A Denial of Death (31 page)

The only answer Helen could come up with was that Charlene was in denial as much as Ralph was. It made some warped sense, actually, since they had both been subjected to Angie's psychological games. They were probably both so emotionally scarred they couldn't comprehend the possibility that she wasn't just messing with their heads again.

For the first time Helen actually felt a little sympathy for Angie. Her desperation to get some attention, to not be overlooked, had led to her driving a wedge between the only two people who liked her, which in turn had prevented Charlene and Ralph from comparing notes and realizing Angie really had disappeared, possibly in time to prevent her death.

*  *  *

The next morning, Helen puttered around the cottage restlessly, frustrated by her inability to get anything important done. Jack was unavailable to drive her anywhere today, assuming she came up with any leads or Charlene returned and could be questioned. Helen couldn't even pester Tate in the garage, since he was already doing whatever it was lawyers did when they were first retained on a criminal case. Paperwork and meetings, she guessed.

For once Helen didn't even mind Rebecca's arrival. The nurse's visit would help to pass some time while the supply of prescription medicines was reviewed and a blood pressure reading was taken. The information went into a laptop computer for transmission into some massive medical data bank, never to be seen again. Unless, of course, Rebecca was the snitch sharing too much information about Helen with Lily and Laura.

While Rebecca inflated the blood pressure cuff, Helen tried to distract herself from the uncomfortable squeezing. She didn't really need this kind of supervision, but it was a small price to pay to keep her nieces happy. Angie was the one who could really have used this kind of oversight, given her heart condition. Of course, Angie would probably have abused the nurse to the breaking point, and there'd have been one more suspect in her murder. Besides, a visiting nurse couldn't watch Angie every moment of the day. All the killer had to do was wait until the nurse stepped away from the patient.

No, what Angie needed was the fancy medical alert system she'd apparently gotten shortly before she died. Those systems were always watching, always right at hand. So why hadn't Angie activated the alarm to call for help?

The most likely answer was that she hadn't recognized the danger in time. That only made Ralph look more guilty. With anyone else, Angie would have been likely to hit the alarm at the first sign of trouble, but she might not have believed Ralph would hurt her until it was too late. On the other hand, it could still have been someone else, someone who'd sneaked up behind her and struck before she'd been aware of the danger.

A lot depended on how Angie was killed, and Helen didn't know the answer to that. She'd been too involved with figuring out the who and the why, that she hadn't stopped to think about the how. Maybe Tate could find out the cause of death as part of defending Ralph. If it didn't fall under client confidentiality, she might be able to wheedle the information out of Tate. What if she'd actually died of natural causes and someone had covered it up, thinking they'd killed her?

"Relax, Ms. Binney," Rebecca said. "You're tensing up, and that's going to mess with the reading. I'm going to deflate the cuff now and give you a chance to relax before I try again. I'll go check your prescriptions while you calm down."

"I've got plenty of drugs," Helen said. "What I need from you is information on a medical condition."

Rebecca smiled. "Really? I didn't think you trusted me."

"Of course I do." She completely trusted Rebecca's medical knowledge, if not her discretion when dealing with Helen's nieces. If the nurse had shared privileged information, it was really more Lily's fault than Rebecca's. Lily could be very persuasive and only did it out of honest concern for her aunt. Besides, Helen didn't have anything to hide from her nieces. Not about her health at least. "Your medical advice is invaluable. So, tell me about congenital heart disease."

Rebecca peered at her laptop, scrolling rapidly down the page. "No one told me you had a heart problem."

"I don't. I'm asking for a friend. What are her risks?"

Rebecca took a relieved breath. "It depends. Is she on medication? Does she take it as prescribed?"

"I believe so."

"Good. Some patients think they're cured after surgery, but it's a life-long condition. As long as she's taking her medication, she just needs to watch out for arrhythmias or abnormal heart rhythms. They can cause sudden cardiac death."

"How common is that?"

"I don't know the exact figures," Rebecca said. "It depends on the patient's age."

"She's around my age."

"That's actually toward the end of the high-risk period for sudden cardiac arrest," Rebecca said. "It generally peaks from the mid-thirties to mid-forties. After that the risk goes down."

"What happens during an attack?"

"Again, it depends," Rebecca said. "Some patients have some warning, and they'll experience a racing heartbeat or dizziness. I think most of the fatal events happen without warning, though."

"So what's the point of a medical monitor?" Helen said. "If the person's dead or unconscious before she can hit the alarm, what good is it?"

"Oh, no," Rebecca said, closing her laptop. "You're not going to use someone else's condition as an excuse for not getting a monitor. Your friend can get her own medical advice. Now give me your arm, and we'll take the blood pressure again. If it's elevated, well, then you can take it up with your doctor."

And probably with her nieces too. Better not risk it. Helen closed her eyes and thought happy thoughts. Like how annoyed Hank Peterson was going to be when she found the real killer.

*  *  *

Shortly after Helen's blood pressure proved to be in a safe range, her cell phone rang. She immediately recognized the measured, chant-like speech pattern of the cabbie, Barry.

"Jack told me you were looking for Angie's sister," he said. "She is at her house now. I saw a car in her driveway."

With Charlene's overgrown hedge, it would have taken more than a casual glance to see anything in her yard. "Did Jack ask you to watch the house for me?"

"I only go where the fare directs me."

Helen needed to talk to Charlene before she disappeared again. Jack couldn't drive her today, and Tate was busy helping Ralph in other ways. "Do you have a fare right now, or could you come pick me up and take me to Charlene's house?"

"Give me the address. I will be there as soon as legally possible."

While she waited Helen called Tate, just in case he wasn't busy and could give her some suggestions for what Charlene might know that would help Ralph. The call went to voicemail, so she left a message saying she'd found Charlene.

It only took ten minutes for Barry to arrive at the cottage with the meter already running. He might not care for money for himself, but he made sure the passenger rendered unto the cab company that which belonged to the cab company.

Barry drove in silence, taking a route Helen didn't recognize, past lawn after lawn that was brown from the drought that accompanied the current heat wave. Maybe he knew a shortcut that Jack didn't. Either that or she'd just made a huge mistake in trusting him.

He was, after all, a suspect in Angie's murder. He could have decided his show of piety hadn't convinced her and she was getting a little too close to the truth, so he'd better make sure she stopped asking awkward questions. Maybe she should have waited until tomorrow to talk to Charlene when Jack could have driven her there, but she hadn't wanted Ralph to be stuck in jail a minute longer than necessary.

The cab finally turned onto Charlene's street, from a different route than Jack had taken. Helen could see the bumper of a car in Charlene's driveway, parked at the street end, blocking access for any other vehicle. As they approached, it was obvious the car was Charlene's. There couldn't possibly be two VW bugs with the custom paint job in the same style as her art glass sculptures.

Of course, that didn't mean Charlene had driven the car here herself. If she was as dead as her sister, their killer could be in her house now, either robbing her or destroying evidence that might incriminate him. Barry pulled over to park across the end of the driveway with the passenger side nearest to the curb.

Helen popped the door open. "Will you wait for me?"

"As long as you are paying, I will wait."

"I'm paying." Helen slid out of the cab and went up to the house. She tried to look in the front window to see who was inside, but the curtains were closed. She couldn't remember if they'd been open the last time she was here. The windows wouldn't let in much light either way, since the yard was deeply shadowed by the overgrown hedges.

Helen checked over her shoulder to reassure herself that the cab was still there. If someone other than Charlene answered the door, Barry was close enough to hear Helen's shout for help.

There were small sounds of activity inside the house, but they didn't sound frantic like she'd expect of a burglar or someone searching for evidence. Helen rang the bell, and a moment later Charlene opened the door. She was dressed much the same as the last time Helen had been here, in a name-brand raw-silk pants suit. The shade of the overgrown hedges prevented a close look at Charlene's face, but Helen thought there was something different about it. Probably the effects of grief. She was in full make-up as if she were going to work, but she'd lost the resilient cheerfulness she'd had before. It wasn't really surprising, given that she'd just learned of her sister's death. The make-up might have been an attempt to deal with blotchy skin from a crying binge rather than a preparation for going in to her office.

"I'm so glad to see you," Helen said. "I was afraid something had happened to you."

"I'm as fine as I can be in the circumstances," Charlene said dully. "I was still looking for Angie in Connecticut when I heard about Ralph's arrest. I knew what that meant. It wasn't safe for me to drive while I was so upset, so I stayed in a hotel last night."

"May I come in?" Helen said. "I had a few questions the police might not think of, to make sure they convict your sister's killer."

Charlene glanced over her shoulder. "I'm awfully busy. The arrangements are so complicated, and with Ralph in jail…"

The woman was in mourning, but Helen—and Ralph—didn't have time to waste on being polite. "You can't possibly believe Ralph killed Angie."

"I don't want to, but who else could it be?"

"That's why I need to talk to you," Helen said. "It will just take a couple minutes, and if I'm right, you may know something that would help get Ralph out of jail. Then he can help with the final arrangements for your sister."

Charlene's eyes narrowed. "You really think he's innocent?"

"I'm sure of it." It wasn't a lie exactly, but Helen was grateful for the twenty years of experience she had with sounding more confident than she actually felt. "I've arranged for a top-notch attorney to represent Ralph, and I'm going to do whatever I can to help him. I'm sure you want justice for your sister, and you wouldn't want the wrong man to be punished while the real killer goes free."

"Of course not," Charlene said, looking behind her again. "The place is a mess, but I'm sure you'll understand how upset I've been."

"I'm not here to inspect your house, just to get some information. We can talk out here, if you prefer, but it's awfully hot for that."

Charlene hesitated before moving back from the open doorway. "Come in then."

Helen crossed the short hallway into the living room, which was, as Charlene had said, messy. The clutter now wasn't limited to her collection of art glass pieces. A Louis Vuitton suitcase had been abandoned in the middle of the room, along with a matching tote and a clunky old laptop. On the sofa, there were several boxes overflowing with foam peanuts. Piles of packing paper littered the floor. The coffee table held an open box with an art glass sculpture larger than most of the rest of Charlene's collection but only about half the size of the one she'd sold to Martha. Was this one being sold too?

Helen pushed aside one of the smaller boxes on the sofa to make room to sit. The mailing label was addressed to Charlene from the artist's studio and postmarked just last week. These were new additions to her collections, then, not a culling of it.

Where had Charlene gotten the money for them? She'd been desperate enough to sell the larger sculpture to Martha just a few weeks ago, for a fraction of its value. Some collectors liked to rotate their collections but generally not at a significant loss. The one sculpture on the coffee table, bought new and for full market value straight from the artist, had likely cost more than the discount price she'd gotten for the larger, older piece. And there were at least half a dozen other boxes.

Charlene didn't need to be as good with budgeting as her sister was to figure out that buying high and selling low was not a good idea. Besides, if Charlene was so strapped for cash as recently as a month ago, where had she gotten the money for these new pieces? She certainly hadn't gotten it from her sister.

Wait, Helen thought. Maybe she
had
gotten the money from her sister.

Charlene had access to her sister's secret bank account. Would she have stolen money from her sister? Probably not, as long as she was going to have to account for it to Angie. But once she'd known Angie was never going to access the account again, because she was dead, then the temptation of that money sitting there, unused, when there were so many things she could be buying with it, could have become too much to resist.

Helen glanced at the postmark again, which was dated two weeks ago. If Charlene was using the secret bank account to pay for the sculptures, that meant she'd known her sister was dead two weeks ago, well before Helen had started asking questions.

Charlene had been lying all along. First about taking her sister to the casino and later about looking for Angie in Connecticut.