A Dawn of Death by Gin Jones

Helen had hoped to hear. "If Sheryl was so safety conscious and so good with a bulldozer, then how…?"
    "How did she die in an accident?" Marty finished. "She didn't, that's how. Someone killed her."
    "The police think it was an accident."
    "No way," Marty said. "Sheryl didn't take risks with her safety. No, someone killed her. I'm sure of it."
    "Who would have done that?"
    Marty didn't even stop to think. "Dale Meeke-Mason. She's so obsessed with protecting the environment that she doesn't care what happens to people. She's trying to shut down all construction here in Wharton, and she doesn't care about the local residents who would lose their jobs. I wouldn't put anything past her if she thought it would protect her stupid trees."
    The ground shook as another massive tree fell toward the back of the lot.
    Marty didn't notice. "I'm telling you, everything about Sheryl's death stinks. There's absolutely no reason for her to have been at the garden unless Dale lured her there to kill her."
    So much for simply reassuring herself that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for how Sheryl had died. Helen wasn't sure what to believe, but she couldn't simply discount the possibility that Marty was right. Not about the identity of the culprit but about the suspicious nature of Sheryl's death.
    Despite what she'd told Tate about only talking to Sheryl's employees, Helen couldn't stop asking questions yet. If the police ever came around to believing the circumstances were suspicious, she was afraid that Marty wouldn't be alone in thinking that Dale or one of the other gardeners was to blame for Sheryl's death.

 
CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    Marty might have continued ranting about Dale's villainy except that his phone pinged yet again, and apparently, this caller couldn't be ignored. He gestured for Helen and Jack to go back to the car.
    "Leave the hard hats next to the sign," he said and headed back to the construction trailer. As he walked, he shouted over the background noise of the heavy equipment, complaining to his caller about some supplies that were late.
    There really wasn't anything more Helen could do here, she decided. Her nieces might not believe it, but she wasn't foolish enough to try to sneak past Marty and flag down a backhoe to ask its operator questions about which of her employees or competitors might have wanted Sheryl dead. There were other people she could talk to who would have answers to that question. People who worked in safe settings. Like town hall. Even Lily and Laura wouldn't consider a little visit to town hall to be dangerous. In fact, Lily thrived on confronting government bureaucrats, so she was in no position to deny her aunt the same thrill.
    Helen had just taken off her hard hat when a black SUV pulled up next to the sign, and Detective Almeida climbed out. Jack slunk around the back of the car and into the driver's seat. He would defend Helen to the death against the hazards of tripping on a construction site, but he knew he was more of a liability than an asset when dealing with the police.
    Eleanor Almeida was a tall, muscular black woman in her late twenties. She seemed to be settling into her relatively new job with the Wharton Police Department, no longer its newest hire. She'd changed her hairstyle since Helen had last seen her, from a heavily teased and gelled helmet shape to a much easier-to-maintain closely cropped style that left her natural tight curls unstraightened. She hadn't abandoned her uniform of a severe navy pants suit with a white blouse, but now it looked natural on her rather than obviously new and not what she was used to wearing.
    Almeida slammed the SUV's door shut and came around to the back of it. "I've been looking for you."
    "Ready to schedule a girls' night out?" Helen said as she approached the SUV.
    Almeida shook her head. "I wish."
    "All you have to do is call," Helen said. "My social calendar is pretty empty these days."
    "Really? I heard you've got a new