman with them was tall, solidly built, and the softness around the edges of her face suggested that she was in her fifties. She wore standard white nurse's clogs, but instead of a white lab jacket or pastel scrubs, she wore bright purple pants and a pink smock printed with purple teddy bears. Even Laura, when she'd been five years old and at the peak of her pink-and-purple phase, would have considered the colors too silly.
Helen stared at the bright teddy bears for another moment. They might actually be a good omen. Lily had told her the nurse specialized in geriatric patients, which, in the absence of an autoimmune disorder specialist on the local agency's staff, was a reasonable choice for someone who could handle the wide variety of symptoms that a system-wide disease like lupus could cause. If the nurse thought her scrubs were appropriate for working with adult patients, though, she was probably as silly as her shirt, and Helen would have her wrapped around her little finger in no time at all. Then she could enjoy her solitude again with minimal interruption and without hurting her nieces' feelings.
She stepped back from the door and let the three women inside, thinking that as soon as Lily and Laura left, Helen would have a nice, little chat with Nurse Goldilocks, and convince her that none of the bears in this cottage were "just right." No, the bears around here had sharp claws, huge teeth, and enough strength to tear a visiting nurse to pieces.
Once everyone was inside and the front door was closed against the chilly morning air, Laura said, "Aunt Helen, this is Melissa Shores. I'm sure you two are going to be the best of friends."
"Pleased to meet you, sweetie," Melissa said, folding Helen into a brief one-armed hug, overwhelming Helen's tense resistance. Finally, Melissa let her go and raised her six-pack of Diet Pepsi to eye level. "If you'll excuse me, though, I'll go put these in the refrigerator. Wouldn't want my soda to get warm."
No problem, Helen thought as she made her way over to the recliner. The woman wasn't going to spend enough time at the cottage to need a drink, warm or cold.
Laura took a seat at the far end of the sofa, leaving the spot closest to Helen empty. Lily remained standing behind her sister's shoulder, and said with fake nonchalance, "Melissa should have a set of keys to the cottage, in case you can't get to the door to let her in. I already gave her mine. The one you gave me a few years ago."
"I remember." Lily had wheedled it out of Helen during a weekend-long visit a couple years ago, and then had stubbornly refused to return it, using one excuse after another. "I gather the key wasn't permanently lost, after all."
"I found it in the last place I looked," Lily said with a straight face, and if Helen hadn't known her so well, she might have believed the innocent act.
"You know we're doing this because we care about you," Laura said.
Helen did know that, but it didn't change how much she hated being seen as needing help. "I suppose it's my own fault that you two turned out so bossy. I was a bad influence on you. I'll never understand why my brother ever let you visit me when you were young and impressionable."
"But we love you, Aunt Helen," Laura said.
Helen felt a brief pang of guilt, and then rallied. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder."
"Aunt Helen's trying to say she loves us too," Lily told her sister as she came around the sofa to pull her to her feet. "We should leave now, though, so she and Melissa can get to know each other."
The nurse was just returning from the kitchen, a soda can in each hand. Melissa saluted the girls with her soda, taking care not to spill the open can. She waited until the front door slammed behind them before turning her attention on her new patient.
Helen stared back. She had better things to do with her life than dealing with a babysitter. How was she going to convince the woman to leave her alone and not tattle on her to the girls?
Helen needed to gather more information on Melissa, just as she'd collected information on her husband's allies and enemies in her Rolodex, to find her weak spot. For now, all she was certain of was that the woman was older than herself. Her age probably explained why she was so obviously excited about a light duty assignment. She'd probably spent decades working hard at helping people. People who, unlike Helen, had wanted and needed that help.
Melissa set her two cans on the side table and sank into the sofa. "Now that your lovely nieces are gone, sweetie, we can really get to know each other. It's always hard the first day, to be without your family, dealing with someone new."
"I got over separation anxiety forty years ago," Helen said. "I don't need my nieces to make me feel secure."
"Good, good," Melissa said, sliding to the edge of the sofa, ready to get to her feet. "But I can tell you're nervous, sweetie. How can I help?"
"You can go away," Helen said. "I don't really need any help. I just agreed to hire a visiting nurse to make my nieces happy. All you have to do is pop in, confirm that I'm alive, and then leave."
"Oh, but my contract calls for a minimum one-hour visit," Melissa said. "More if needed."
"I won't tell anyone that you left early," Helen said. "You can bill the agency for your time, and I won't complain. You'll get paid, and I'll be left alone. Everyone wins."
"You want me to not do my job?" Melissa shook her head. "I can't do that. It wouldn't be right."
It figured, Helen thought. She had to get the one virtuous employee left on the planet, someone who was intent on providing an honest hour's work for an honest hour's pay. Helen would just have to make the most of it, looking for an angle to leverage the nurse out of her life.
Melissa didn't need much encouragement to spill her life's story. She had almost thirty years' nursing experience, mostly in geriatric settings, although she'd started at a children's hospital, where apparently her fashion sense had been formed and then frozen in time. Every so often, Melissa paused to chug down her Diet Pepsi. She finished the second can and retrieved a third from the refrigerator, all without ever expecting or even allowing Helen to get in a word herself.
As the mandatory hour ran out, Helen dropped increasingly blunt hints that it was time to leave. Melissa kept chattering as she emptied yet another soda can. Something more than mere words would be necessary to evict her.
Helen might not be able to wrestle the woman out the door, but Melissa had revealed her one weakness: her soda addiction. Empty the remaining cans down the sink, and Melissa would need to leave to replenish her supply. Then Helen could complain to the nursing agency that she didn't trust a nurse who demonstrated such appalling ignorance of all the health risks associated with diet soda. With luck, the new nurse might be more amenable to bribery.
Melissa was recounting a heroic rescue of an elderly patient, who probably hadn't even wanted to be rescued, when Helen decided she'd had enough. Surely, the mandatory hour was up, and if Melissa wasn't leaving, Helen was.
She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed the number of a car service.
Melissa stood and said, "Excuse me while I get another soda."
Helen waved the woman toward the refrigerator and listened impatiently for the phone call to be answered. The dispatcher picked up on the third ring, and Helen said, "I need a ride."
"Do you have a day in mind?"
"Yes. Today. Now. As soon as possible."
The dispatcher had apparently heard stranger requests, and didn't hesitate. "I'll send someone right away if you'll give me your address."
Helen gave her the information. "Tell the driver to hurry."
"Of course," the dispatcher said. "And where shall I tell him you wish to go?"
"I don't care."
"Excuse me?"
There was no time to explain. In another minute, Melissa would be refueled and watching her reluctant patient. If Helen wanted to leave, she had to go now. "Never mind. I'll tell the driver when he gets here."
"I suppose that will work," the dispatcher said. "He can call us with the itinerary. I'll just need your credit card information. We have a two-hour minimum that has to be paid up front."
Helen gave her the numbers and was hanging up when Melissa settled back on the sofa with two more cans of Diet Pepsi, one on the side table and one in her hand. "Now, where was I?"
"I don't know."
Melissa chugged down more Diet Pepsi while she thought about it, and Helen crossed the room to get her purse from the desk. Her favorite walking cane was right where it was supposed to be, hanging from the doorknob, reminding her that she should take it with her. She didn't use it often, but the last couple weeks her hip had been particularly unstable. Falling flat on her face in the front walkway, with both Melissa and the limo driver watching, would definitely ruin her dramatic exit.
Helen grabbed the cane and purse and carried them over to the window, where she could watch for the limo, while still pretending to listen to the nurse.
"Now I remember what I was talking about," Melissa said, setting down her soda for the moment. She launched another story, which Helen tuned out.
As long as Helen had a car and driver for the next two hours, she might as well do something useful. Mostly, she just needed time to think about how to get Melissa to leave her alone without upsetting her nieces unnecessarily. There had to be a way to offer her nieces some peace of mind, without having to endure Melissa.
She used to have people who could take care of this sort of thing for her, with a single phone call. A brief word with her ex-husband's security staff, or one of the lawyers he kept on retainer, and the problem would have gone away.
That was the answer, Helen thought, suddenly energized. Lawyers. She didn't need a whole fleet of them, like her ex-husband did. A single competent lawyer ought to be enough to handle one highly caffeinated, overly enthusiastic nurse.
A black Lincoln Town Car crunched along the gravel in the driveway, stopping with the passenger door directly lined up with the front path. A bald, wiry, dark-suited man emerged from the driver's side and headed for the cottage's front door.
"I'm going to see my lawyer," Helen said on her way out of the cottage. "Lock up when you leave."
* * *
"Quick, quick." Helen gestured for the driver to return to the front seat without waiting to usher her into the back. "I can close my own door. We need to get out of here before she comes after us."
"Most folks choose a less conspicuous vehicle for a getaway car, you know, but you're the boss." The driver climbed into the front. "For the next two hours, at least. They did tell you it was a two-hour minimum, didn't they?"
"No problem." Helen pulled the door shut behind her before checking over her shoulder at the door to reassure herself Melissa couldn't possibly stop them now. Melissa could call Lily to complain, but it was too late to do anything more than that. "Just start driving."
The driver put the car into gear and started down the driveway. "The dispatcher didn't tell me where we're going."
"To see my lawyer."
"Not planning on suing me, are you?" the driver said with a nervous chuckle.
"I'm not suing anyone at the moment," Helen said, "but it never hurts to be prepared."
The driver reached the end of the driveway. "Which way?"
Instead of answering him, she leaned forward to read his identification card on the dashboard, and said, "Are you from around here, Mr. Clary?"
"Call me Jack," he said. "It's too confusing otherwise. The Clary name is more common around here than Smith or Jones. You'll see, once you get to know the area."
She'd been spending summers here in Wharton for fifteen years now, and it was only now that she realized she didn't know much about the town. She'd always been delivered to the cottage by her husband's staff and then picked up a few weeks later, without ever leaving the property. It was different now. Wharton was her home, not just a vacation spot.
"Do you know any good lawyers?"
"My cousin Hank used this guy named Tate a couple years ago," Jack said. "He must be good, because he kept Hank out of jail, and if anyone deserves to be in jail, it's Hank. Along with his brothers. They'd probably be locked up, too, come to think of it, if they hadn't also hired this Tate guy."
A criminal lawyer wasn't what she'd had in mind—Melissa was a minor nuisance, not a criminal—but if the alternative was going back and being referred to as sweetie or honey or something equally saccharine, she might as well check him out. "Tate it is, then. Take me to his office, please."
Helen watched out the side window as the thick woods of the acreage around her cottage gave way to neighborhoods of large houses and only a few strategically planted saplings, and then finally to urban lots with more paving than grass. She recognized the approach to the center of town, and, while she'd never paid much attention before, it was probably where the local attorneys had their offices.
A few minutes later, Jack parked the limo in front of a weathered-looking Cape, not unlike Helen's own cottage, except that it was on a tiny lot in a more urban zone and no trees. There was a small paved parking area in front, a long handicapped ramp leading up to the main entrance, and a discreet sign on the building that read Tate & Bancroft, PC, Attorneys At Law.
The car door swung open, and Jack was standing there, offering Helen his hand to help her out of the back seat. He probably did the same thing for all of his customers, but it only reminded her that she wasn't the same person she'd been before the lupus had started to really act up. Before then, she'd have been out of the vehicle and halfway to the building's entrance by the time the driver could have unbuckled his seatbelt.
It didn't matter so much what Jack thought of her abilities, but lawyers worked in a world where image was everything. Their own image, their client's image, and even the judicial system's image. They knew it, but few realized how much they, themselves, were taken in by appearances and failed to see reality. Chances were that this Tate guy wasn't going to see Helen as the strong, smart, attention-grabbing person she used to be; he was going to see the decrepit, slow, and easy-to-ignore person she'd become. If that was all he saw, he might dismiss her as not worthy of his time.
Jack bent down to look inside the car. "Do you need help?"
"No." The lawyer might not have time to see her without an appointment, but if she didn't at least try to see him, she'd have to find somewhere else to go. She wanted to be sure Melissa would have left before they returned to the cottage. Being rejected by an attorney wasn't as bad as being accepted by Melissa.
Helen slid to the edge of the seat. "I can get out on my own, thank you."
Many people, especially in the service industry, would have insisted on helping, but Jack took a step back. She made a mental note to leave him an extra-large tip, as a thank you for respecting her wishes.