A Denial of Death (34 page)

Josie appeared at Helen's side and reached for the lumpy chemo cap. "I think you've done enough for today."

"I just need more time," Helen said, refusing to let go of her latest disaster. "You told me practice makes perfect."

"Not always." Betty appeared on the other side of Helen's chair. "Sometimes practice only makes more work for us."

"I could go back to knitting again."

Betty shook her head. "Needlework just isn't right for you. You drop too many stitches, and you don't even notice when they happen."

"We love having you visit," Josie added. "You don't have to make caps to do that. It's probably best that you find something other than knitting or crochet to do with your time."

They were probably right. Helen could make more of a difference in the lives of people undergoing cancer treatment if she just contributed some money to Betty and Josie for the yarn.

The only thing she'd been any good at since retiring was pestering people. That had been the gist of her job description in the governor's mansion, actually: nag everyone on her husband's staff until events came together properly. Of course, she'd been paid for that work, and no one had ever tried to kill her. Now that pestering people was a volunteer gig, she didn't need to keep doing it, not if it was likely to get her killed.

She needed to find a new hobby. Something fulfilling like Tate's woodworking and Betty and Josie's needlework but that didn't require that level of manual dexterity. Something that wouldn't leave her feeling overshadowed and overlooked.

There was always the Friends of the Library group. She'd promised Terri Greene she'd come to the next meeting. Maybe she'd find something worthwhile to do there. If not, she'd just keep looking.

She'd just solved two murders in less than six months, after all. Compared to that, how hard could it be to find something interesting to do with her retirement years?

* * * * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Wharton, the nursing home, and its denizens are all fictional, but Charity Caps Day was inspired in part by a real-life charitable organization, Headhuggers, which makes and distributes hats for both adult and pediatric patients with hair loss from things like chemo treatment and burns. You can read more about the group, get chemo cap patterns, find local chapters, or make donations (of time, materials or money) here:
https://www.Headhuggers.org

* * * * *

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!

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

Helen Binney Mysteries
:

A Dose of Death

A Denial of Death

* * * * *

If you enjoyed this Helen Binney Mystery, check out this other funny, romantic mystery from
Gemma Halliday Publishing
:

* * * * *

MURDER AL DENTE

by

JENNIFER L. HART

PROLOGUE

"Five minutes, Ms. Buckland." Mimi, Chef Zoltan Farnsworth's assistant, poked her head into the closet I'd been given to use as a dressing room.

I grinned at her. "Thanks. He has you herding the entire studio, now, huh? Why do you put up with him, Mimi?" She was a talented pastry chef in her own right, but Zoltan Farnsworth treated her like dirt. Not that that was unusual for him. Farnsworth treated everyone like dirt. It was practically his brand.

"He is not so bad." She paused, seemed to consider, and said in her careful Asian accent, "Well, he
is
bad."

 "Hey, when I'm Flavor TV's next big thing, I'll hire you right out from under his mustache." I took a deep breath, checked my appearance one last time in the chipped mirror, and pasted on a smile. "First I have to go out there and blow their doors off."

"You will do very well, I am sure." Mimi offered me a smile, dipped her head, and bustled off.

I made my way to Studio C where a live audience was already tasting samples of the culinary concoction I'd whipped up. Much to my relief, everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves. My cell buzzed, and I checked the display. A text from Donna Muller, my best friend since high school, and I grinned at her message.

 
Knock 'em dead!

Donna knew better than pretty much anyone else how hard I'd worked for this moment. After being raised by my very Italian grandmother and great aunt who ran the small town's pasta shop, it was possible I had marinara instead of blood.

One of the techs signaled me, and I quickly stowed my phone, lifted my arms, and let him attach my microphone. We did a sound check, and I was good to go.

"All set?" The producer, Stacy DeAngelo scurried over, tablet in hand. She didn't wait for a response but gave me a light shove in the direction of the stage.

My nerves got the best of me when I saw what appeared to be a sea of faces, all of whom looked at me expectantly.
Oh no
. I'd told everyone I knew about this. My grandfather, Pops, was tuned in along with my great aunt Cecily. The entire population of Beaverton, N.C, all 21,086 of them, were probably watching the Atlanta based television station.

Kyle was watching. No, no he wasn't. The sheriff had more important things to do on a weekday afternoon than watch his ex-girlfriend make an idiot out of herself on live television.

Then, my canned music started and my feet unfroze. "Is it just me or does pasta get a bad rap?" I asked the audience. Mostly smiles, but a few nods. "Let me tell you, there is not a more versatile food in the world. It can be light or heavy, served as a side dish or the main course, or even dessert."

 I lowered my voice to a hush, which of course the microphone projected. "Just don't tell my great aunt Cecily I said that. She's a purist."

Several chuckles. My confidence grew, and I returned to my normal easygoing drawl. "Today, I'm going to show you linguini's true potential when served with fresh clams in a white wine sauce. So, here's what you'll need." I'd been over the spiel at least a thousand times in my head, and as I spoke, I moved around my "kitchen," which was really a set that had been made to look like a cozy country kitchen. Nothing too ostentatious.
Flavor was a relatively new cable channel, and I was supposed to be a girl-next-door kind of cook.
Al Dente
, my brand spanking new cooking show, focused on the ins and outs of pasta, not high end appliances. But the new countertops practically sparkled, and I could see my face in the gleaming stainless steel refrigerator as I extracted the clams.

While the water came to a boil, I added a little background to my instructions. "In Italian,
al dente
means 'to the tooth.' The perfect
al dente
pasta will have a little resistance when you bite into it. Nothing ruins a meal like overcooked noodles. Cooking times will vary depending on the shape of pasta and thickness. For instance, vermicelli or angel hair will take less time to cook to
al dente
perfection than fettuccini or shells."

The first segment of the show seemed to fly by, and before I knew it, I was being signaled that it was time for our three minute intermission.

"You're doing great." Stacy looked up from her iPad, her expression approving. She'd gone to bat for me with the network execs when I'd pitched her the concept for the show. She said she'd seen something in me, and she'd fought hard to get me this chance. I wanted to prove her right. "By this time tomorrow you'll have a
ton
of sponsors."

I beamed. "I can't believe it, but at one point I actually forgot I was on camera."

"That's how it goes. We're back in ten seconds."

My return to the stage-slash-kitchen was much smoother this time, and I talked about pairing wines with different dishes. Before I knew it, the meal was assembled. "Smells great. Just the right combination of garlic and wine really brings the pasta and clams together in perfect harmony. Don't take my word for it though, what does our audience think?"

 Thunderous clapping accompanied by a few wolf whistles. Perfect.

"And we have a special treat for you. Chef Zoltan Farnsworth is here to join me for the tasting." It hadn't been my idea, but the network insisted a guest spot by their number one cooking show host would help boost my numbers.

From the sound of the audience clapping to greet the pastry chef, they were right.

Farnsworth strutted like a peacock and did a little faux air kiss thing in greeting. "It smells…pungent in here," he said with a smug smile.

Jeez, not exactly a compliment. He couldn't have gone for aromatic or fragrant? I made my tone light as I said, "Garlic will do that. One of my favorite scents in the world."

After dishing out a serving for Chef Farnsworth, I sat down to mock eat my own serving of pasta. "How is it?"

"Excellent," Farnsworth said, surprising me. Maybe he wasn't such a bad guy. "Though a bit more salt wouldn't hurt."

I didn't roll my eyes, but it was a struggle. "Well—" The sound of retching came from the audience, and my head whipped around so fast I bumped my microphone. Was I being heckled?

Then again, from another section. Definitely vomiting this time, and my heart stumbled in my chest. "What's going on?"

Frantic movement caught my attention, and I turned in my seat to see Stacy, her eyes huge, her face pale. She was mouthing something to me.

Something that looked like
bad clams
.

I was on my feet in an instant. "Don't eat it!" I shouted at the audience.

Some people looked startled, others angry.

My phone buzzed again, but I ignored it. Multiple people were bent over, obviously sick. Oh dear sweet Lord, I'd given my audience food poisoning on live television. Zoltan was on his feet, hands in the air, ranting about incompetent cooks. About me.

"Call 911," I said to Mimi, who was hovering by Stacy's side. "We need to get these people medical treatment, now."

"We'll take care of it." Stacy said, not unkindly. "You'd better go, Andy."

"But—"

She shoved me again, this time in the direction of the exit. "Go."

I went, stunned by what had just happened.

CHAPTER ONE

Three months later….

"Pops? It's Andy. If you're there pick up. Pretty please with spaghetti on top?" My hands- free device was on the fritz, and I had my cell cradled between my ear and my shoulder, praying my grandfather would hear my voice and pick up the damn phone.

My thumbs drummed impatiently against the leather steering wheel as I waited for the jerk driving in the mammoth SUV in front of me to accelerate to the fifty-five mile per hour speed limit. Tree branches extended over the back road like gnarled fingers, reaching out to squeeze the life out of me. Or maybe that was just my internal panic mode hitting DEFCON 2 at Pop's lack of response. After what had happened on my very short-lived cooking show, I didn't have any trouble imagining the worst case scenario.

 "Okay, well, just so you know, I'm on my way into town for a visit. Should be there in about forty minutes. Love you."

Disconnecting the call, I swallowed and prayed Aunt Cecily had been exaggerating about Pop's being depressed. Sure, he'd had a rough time adjusting ever since Nana passed on, but that didn't mean he was ready to roll over and die. We Bucklands were a tough bunch of nuts to crack.

Nuts being the operative word.

What was the SUV driver's damage? Apparently it wasn't enough for him to cut me off at the city limits, but he also felt the need to meander along like a constipated mule. Skippy.

I was just about to let loose with a whole string of un-ladylike words when I finally caught a break. The double yellow line on the side nearest me split into little slashes. The SUV was so big and black it blotted out the entire road, but this close to my destination, I knew the traffic flow was typically light. With a quick glance in the rearview mirror, I moved into the left-hand lane and punched my foot down on the accelerator.

So did the SUV.

Just not as quickly.

The sickening crunch of metal drowned out my scream. My seat belt pulled taut, and my head whipped forward and back in a motion I hope never to repeat as my well-honed driving instinct took over and my foot slammed down on the brake hard enough to keep my head from being lodged up the other driver's sphincter.

My heart pounded against my ribcage like it wanted out. I pushed hair out of my face and sucked in a steadying breath. After a quick survey, which consisted of wiggling my fingers and toes to make sure everything that was supposed to be attached still was, I unbuckled my seat belt.

 Just as someone else yanked open the driver's side door.

"Stay still," a male voice ordered in a manner way too brisk to be a native to this region of the country. A warm palm rested on top of my hair, gently, but firmly holding my head in place. "You might have damaged your spine."

I looked up into the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. Wow
.
A girl could drown in those eyes and die with a smile on her face. I tried to blink myself back to reality.
What had he said? Spinal damage, right. "Wouldn't I feel something like that?"