A Denial of Death (4 page)

He turned off the lathe and tugged his eye and ear protection down to hang around his neck. "Now what?"

"I'm collecting your rent." Helen climbed into one of the three ratty, sawdust-covered director's chairs that were the only concession to possible visitors. She'd dressed in another one of her designer pants suits from the governor’s mansion for the visit to the Deckers, but it almost matched the color of the sawdust, so any bits that clung to her would be unnoticeable. She'd been told that the teal color of her blouse was flattering to her pale skin and brown hair, but Tate wouldn't notice she was wearing something other than her usual summer uniform of casual pants and a tank top. She was dressing to impress the Deckers anyway, not Tate. "I need to know about missing persons cases."

"Are you thinking about disappearing? If so, make sure your nieces know I'm entitled to use this garage for as long as I want it." Tate's unflappability had undoubtedly reassured his legal clients and contributed to his successful career, but to Helen it always felt like a challenge to see if she could pierce his calm. She was tempted to tell him that, yes, she was planning to disappear, just to see how he'd react, but she was afraid he'd shrug off the possibility as easily as he did with everything else.

"I'm not going anywhere." Helen glanced around the garage, noting just how much it had changed in the four months. Before he'd moved in, it had been empty except for a collection of cobwebs and assorted yard-maintenance tools. Now, the cobwebs were gone, replaced by a light coating of sawdust everywhere. The side and back walls were lined with shelving Tate had built himself. Lengths of wood were all stacked, categorized, and labeled with as much precision as if they were evidence for a trial. "I was just wondering what happens, procedurally, when someone disappears."

"The next of kin files a missing persons report with the police," he said. "I never got involved unless they found a body and charged someone with homicide,
and
the charged person gave me a great deal of money to defend him."

"But what if the next of kin is the killer, so he doesn't report the victim as missing?"

"Someone's bound to notice and report it."

"What if the only person who notices isn't someone the police will listen to?"

"Look." Tate removed the eye and ear protection from around his neck, acknowledging it would be a while before he could return to his work. "It'll be faster if you just tell me the whole story instead of engaging in a series of hypothetical questions. One thing I learned early on in law school is that the Socratic method doesn't work very well in real life, not like it does in a philosophical work of fiction. It just takes one unexpectedly wrong answer to derail the whole interrogation, and I don't have time for any detours today. I've got wood to turn, lamps to build, retirement to enjoy."

"I don't have time for detours today either," Helen said, despite the fact that she had nothing important on her agenda. Jack would reschedule the test drive if she asked, and the visit to the Deckers could wait, since they didn't even know she was planning to visit. "My friends at the nursing home think Angie Decker has been killed. Or at least is missing. But the police won't listen to them, because they're little old ladies and no one ever pays attention to little old ladies."

"So you feel the need to show the police—once again—how wrong they are." He shook his head and sighed. "Since you wanted some advice, here's some you should really pay attention to: It's not a good idea to go out of your way to one-up the local police. You never know when you might actually need their help. Especially with all the enemies you seem so intent on making."

"My only enemy is in prison," Helen said. "You must have annoyed the cops during your legal career far more than I ever could. There had to have been times when you made them look foolish while you were defending a client in court."

He shrugged. "They knew it wasn't personal. It was my job. I didn't do it for the fun of it, like you do."

"I'm not
trying
to irritate the local police," she said. "They're the ones being difficult, not me. If they'd just gone to the Deckers' house and confirmed that Angie was alive and well, then Betty and Josie wouldn't have asked me to get involved."

 "Just promise me you won't try to convince the police that you killed Angie." He reached for his safety glasses.

"Why would I have killed Angie? I never even heard of her until today. Apparently it was her husband who killed her."

"Ralph Decker?" Tate paused with his arms raised, the strap of his safety glasses dangling over his head. "Ralph is a saint and would never kill anyone, least of all his wife. I doubt he's ever gone so far as to get even mildly annoyed with her."

"Then why's he covering up the fact that she's missing?"

"Facts not in evidence." He finished draping the safety glasses strap around his head, covering his eyes. Surprisingly, he didn't look like a complete dork. "You don't even know for sure that she's missing. She could be at home right now, happily nagging Ralph to eat his vegetables."

"True," Helen said. "So all I need to do is to stop by her house and ask to see her. When she appears, I can report that she's alive and well."

"All you need to do," Tate corrected, "is stay out of it and let the police do their job. I understood why you felt responsible for finding Melissa's killer, but you don't owe Angie anything. You've never even met her."

"She's a sister in stitches. From the Charity Caps Days."

"You don't even
like
knitting." He held up a hand. "I'm sorry. I know. It's crochet you do but don't like. You've got absolutely no reason to get involved in Angie's disappearance."

"I'm not doing it for her." Helen slid off the ratty old chair, her mind made up now. "I'm doing it for Betty and Josie. They're worried, and no one will listen to them. I know how that feels. You're probably right, and they're just imagining something happened to her, but their worry is real. If she isn't actually missing, I can set their minds at ease simply by going to the Deckers' house and confirming she's there. Even Detective Peterson can't complain about my making a social call on a friend of a friend."

"At least try not to provoke the local cops," Tate said, putting on his ear protection to ensure he got the last word in. "I know you won't be able to help yourself, though, so when you get yourself arrested, tell the police you're not saying a single word, not even commenting on the weather, until I get there."

Jack arrived promptly at a quarter to noon. Today's vehicle was a dark green sports car. The roof was a good foot shorter than she was, which didn't bode well for the seat being at an easily accessible height. Even wiry Jack wasn't his usual nimble self getting out of the driver's seat. It took a couple tries before he got to his feet, so Helen had almost reached the passenger side door before he could come around and open it for her.

"What do you think?" Jack beamed. "It's got better mileage than yesterday's SUV, great handling, and stylish appearance. You definitely won't need a ladder to get in and out of it."

 "I might need a crane to lower me into it, though."

Jack ignored her skepticism. "It's even reasonably priced for the performance it offers. Everyone will pay attention when you're riding in this baby."

That wasn't quite what she'd had in mind when she'd wished certain people, like condescending detectives and grouchy retired lawyers, would pay more attention to her. She didn't want to flaunt her wealth or social status; she just wanted to be taken seriously when she spoke.

Jack added, "I already raised the seat for you, as high as it can go."

Racing around in a sports car probably wouldn't help her get taken seriously, but she supposed it was worth a test ride, if only to keep Jack happy. Helen carefully lowered herself into the passenger seat. Her hip complained a little, and the last few inches' drop was far from graceful. She wasn't entirely sure how she was going to get out again, but she'd find a way.

It only took ten minutes to get to the Deckers' house. Jack parked, and Helen stalled for time to work up the energy to hoist herself out of the passenger seat.

The Deckers' house was a little Cape on a corner lot twice the size of the quarter-acre yards of the surrounding properties. It was meticulously maintained, with white siding that shined as if it had been power-washed recently and possibly even waxed and buffed. The sidewalks had been swept cleaner than the floors of Helen's cottage. A few strategically placed ornamental trees provided some privacy for the back yard, and an old-fashioned box hedge separated the lawn from the sidewalks, but stopped at the property line, with no fence to keep the neighbors from wandering over for a visit.

The street was almost as quiet as Helen's wooded lot. The little sports car was the only vehicle in sight, and the houses appeared to be unoccupied while everyone was at work.

Jack shifted restlessly beside the open passenger door. Probably trying to figure out which was the bigger risk: offending her by offering unneeded assistance, or letting her hurt herself by struggling out of the car on her own.

"I can do this by myself." At least, she hoped she could. Helen turned in the seat and slid her feet out and down the very few inches down to the street, with her knees almost even with her shoulders. Jack had parked in what would have been the wrong direction for driving, with the passenger door toward the middle of the street, instead of up against the curb, which she suspected was higher than the seat. "Perhaps just a hand up would be good."

Jack held out his hand, and she latched onto it. She heaved herself up, and he grunted and almost dropped her, but after a worrisome moment when she thought she was going to slip back, she was solidly on her feet.

While she was waiting for her hip joint to adjust to the abrupt change in position, she leaned back against the car. Across the street, a tuxedo cat jumped onto the windowsill of the house directly opposite the Deckers'. The cat walked between the glass and the opaque curtains, snagging the fabric with its tail, and revealing an indistinct figure peering out the window. Apparently the neighborhood wasn't entirely deserted, after all.

Of course not, Helen thought. There had to be someone around to observe her ungainly exit from the ridiculously low vehicle. People would definitely notice her in this car, just not for the right reasons.

Jack retrieved Helen's cane and offered it to her. "Unless you'd rather leave it behind. You can lean on me, and I'll just say I came along to introduce you."

"The cane will be fine," Helen said. "I'd appreciate an introduction, though."

As they walked up the driveway, it was apparent Helen's first impression of obsessive tidiness was correct: the yard was maintained with the perfection normally reserved for inside a house. No weeds would dare to grow here, no leaves would fall, no grass would die in the intense summer heat.

A loud thud broke the silence, followed immediately by several more, then a pause and another series of rapid thuds. They seemed to come from the back yard.

Helen urged Jack toward the source of the sound. In the farthest corner of the back yard, away from both streets, a tall man was using a nail gun to affix cedar shingles to the exterior wall of a framed-in gazebo about 12 feet in diameter. He worked slowly and deliberately, giving Helen the impression that he was a man who didn't just measure twice and cut once, but measured a dozen times and then cut several times, until he got a piece that wasn't even a millimeter off from perfection. A recently poured concrete foundation was visible at the base, and weeds were starting to grow in the disturbed ground between the gazebo and the immaculately maintained grass.

During a pause in the thuds, Jack called out, "Hey, Ralph. Got a minute?"

The man turned around, smiling as if he'd been expecting them, or at least as if he'd been hoping someone would interrupt his work. "Jack? I haven't seen you since your cousin got married last year. You shouldn't be such a stranger."

Jack went over to shake Ralph's hand and get a one-armed man-hug. "You're just saying that so I'll help you with the shingles."

"I wouldn't say no to some help." Ralph let go of Jack and nodded a greeting at Helen. "But not until you introduce me to your friend. I thought I knew everyone in town, but I don't believe we've ever met."

Josie had claimed Ralph Decker was, in her words, a hunk, but even with the warning, Helen hadn't been prepared for her first sight of him. She'd met quite a few celebrities during her years in the governor's mansion, including some Hollywood A-listers, and none of them, not even with their professional make-up artists, personal trainers, and custom-made clothing, held a candle to Ralph in his sweaty T-shirt and concrete-spattered jeans. He was older than the typical celebrity, maybe in his early fifties, and he didn't have the perfect, bland appearance Hollywood favored these days. He had a face that was interesting, rather than merely pretty, and skin that tanned both naturally and easily. He'd kept his body in good shape, too, but what truly made him stunning was his charisma.

"This is Helen Binney," Jack said. "My new boss."

Ralph wiped his hand on his jeans and then offered it to her. "Nice to meet you, Helen Binney."

"And you." She shook his hand, realizing she hadn't been prepared for anyone other than Angie to be at home in the middle of a work day. She couldn't exactly ask him,
Excuse me, but did you kill your wife and bury her under this convenient concrete pad?
Besides being rude, now that she'd met Ralph, she could see why Tate had thought the idea was so far-fetched. Sure, husbands killed wives, and vice versa, in the movies and TV shows all the time, and those fictional victims were buried beneath assorted real estate improvements, from gardens to building foundations. But, really, a killer would have to be stupid to pour a concrete pad in his back yard and think no one would look there if his wife went missing. Ralph had even blazed a trail of abandoned tools across the otherwise immaculate yard, from the side door of the Cape to the concrete pad of the gazebo. In addition to the many smaller items along the path, there were a pair of sawhorses, a table saw, and a wheelbarrow half full of hardened left-over concrete. All together, they formed a big arrow pointing at the gazebo, shouting "search here."