A Denial of Death (Helen Binney Mysteries, Book 2)


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Can Helen keep Tate from giving up on their relationship and defend herself against a killer who was able to overpower a highly skilled martial artist? Or will this be one fight she doesn't limp away from? Gin Jones's Helen Binney Mysteries will have you laughing, smiling, and on the edge of your seat wondering whodunit. I can't wait for more from these characters! In fact, somewhere deep inside, where her darkest thoughts were hidden even from herself most of the time, she wanted to hit some one , and she didn't much care who it was.

For some people, that might not have been so unusual, but Helen had never been inclined to violence before. She'd always been a firm believer in the power of rational argument and civilized discussions. Besides, even if she'd wanted to get into fights, she'd always been short and small-boned, with little noticeable muscle, making her far more suited for verbal tussles than physical ones. Helen was tempted to blame the weather for her bad mood. It had been particularly hot and humid recently, leading to reports of road rage.

Helen didn't think that was the main cause of her own violent inclinations, though. Having to retire in her forties due to lupus flares had made her somewhat cranky for the last three or four years, but she'd grown accustomed to a certain baseline level of irritability.

What worried her was that it had increased exponentially in the past few weeks, leading her to believe the real cause was the month she'd spent in Boston, undergoing seemingly endless tests and medical consultations in the search for better control of her lupus symptoms. She wouldn't have minded the experience so much if she'd actually gotten some concrete answers for her treatment.

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Instead, she'd had to return to her cozy little cottage in the little town of Wharton, in the Berkshire Hills of Massachusetts, without any real plan of action. She would never understand how, with an estimated five million people affected by the condition worldwide, it was possible that medical science hadn't yet figured out how to fix it.

Just thinking about all her unanswerable medical questions left her itching for a fight. At the moment, Helen was particularly annoyed with Ambrose Tate, her ex-lawyer and current significant other. It didn't help that she knew her irritation with him wasn't even remotely his fault. After all, he'd only been doing what she'd asked of him, staying here in Wharton, while she'd been living with her city-dwelling niece, Lily Binney, for the duration of the testing. Tate had made the two-hour drive to Boston twice during the month Helen had been there, and she was quite irrationally irritated with him, both because he hadn't visited more often and , in equal measure, because he'd visited at all, when she'd asked him not to.

Helen was used to getting annoyed when people did well-intentioned but unhelpful things that complicated her already challenging life. What she wasn't used to was doing foolish, unhelpful things herself.

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Taking out her bad mood on Tate didn't do anyone any good. This morning Tate had sent her a brief text that had struck her as a very lawyer-like non-apology for some unspecified transgression. Probably because he'd realized she was upset with him, had no idea why, but was willing to take the blame. When even that had irritated her, Helen had realized she was out of control, and it was more than time to take some action to get over her bad mood. She couldn't do anything about the unpleasant weather, and she couldn't do anything to get medical answers that just didn't exist, but she could do something about how she responded to those stimuli.


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She'd called her driver, Jack Clary, to arrange to get her out of her isolated cottage where even her cat, Vicky, was hiding from Helen's bad mood. When she heard his truck coming up her gravel driveway, she grabbed her cane and the small backpack she'd filled earlier with what she was going to need today and headed outside.

By the time she closed the door behind her, Jack had already parked his vehicle, climbed into her Subaru Forester, and turned it around to wait for her at the end of the front path. Jack was a wiry, bald, middle-aged man who'd worked for a local luxury-car service when Helen had first moved to Wharton. During her years as the wife of the state's governor, she'd been chauffeured everywhere, and then after her divorce and worsening lupus flares, she'd decided it would be safer for everyone if she didn't get behind the wheel.

They'd become friends over the course of her investigation of the death of her visiting nurse, and now he was her on-call driver whenever he wasn't in too much demand as the maker of custom clay avatars for gamers. In Jack's original job, he'd worn an official uniform, often complete with a driving hat and gloves, but these days he generally stuck to business casual sport shirts and khaki pants.

The only trace of his previous formality was his insistence on calling her Ms. Binney despite frequent reminders that he was welcome to use her first name. Later, Helen planned to stop by the exotic lumber warehouse to pick up an apology gift for Tate, but for now, her destination was the Zubov House of Sambo. She was determined to find a better way to work out her frustrations than sniping at her friends. Learning a martial art seemed like just the thing. Helen had to give Jack credit for not arguing with her about her plans for the day. He simply said, Anything you want, Ms.

Binney, and set the car in motion down her long, gravel driveway. The Zubov House of Sambo occupied a rectangular, two-story warehouse building. The side that faced the street was far from impressive, with nothing but a pair of loading docks and a sign that indicated the entrance was around the corner on the longer wall that ran perpendicular to the street.

That facade wasn't much more interesting, just an expanse of plain metal siding interrupted only by a row of transom windows just below the eave and a pair of glass doors near the far end. The place must have employed quite a few people when it had been used as a warehouse, because the parking lot could have held at least a hundred cars. At the moment, though, there were only four parked vehicles. One was a van Helen recognized as belonging to Marty Reed, who'd installed the security system in her cottage.

Two of the others probably belonged to the staff, since they were parked a considerable distance from the building, leaving the prime spots for customers. A little red Mazda Miata had entered the lot just in front of Helen's more sedate Subaru. Jack followed the other car at a slow, safe distance while it zipped into the closest space to the front door, not counting the three with handicapped-only signs.


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  • As Jack came even with the parked Miata, Helen watched a woman with spiky, short hair almost the same color as her car jump out of the little convertible. The woman snagged a battered gym bag from the passenger seat and raced for the front door. Helen had barely had time to remember wistfully that once she too could have been that quick and nimble getting out of a vehicle—although she'd never been quite that perky and didn't aspire to be; it would only have exhausted her and probably annoyed Tate—when there was a loud, metallic crunch.

    Her airbag deployed, smashing into her upper body and face. She wasn't physically dazed, just so startled that it took a moment to realize what had happened. A pickup truck had slammed into the front driver's side of her car. Jack muttered something short and sharp under his breath before turning to Helen. Are you okay, Ms.

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    I'm fine. She'd been so distracted by her thoughts that she hadn't seen the oncoming vehicle in time to tense up in anticipation, so while she'd been startled by the impact and the airbags, she was unhurt. Jack was more likely to have tensed up enough to feel sore later. What about you? He cautiously pushed his airbag more fully out of his way before rolling his neck and then his shoulders. I'll be okay. Nothing permanently wrong.

    He gestured through the windshield at the man who was climbing out of a truck with Taylor Electrical painted on the door.

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    At first, only the man's head was visible through the window. Based on what little she could see—a little head overshadowed by thick, dark, shoulder-length brown hair, and smaller-than-average hands gripping the edge of the window frame—he appeared to be even more petite than Helen was. But then he emerged from behind the door, slamming it shut, and she could see that the rest of him more than compensated for what appeared to be a particularly thin and narrow skeleton. He was so bulked up that his neck was larger in circumference than his head, and the muscles exposed by his purple tank top—emblazoned, like the truck, with his employer's name—were impossibly huge for such a small bone structure.

    The man began alternately kicking his truck's tires, pounding on the hood, and yelling obscenities in the general direction of the Subaru. From USA Today bestselling author Gin Jones comes a the second installment in her clever traditional cozy series featuring the feisty amateur sleuth, Helen Binney….

    A Denial of Death

    Helen Binney projected a powerful image as the former governor's wife, and she's not about to let a little thing like illness force into doing anything less now. While her pushy nieces think she's at death's door, her handsome lawyer friend thinks she's a hot magnet for trouble When those new gals give her an interesting project, Helen can't refuse proving her usefulness to the nay-sayers in her life. So this part of the book is not nearly as unrealistic as the reviewers seemed to think. Lisa Valdini narrates the book in a strong voice.

    I like the way she so clearly makes the characters come to life.

    Her voice for Jack seems so realistic, and Tate seems so believable. I enjoyed A Denial of Death. The mystery was interesting but not gripping.

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    I give this book four stars. Disclaimer: I received this book for free from the author, but it in no way affected my review.

    A Denial of Death

    Your audiobook is waiting…. By: Gin Jones. Narrated by: Lisa Valdini. Series: Helen Binney Mysteries , Book 2. Length: 8 hrs and 49 mins. People who bought this also bought Publisher's Summary From acclaimed author Gin Jones comes the second installment in her clever traditional cozy series featuring the feisty amateur sleuth, Helen Binney What members say Average Customer Ratings Overall.

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