It’s been ten years since the first Helen Binney mystery was published in April 2014!
I wrote A Dowry of Death, a Helen Binney novella, to celebrate the milestone. Plus, for anyone who wants every little tidbit about Helen Binney and may have missed some flash fiction and other miscellany connected to the series, I’ve collected them below.
ONE
Tate’s point of view
First published at Dru’s Book Musings (Drusbookmusing.com)
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’m here to tell you the story of one Helen Binney, former First Lady of Massachusetts, and current bane of my retirement.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the aforesaid client, sitting demurely behind the table assigned to the defense. I was counting on the jury not looking beyond the superficial, and seeing only a short, frail-looking, forty-something woman with a cane propped up against her chair. She was, indeed, short and middle-aged, and lupus had damaged her joints, but she was considerably tougher than she looked.
“As you’re about to hear, Ms. Binney is accused of assaulting a police officer.” I forced myself not to betray my own amusement as I watched the jury look from me to Helen, and then to the alleged victim, Detective Hank Peterson, seated in a wheelchair at the prosecution’s table, and back again. Their expressions were just what I was hoping for: uncertainty over whether to laugh or be outraged that I was pulling their legs.
“You may be wondering how that’s possible.” I pretended to study the short but sturdy Detective Peterson, whose skin was darkening under the combined scrutiny of myself and the entire jury. “The Wharton police department hires only the best and brightest of the applicants.”
As an officer of the court, I was required to stick to the truth as I knew it, and that description was true, as far as it went. Wharton was a small town, and there weren’t all that many even minimally qualified candidates for skilled jobs here.
“What happened to the strong, courageous and dedicated Detective Hank Peterson wasn’t his fault”—Peterson’s coloring returned to normal at the compliments—”but neither is it my client’s fault. Sometimes, accidents just happen, even when all the parties have the best of intentions.”
That, too, was the truth, as far as it went. In this case, however, neither party had entirely good intentions.
Wharton never had many homicides—although the number had certainly risen since Helen moved to town—so Peterson was frequently assigned to much smaller crimes, like the shoplifting complaint that had brought him to the small convenience store, where Helen had been a witness to the crime.
Peterson should have known better than to ignore Helen, who’d been tugging on his jacket to get his attention, but he’d been caught up in the excitement of having already caught the so-called mastermind behind the crime, a teen-aged girl who was mouthing off about how she would never rat out her partner.
When Peterson finally asked Helen why she was so determined to interfere with police investigations, in a tone that would be better suited to addressing a toddler or a dementia patient, Helen took umbrage. Instead of simplytelling him that a second shoplifter, a man in his early twenties, had returned to the scene of the crime, she snapped, telling Peterson that if he wanted to collar the right person for a change, he should follow her.
I did say that neither party was entirely at fault, right? Peterson’s social skills weren’t the best, but Helen’s prickliness didn’t serve her well either.
In any event, Helen headed for where the lead criminal lurked, and Peterson, thinking he was simply humoring a slightly crazy woman, followed her without expecting any trouble. The thief might not have seen Helen as a threat, but he couldn’t ignore the sight of a cop bearing down on him. He panicked, pushed Helen into Peterson, who, to his credit, tried to catch her and keep them both on their feet, but he wasn’t quite agile enough. He twisted as they fell and landed on his knee.
Meanwhile, Helen reached out with her cane and tripped the thief, slowing him down enough for Peterson’s partner to realize what had happened and slap handcuffs on the young man.
And that was the story that would have come out if the young assistant DA had been able to get Peterson to do anything but mumble incoherently on the witness stand. The judge finally took pity on both of them, sent the jury out of the room and called for a bench conference with just the attorneys, the defendant and the so-called victim, to suggest that the case was a waste of his time, and ought to be settled.
Fifteen minutes later—most of it spent trying to convince my client she should offer Peterson the apology he wanted, and her saying she had nothing to be sorry for—Peterson was out of his wheelchair, I was heading for my woodworking studio, and Helen was already looking for a new way to keep me from enjoying a nice, quiet retirement.
TWO
Getting to Know Helen Binney
First published at Dru’s Book Musings (Drusbookmusing.com)
Helen Binney first appeared in A Dose of Death and one of the best ways to learn about a person is by asking questions, so let’s get to know Helen.
What is your name?
Helen Binney.
How old are you?
I’m in my forties, but because of the lupus-related fatigue and joint damage, and the hovering of my worried nieces, I sometimes feel like I’m in my sixties
What is your profession?
I used to be the First Lady of Massachusetts, supporting the work of my husband, the governor. I had to quit that due to my lupus (and my divorce), so I’m looking for a new vocation. Nothing I’ve tried has really appealed to me except solving murders, and that’s not exactly a solid career path for anyone outside law enforcement, especially for someone who walks with a cane and can’t even manage to hit a punching bag without hurting herself.
Do you have a significant other?
Yes.
What is his/her name and profession?
Ambrose Tate (but no one uses his first name, so just call him Tate). He’s a retired lawyer and passionate wood turner.
Any children?
No.
Do you have any sibling(s)?
Yes, one brother whose two adult daughters tend to act as if they’re the responsible aunts and I’m the rebellious niece who needs looking after.
Does your parents live near you?
My parents are no longer living.
Who is your best friend?
Two women, Betty Seese and Josie Todd, who are seldom seen apart. They’re residents of the municipal nursing home, where I go for craft lessons (Betty knits, and Josie crochets) and the latest town gossip.
Cats, dogs or other pets?
I have a pet now, but I didn’t in the Governor’s Mansion or when my sleuthing adventures began. You can get the details in A Draw of Death.
What town do you live in?
Wharton, a small town in the Berkshire Hills of Massachusetts, not too far from Tanglewood.
House or building complex? Own or Rent?
I own a little cottage on a wooded lot. It was a vacation home during my marriage, and now I live there full-time.
What is your favorite spot in your house?
I don’t really have one. It’s very small, just large enough for one or two people.
Favorite meal? Favorite dessert?
Tate and I generally have lunch together in his woodworking studio (in my garage), and we take turns providing the lunch. I’m not a picky eater or a foodie (perhaps because of all the years eating rubber chicken on the political circuit), so whatever Tate chooses is fine with me. I do have a sweet tooth, although again, as long as dessert has a lot of sugar in it and comes from the local bakery, I’m happy.
Favorite hobby? Favorite color?
I recently learned to crochet caps for people who have lost their hair due to chemotherapy, although I’m not very good at it. My favorite color tends to vary, depending on the context. At the cottage, I love the fall colors of the trees in my yard. When I’m getting yarn for a chemo cap, I defer to the local yarn shop’s clerk who always manages to show me in a color I didn’t even know existed but then as soon as I see it, I can’t live without it. I think I single-handedly keep the shop in business, although I donate most of my purchases to Betty and Josie for their Charity Caps days at the nursing home.
Favorite vacation spot?
My current home used to be my favorite vacation spot, so now it feels like I’m always on vacation.
Favorite author?
I’m particularly proud of my niece, Lily Binney, who’s written a book that’s used in business school.
Favorite sports team?
I’m not much of a sports fan, so all I can think of, although it’s a bit of a stretch, is the Lupus Lupine League. It competes, not in traditional sports, but in science competitions. It was started by a pair of teen-aged brothers, who invented the team as a way to be positive about the younger brother’s lupus diagnosis.
Movies or Broadway?
Television series, especially British mysteries like Midsomer Murders or Sherlock. I like the way the characters evolve over time, rather than being limited to a single, two-hour event.
Are you a morning or a night person?
I used to be able to burn the candle at both ends, as both an early riser and a night owl, but now I’m neither. I need to be careful to get enough rest or I’ll experience a lupus flare. So I’m always early to bed but seldom early to rise.
Amateur sleuth or professional?
Amateur.
Whom do you work with when sleuthing?
I have a number of people I can turn to for their expertise, like Tate and the women in the nursing home. Lately, a junior member of the homicide department, Eleanor Almeida, has been helping by keeping her annoyingly condescending boss from arresting me, but she has to be careful not to get herself fired.
In a few sentences, what is a typical day in your life like?
I’m still adjusting to not having the crazy, round-the-clock schedule I kept for more than a decade as the state’s First Lady. It took a while to recuperate from the lupus flare that ended my marriage and career, when I mostly just got caught up on a decade of sleep-deprivation, but my days started to fill up right after my first visiting nurse was murdered. I now have monthly meetings as a volunteer for the friends of the library, Sunday brunches with my nieces, twice-weekly visits from a nurse (I’m fine, but it keeps my nieces from worrying), daily lunches with Tate, almost daily visits with my friends at the nursing home, and as-needed sessions with a Tai Chi instructor. Of course, all bets are off once I find a body, and then my days get really interesting in ways it’s better if my nieces never hear about.
THREE
Helen on a Particularly Cranky Day
First published at Dru’s Book Musings (Drusbookmusing.com)
“Is there something wrong with the peas?” my dinner companion, Ambrose Tate, asked me.
“No, they’re fine.” We were supposed to be celebrating my return to the small Berkshire Hills town of Wharton after too many weeks in Boston, undergoing endless medical tests and consultations related to my lupus. I didn’t feel like celebrating anything, and the peas had taken the brunt of my irritation. It wasn’t their fault, though, so I set my fork down. “I just felt like stabbing something.”
“Something or someone?” Tate held out a hand to forestall an answer. One finger sported a small bandage, presumably from a minor accident in his woodworking studio. “No, don’t tell me. I probably don’t want to know.”
Always the lawyer, I thought, anticipating how my words could be used against us both. “Inanimate objects will suffice for the moment. And I hope you appreciated that I didn’t stab the maitre d’.”
“It made my day. Although, to be honest, I’m not sure why you were so annoyed with him.”
“He practically ripped my coat out of my hands.” I wasn’t as stable on my feet as I’d like, and his sudden tug on my coat had almost knocked me over.
“Ah, yes,” Tate said. “I forgot how much you hate it when people help you without your asking for assistance. As long as you’re jogging my memory, perhaps you could explain why you’re annoyed with me too. I didn’t take your coat or even open the car door for you.”
“You came to Boston three times while I was there.” I knew I was being irrational. I hadn’t even decided yet whether I was more upset that he’d visited at all or that he’d only visited three times. “I asked you not to make the trip.”
“I had to. Vicky missed me.”
“My cat hates you.” That wasn’t unique to Tate. Vicky hated everyone except me. “She knows you advised me not to adopt her.”
Tate shrugged. “She got over it when I smuggled some treats in to her. She doesn’t hold a grudge. Unlike some people.”
“I like grudges. They give me a reason to get out of bed in the morning.”
“I thought that was what your gardening was for,” Tate said. “And your penchant for challenging violent people to kill you.”
“The garden is shut down for the season, and no one’s threatened to kill me lately.” I had a bad feeling my voice was getting whiney.
“So you’re bored.”
“Not bored, exactly.” Even when I was irritated with Tate, I appreciated the way he helped me to sort through what I was thinking. “More like restless.”
“And you think stabbing things will make you feel better?”
“I know it will.” I always felt better when I had a plan for dealing with my issues. I decided it was safe to pick up my fork again and enjoy the chicken and rice. “Perhaps I should take up fencing.”
“You did assure me you weren’t going to stab people.”
“Fake stabbing doesn’t count.”
Tate sipped his wine while he considered my words. Finally, he said, “I can’t think of anywhere around here where you could take fencing lessons. You’d probably have to go back to Boston for that, and I’m pretty sure you’ve had enough of the big city and living with your niece.”
He was right. Next time I went to Boston, it was going to be for something fun, like a museum tour, and I was staying in a hotel, not my nagging niece’s condo. I might even invite Tate to go with me.
For now, if I couldn’t learn to fence anywhere nearby, maybe there was something else I could do that would be equally cathartic. I needed to vent some of the irritation that I was even taking out on Tate, who didn’t deserve it. Even if he had made the six-hour round-trip to Boston to see me after I’d asked him not to.
Rather than stab something, perhaps I could thump something instead. A friend had recently opened a martial arts studio here in Wharton. He ought to have a punching bag I could use. First thing tomorrow, I was signing up for membership.
“Don’t worry about me,” I told Tate. “I’m already feeling less inclined to stab anything. You and your car will be perfectly safe on the drive home tonight.”
“No one is ever completely safe around you, but I’ve got years of experience with minimizing risks.” Tate reached across the table to take my hand. “Having to keep my woodworking tools locked up so you won’t stab me with them is a small price to pay for being with you.”
FOUR
Holiday Snippet (promotional piece) from Tate’s POV
First published at Dru’s Book Musings (Drusbookmusing.com)
Call me Tate. I’m a retired lawyer, although my landlord Helen Binney keeps ignoring the “retired” part of it, dragging me into murder investigations. I’ve been thinking about inviting her to Christmas dinner with my extended family. Otherwise, I’ll spend the whole day worrying that she’ll get herself into trouble. On the other hand, I have to consider whether she’ll bring that trouble with her. Most people could safely enjoy a holiday event, but Helen couldn’t even judge a gingerbread house contest recently without almost getting herself killed. Maybe I could hire a bodyguard. Not for her. For my family.
FIVE
Riding Along With Jack Clary
First published at Dru’s Book Musings (Drusbookmusing.com)
I’m Jack Clary, the on-call driver for the ex-First-Lady of Massachusetts.
I know what you’re thinking, but Ms. Binney isn’t stuck up or anything. It’s just that her lupus makes her unsafe behind the wheel.
She’s a lot more interesting than anyone else I’ve worked for. Her friend Tate—well, he’s more than a friend, really—is a lawyer, and he’s always saying he won’t bail her out of jail the next time. So I was really nervous when he showed up at the police station where I was waiting for Ms. Binney to be released. After he had a word with the officer at the desk, he came over to sit next to me.
“I tried to stop her,” I said. Tate was a good guy, for a lawyer, but he wouldn’t hesitate to destroy me if he thought I’d endangered Ms. Binney. “You know how Detective Peterson sets her off.”
“I get that much,” he said flatly. “She was visiting friends at the nursing home, and Detective Peterson must have stopped by to see his uncle.”
I hoped he wasn’t manipulating me into confessing something he could use against me. “Betty and Josie told Peterson someone had been stealing their most expensive yarns, and he lectured them about wasting police time, implying that they were senile and had imagined the thefts. Ms. Binney let him know that, on his very best day, he wouldn’t be half as sharp as they were on their very worst days.”
“Sounds like her. What I don’t understand, though, is how the crochet hook I made Helen ended up impaled in Peterson’s arm.”
“It was totally an accident.” Although I doubted Tate would see it that way. “She baited the thief by talking loudly about how valuable the hook was. She set it down and pretended to forget about it until a recently hired orderly pocketed it.”
Tate closed his eyes and leaned back. “I’m not going to like the rest, but go ahead. Better to get it over with.”
“The good news is that Ms. Binney is definitely feeling more spry these days. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been able to catch the thief out in the hallway and grapple with him to reclaim the hook.”
“You should have been a lawyer.” Tate said, but it didn’t sound like a compliment.
“Peterson thought he finally had his chance to arrest Ms. Binney. The orderly saw the detective coming after them and suddenly let go of the crochet hook. The sudden release caused her to start falling backwards. She managed to twist around and fall forward into Detective Peterson who’d been rushing up behind her. When she grabbed his arm to break her fall, their combined momentum brought them together like two cars crashing head-on, and she stuck him with the hook.”
“With enough force that it broke in half?” Tate made it sound even worse than it was.
“She felt really bad about that. She said you’d used one of your favorite pieces of wood to make it.”
“I guess I should be grateful she appreciates my sacrifices,” he said dryly.
“It’s going to be okay. Peterson only needed two stitches, and it hasn’t worked out so well in the past when he tried to blame Ms. Binney for anything.”
“I’ve already confirmed that he’s not pressing charges.”
“See?” I said. “It all worked out. The yarn thief is in jail and Ms. Binney isn’t.”
“For now.”
“She’s not going to have time to get into any trouble after this,” I said. “The community garden’s starting up soon, and that will keep her busy.”
“Yeah,” Tate said. “What could possibly go wrong when Helen switches from using a blunt crochet hook to wielding razor-sharp trowels, hoes and pitchforks?”
SIX
Wharton Times Reporter Geoff Loring’s POV
First published at Dru’s Book Musings (Drusbookmusing.com)
I’m Geoff Loring, reporter for the Wharton Times. Don’t worry, I’m not the annoying, gruesome kind of reporter. My motto isn’t “if it bleeds, it leads,” but rather “if it bleeds, somebody please call 911 and leave me out of it.”
Here’s my most recent published story related to Helen Binney, as published in the “community events” column:
The Wharton Friends of the Library held a special meeting on Monday to discuss their lecture program in the wake of the murder of its most recent speaker. The meeting adjourned without any official action.
That’s not the whole story, of course.
I always attend the Friends of the Library meetings; they’re usually good for getting a lead on the kind of personal interest story I write. What they’re usually not good for is discussion of a murder investigation.
This one was different. It started when Gail Whyte, who’s taken over the role of annoying know-it-all since the death of Angie Decker, made a motion that Helen Binney should be banned from the library.
“We don’t ban books,” said President Terri Greene, who’s also a popular high school coach who once played professional basketball. “And we don’t ban volunteers either. We need every one we can get.”
“Not if they’re going to sully our reputation,” Gail insisted.
Gail had a point. Helen Binney had been the one responsible for convincing professional poker player, Victor Rezendes, to give a speech at the library on the day before he was killed.
“Helen had nothing to do with the ….” Terri searched for just the right word. “The incident. If anyone’s to blame for not anticipating that our local anti-gaming advocate would heckle Victor into storming off, it was me. Do you want to ban me too?”
Gail couldn’t meet Terri’s eyes, and the rest of the room was equally silent.
“Well, then, it’s settled,” Terri said. “No banning.”
“But what about the murder?” Gail insisted. “That isn’t going to reflect well on us. No one’s going to come to any of our future lectures, and we’re counting on them to raise enough money to meet our budget.”
It wasn’t my place to speak, just to observe. Otherwise, I could have told Gail she was wrong, and that people—most people, anyway, just not me—would probably flock to the next library event, hoping that something equally exciting would happen. Especially if Helen Binney had chosen the speaker.
“That’s just silly,” Terri said. “Victor’s murder had nothing to do with the library event. It didn’t even have anything to do with Helen Binney.”
That was wishful thinking, I thought at the time. Oh, it wasn’t Helen’s fault that the Purple Pig of Professional Poker had been killed early Sunday morning, even if she had been in the group of people who’d found his body. But the murder could well have had something to do with the library event. The anti-gaming heckler could have killed Victor.
I stopped myself before I could follow that train of thought. I didn’t investigate murders or any criminal cases at all. Not my job. I left that sort of thing to Helen Binney. For a frail-looking, middle-aged woman, she had an enviable track record at catching killers. Enviable by the local homicide detective, that is, not by me.
The meeting ended in a stalemate, with half the room inclined to politely ask Helen Binney to stay away and the other half automatically siding with their daughters’ coach.
I wrote up the brief summary and sent it in to my editor. Then I added a note to myself, which was also becoming part of my standard operating procedure: stay away from Helen Binney until she declares herself satisfied that Vic Rezendes’s killer is in custody.
XXX