Not a Chance in Helen (13 page)

Chapter Twenty

H
ELEN HAD WA
NTED
to call off the weekly bridge game already pushed from Tuesday night to Wednesday, but her friends wouldn’t hear of it.

“My word, Helen,” Clara Foley had protested. “The world hasn’t come to a standstill. I don’t mean to sound callous, but don’t you imagine Eleanora Duncan would’ve gone on about her life if one of us had been poisoned? I doubt she’d have even noticed, to tell you the truth, way over there on Harbor Drive in that ivory tower of hers.”

Maybe so, but Helen still didn’t feel like it was in good taste to play cards with Eleanora not even buried, Jean on the hook, and the real murderer running loose.

Clara had laughed when she’d said as much. “Well, it’s not like her killer’s going to show up and cut the deck.”

Or maybe her killer would do exactly that, Helen thought as she looked over the hand she’d been dealt, staring past Clara Foley’s topknot to the next table, where Jemima Winthrop sat opposite Bertha Beaner. Bertha hadn’t told her the name of the sub she’d found for Sarah Biddle, and Helen knew why.

Jemima glanced up from her hand, and Helen quickly ducked her chin.

“I bid a heart,” Clara Foley announced, the flesh of her cheeks dimpling several times over. The bright yellow of her caftan lent her the appearance of an overfed canary.

Fanny Melville sighed. “Well, I’m beginning to wonder if the deck’s not stacked, the way the cards are turning in your favor. You got ’em marked or something, Helen?”

“What?” She heard her name but missed the question. “Sorry, dear, I wasn’t listening.”

Fanny gazed at her over the rims of her spectacles. “It’s amazing how you manage to keep winning, what with your mind a million miles away. You must be on automatic pilot.”

Helen smiled, feeling a little sheepish for not paying better attention to the game.

“I hate to do it.” Doc’s wife sighed and slapped her cards facedown on the table. “But I’ll have to pass.”

Clara giggled and started to hum the Michigan fight song under her breath.

Helen ignored her, studying her hand. Fanny was right. The tide did seem to have turned in their favor. “I bid a spade,” she said.

Verna Mabry, in a lime green sheath with a cloche hat to match, sniffed loudly. “Good God, I almost think we should quit now and cut our losses, eh, Fanny?”

Her partner chuckled. “Well, we each did throw a quarter in the pot tonight, didn’t we?” She put a finger to her chin and rolled up her eyes as if in deep thought. Then she waved a hand in the air. “Aw, go on, Verna. Fifty cents won’t break us.”

The LCIL president’s taut face frowned. “Pass,” she said.

And around again they went.

The murmur of voices from the two tables filled the screened-in porch, though the noise they made was a shade less than when there were three tables. But they were five players short tonight, what with Sarah Biddle still out of town, Bebe Horn sick with the flu, Lola Mueller babysitting her grandson, and Agnes March at an antiques auction in the city.

And Jean was missing, too, Helen mused, scrunching up her brow as she remembered how shaken the poor dear had been after Frank Biddle had hauled her downtown this morning. Why, Jean had imagined she was about to be tossed behind bars, and it was no wonder she wasn’t in the mood for a few hands of bridge.

“It’s too bad about Jean, isn’t it?”

She looked up at the mention, hearing Verna’s voice, feeling as if she’d been thinking too loudly.

“What’s that?” she asked, fixing her eyes on her friend.

Verna waved manicured fingers. “It’s just that I can’t believe it was Jean’s pâté that was poisoned. I hardly think that’ll do much for her fledgling catering business, do you? Everyone’s heard about it, and now they’re all squawking at me to find someone else to do the food for the luncheon.” The tendons at her neck tightened. “I suppose I should wait to see if she’s actually charged with the murder before finding another caterer. But I’d hate to put it off too long and get stuck without anyone. Then I’d have to break down and call the Catfish Barn.”

“Oh, God,” Clara groaned. “Talk about poison!”

Helen couldn’t listen to another word. “Stop acting like the worst is going to happen,” she said more snippily than she’d meant to. “Jean’s not going to be charged with murder. She didn’t kill Eleanora.”

Verna tipped her lime-topped head. “I know you’re great friends with her and all, and I’ve nothing against her myself. But really, Helen, how can you be so sure?”

“I hate to say it,” Fanny Melville added, “but sometimes even people we think we know the best turn out to be strangers. Everyone has their breaking point.”

“Especially considering how Eleanora treated her,” Clara Foley chimed in. “The woman acted like Jean murdered Jim, as if she’d run her car off the road on purpose.”

“Enough!” Helen smacked down her cards, earning her a trio of surprised stares. She felt embarrassed suddenly, knowing they hadn’t meant any harm with their gossip; they were just rattling on as they always did. She drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Then she smiled weakly and picked up her hand. “Let’s get back to the game and save the chitchat for later?”

“Okey dokey,” Clara murmured.

“Sure,” Fanny and Verna said, exchanging looks.

Helen nodded at them.

Fanny peered over her bifocals and asked, “Where were we?”

“It’s my turn, so look out.” Clara squirmed, and the wicker chair crackled beneath her. “Two hearts,” she said in a rush.

“Pass,” Fanny muttered.

Helen didn’t hesitate. “Four hearts,” she said.

Verna groaned. “Well, Fanny, I think you were right. Maybe we should just throw in the towel before they completely embarrass us.”

“You’re almost making me feel sorry for you,” Clara said with a chuckle. “What’re you angling for, a sympathy card?” She laughed at her own joke.

But Verna shushed her and leaned in. “That reminds me, girls. Mildred Masters, a friend of mine whose husband works at Hartford, Martin, Dervish, and Lynch in St. Louis, told me something interesting.” Her ever-wide eyes darted from one face to another. “Anyone who subscribes to the
River Bend Bulletin
online will be getting an email in the morning about it, but I’ll give you a heads-up. It concerns Eleanora—”

“Didn’t you just agree not to talk about the murder?” Helen cut her off, not wanting to hear another word about whether or not Jean poisoned her mother-in-law.

“But, Helen, it’s not bad news, and it has nothing to do with Jean,” Verna promised. “It’s about a party for Eleanora.”

Clara let out a guffaw. “You sure you didn’t have your brain tucked with that last face-lift, sweetie? Eleanora’s dead, remember?”

“My brain is fine,” Verna replied with a sniff and absently patted her cheeks. “The party is part of Eleanora’s will. She left instructions that there be some kind of celebration when she kicked the bucket. I don’t know all the details, but it sounds like Lady Godiva is the hostess.”

“The dead woman’s cat,” Fanny murmured, echoing Helen’s very thoughts. “That’s quite unusual, to say the least.”

“It’s wacky is what it is,” Clara insisted.

“Where will this party be held?” Helen asked.

“Girls, please, I don’t know all the details,” Verna said with a roll of her eyes. “We’ll just have to check our email boxes in the morning. All Mildred knew was that Eleanora’s will stated in black and white that she wanted a party, not a funeral. And there’s no sense waiting on a party, since they don’t need the sheriff or the medical examiner’s permission to throw a shindig.”

“Particularly one hosted by a cat,” Helen murmured, finding it very strange indeed.

She couldn’t help but glance at Jemima Winthrop and wonder if Eleanora’s killer would be attending.

Chapter Twenty-One

H
ELEN WASN’
T A
very good geek. She considered herself a dinosaur in an age of high-tech gadgets. So although she did like Skyping with her grandkids on occasion, she didn’t religiously check her computer for email every day.

But on that Thursday morning after bridge club, Helen got online soon after waking. She checked for the email invitation that Verna Mabry had mentioned, but she didn’t see it in her in-box or stuck amidst her spam.

She fed Amber breakfast and chewed on a piece of toast with raspberry jam then looked for the email again afterward, finally finding precisely what she’d been waiting for.

The subject header read: In Celebration of Eleanora Duncan. The body of the email explained the details.

Please join Lady Godiva to honor the life of her dearly departed mother at River Bend Town Hall today at noon. Cake and punch provided. A donation of cash, a toy, or pet food for the Animal Rescue Fund is required for entry. Do come and help celebrate Eleanora’s generous spirit and love of creatures of all kinds.

Helen noted the Do Not Reply to the Email message, so there was no way to RSVP. She guessed the Duncan family’s lawyers were figuring that whoever showed up showed up, and whoever didn’t, fine.

A party hosted by a feline for her deceased mommy.

Hmm, Helen thought. She’d lived long enough to have seen and heard almost everything, but this was a first. And still she knew she wouldn’t miss it for the world.

T
HE TOWN HALL
was packed to the gills. So crowded, in fact, that Helen had to wait in line to enter, and she’d arrived precisely at noon.

So she stood on the sidewalk clutching a plastic bag full of canned cat food. It was the Liver ‘n’ Chicken that Amber had loved last week but rejected this week. Somehow, she doubted that dogs were anywhere near as fickle as cats.

“Howdy, Helen,” Clara Foley said as she ambled up and took a place in line behind her. “Can you believe this? I’m having flashbacks of buying Cabbage Patch dolls for my kids.”

Helen shook her head, gazing at the growing line behind them and the crush of bodies they could see through the open front door.

“I didn’t know this many people even subscribed to the
River Bend Bulletin,
” Clara added and hugged a bag of doggy kibbles to her breasts.

When they finally got to the door, a smartly dressed woman greeted them with a smile, took their donations, and gave them a pair of party hats.

Above them, colorful paper streamers crisscrossed the ceiling. Pots of vibrant flowers sat on tabletops. Amidst it all were countless photographs of Eleanora with Lady Godiva.

“So there you are!” Fanny Melville squeezed through the press of bodies to find them. Helen smiled at the sight of the polka-dotted hat perched atop her gray head, the ever-present spectacles sitting on her nose. “Oh, Lord, you have to see the cake,” Doc’s wife said, taking Helen’s hand and attempting to drag her through the crush. “There’s a giant photo of Lady Godiva and Eleanora painted in the frosting.”

Clara came along, and the three of them traipsed toward the refreshment table across the room. Helen spotted a hatless Sheriff Biddle, his sparse hair neatly brushed across his pate. She saw Jemima Winthrop looking like she was dressed for a garden party in a floral dress and yellow hat.

“They have punch in crystal bowls with strawberries in big chunks of ice,” Fanny was saying, hanging onto Helen’s hand so she didn’t lose her.

Was that Floyd Baskin with the young woman, Lara, from Save the River? Helen couldn’t believe they’d had the nerve to come any more than Jemima had.

Finally they reached their destination and Fanny let go of her hand.

“You’d better take a look,” Doc’s wife said, “before they start cutting Lady Godiva and her dearly departed mother into little pieces.”

“Oh, my heavens,” Helen breathed, and Clara let out a low whistle over her shoulder.

The cake was enormous, nearly as large as the table itself. Fanny hadn’t lied. The colored frosting depicted Eleanora hugging a pug-faced Lady Godiva. Helen had never seen such a happy smile on Eleanora’s face, at least not since Marvin and Jim had died.

“Let’s get some punch before they’re out,” Fanny said over the loud chatter around them. Clara piped up, “I’ll help.”

Helen stared at the frosting photo and wondered what her children and grandchildren would think if she wrote in her will that they should throw her a party with an obscenely large cake depicting her holding Amber. They’d probably figure she’d lost her marbles.

“This isn’t right,” she heard a voice mutter from beside her, and Helen realized Zelma Burdine had quietly appeared on her left. “It’s just not right,” she said again and picked up the shiny silver cake knife set on the edge of the table.

“Oh, Zelma,” Helen said, seeing the woman’s tearful face. Her eyes were saggy and shadowed, like she’d hardly slept in days. “How are you faring?” she asked, though the answer was apparent.

“She had a husband and a son,” Zelma said, as if she hadn’t heard Helen’s question. “And when she lost them, there were still people who loved her. But all that seemed to matter was the cat.”

The woman sniffled, and Helen touched her arm. “Grief is a terrible thing,” she remarked. “Eleanora lost so much. I guess she needed Lady Godiva to fill that empty spot in her heart.”

“But she had me, too,” Zelma whispered, and, without warning, she brought the fat knife down into the cake, reaching as far as she could to cut a line down the painted frosting right between Eleanora and Lady.

Just then, Fanny and Clara jostled their way over. Doc’s wife pushed a cup of frothy pink punch into Helen’s hand.

“Oh, Zelma, are you cutting the cake already?” Clara asked, only to be interrupted by Fanny Melville bursting out, “My God, Helen, you have to see the setup in front. They’ve got Lady Godiva on a chair that looks like a throne.”

Helen looked away from Zelma slicing up the cake and caught sight of Stanley Duncan, chatting up the mayor. She frowned. Surely he didn’t subscribe to the
River Bend Bulletin,
too?

“This way,” Fanny urged, setting down her punch cup to grab hold of Helen. With Clara on their heels, the trio pushed their way toward Lady’s throne.

Helen could just see the high ornate back of a chair placed in front, where Art Beaner normally stood at the podium during town hall meetings. They were nearly close enough for her to glimpse Lady without standing on her toes, when something shifted around her. The atmosphere changed. People stopped talking. Everyone seemed to stand still.

Helen smacked right into Fanny’s backside, and half her punch splashed out of her cup onto her shoes. It was a good thing she’d worn pink Keds. At least they matched the punch.

When she looked over to see what had caused all the commotion—or rather, the lack of commotion—a lump caught in her throat.

Jean Duncan strode into the mix with her head held high, her silver hair tied back neatly in a black scarf. She had on black jeans and a black twinset as well, pearls at her throat. She was the only one in the room dressed for a casual funeral rather than a death party with a kitty hostess.

“What’s she doing here?” Stanley Duncan’s voice rose, and a ripple of whispers followed suit. “Someone throw her out!”

“Jean,” Helen said as her friend came near, but Jean looked right past her.

Eleanora’s daughter-in-law headed straight toward the giant cake. Was she going to deface it? Helen wondered. But it was Zelma that Jean was aiming for.

The housekeeper let out a sputter cry of “Oh, you came! Someone does care,” she said and began to wail.

Stanley Duncan quit shouting for the sheriff to drag Jean out. Indeed, no one said anything as Zelma cried her heart out against Jean’s chest.

Helen’s heart lurched, hearing such gut-wrenching sobs.

At least Zelma’s grief was real enough, she thought and looked over at Stanley and then across the way at Jemima. Although soon after, Jemima’s yellow hat began to bob through the crowd and then vanished altogether. Helen looked around to see where Jemima had gone and realized Stanley Duncan seemed to have disappeared as well.

“Thank you all for coming today,” a clear voice said through the room’s speakers, and Helen noticed the pretty woman from the law firm who’d been gathering up the donations. She now stood up front beside the intricately carved chair.

Helen popped up on tiptoes to see Lady Godiva slumbering on a purple cushion, seeming not to care that the room was full of humans. Or perhaps she was depressed, grieving for Eleanora.

As the pretty lawyer droned on about Eleanora’s generosity and dedication to causes of all stripes, Helen found her mind drifting off.

She thought of Monday morning, when she’d gone out for a walk, and how she’d witnessed Lady Godiva chase a butterfly into the middle of Harbor Drive. Then Eleanora had stepped into the road, an engine had gunned, tires squealing as a car had driven right toward her as though it had meant to mow her down.

What if she hadn’t been there to pull Eleanora from its path? Helen’s heart pounded faster. She was sure that Eleanora would have been killed. Had the killer failed, only to succeed a second time with poison?

Helen closed her eyes and tried to recall what the car had looked like, but all she came up with were those things she’d told Biddle: it had been an older model sedan of some dark hue, maybe blue, maybe brown.

Jemima Winthrop drove a navy four-door.

She’d seen Stanley Duncan tooling about River Bend the past few days in a muddy late-model Lincoln.

And she remembered another brown sedan parked out front of the Save the River office in Grafton. Did it belong to Floyd Baskin or his girlfriend?

She turned at the sound of Zelma’s sobs and saw Jean still there, her arm wrapped around the crying woman. Helen’s throat tightened as she realized Jean owned a gray Buick.

I think somebody’s trying to kill me.

Those were Eleanora’s very words, as if she’d had some cause to suspect the worst. Had she been getting threats? Had an attempt been made on her life before that?

Helen had asked Zelma that very thing, but the housekeeper had said she couldn’t recall anything of the sort.

Helen let out a loud sigh, and Clara nudged her with an elbow.

Though she tried to focus on the perky lawyer babbling about Eleanora’s goodness, Helen’s mind drifted again. There was too much clouding her brain.

She flashed back to Jean’s smiling face. Oh, how happy she’d been at starting up her catering service. Why would she have risked it all just to be rid of Eleanora? Would it have been worth so much to her to have her mother-in-law out of her life forever?

The poison had been in Jean’s pâté.

The only fingerprints on the container belonged to Jean, Eleanora, and the housekeeper. Biddle had found a bottle of Splat in Jean’s kitchen, though admittedly one had been under Eleanora’s sink.

It all seemed so neat, almost too neat. If a bow had been tied around the evidence, it wouldn’t have appeared any more perfectly presented.

Was Jean being framed? she wondered. Everyone in town knew Jean hated Eleanora. But how had the murderer set it all up?

Helen had only heard about Jean’s new business venture from Jean herself the morning that Eleanora died. At that point, it wasn’t common knowledge. Who else could have realized the plastic container labeled The Catery was from Jean’s kitchen? Unless Zelma had let it slip that Jean had delivered the items or the murderer had looked up Jean’s newly-created web site.

There had been other food in the refrigerator. Why had the pâté been poisoned and nothing else? Biddle hadn’t mentioned sodium tetraborate being found in anything but the goose liver. So had the murderer intentionally poisoned the delicacy rather than, say, a jar of pickles?

What was she missing? Helen tapped a finger to her chin. The answer was there, she knew it. But the more she tried to figure things out, the more frustrated she got.

No wonder Biddle had lost so much hair.

“Lady Godiva was very special to Eleanora,” the pretty lawyer was saying and picked up the ball of fur from the throne. She held the cat high, as if on display. Lady mewed and took a swipe at her. “Lady Godiva inspired Eleanora to sit on the board of numerous animal rescue operations across the county. She hoped that all creatures, great and small, would find homes and be loved as much as she loved her precious baby.”

Lady let out another mew, but it was drowned out by a human howl.

Helen swiveled her head to see an unsmiling Jean trying hard to console a desolate Zelma. The poor dear bent like a hunchback, sobbing into Jean’s sweater.

What would happen to Zelma? Helen wondered. Where would she go? What about the house on Harbor Drive? Would that dreadful brother of Marvin’s get everything? Who would take care of Lady Godiva?

Helen murmured, “Excuse me a minute,” to Clara and Fanny, then she made her way toward Jean and Zelma.

“Can I do anything to help?” she asked and set down her half-empty cup of punch. She glanced sideways at the cake to see that Zelma had done quite an interesting job of cutting it up. It looked very much like she’d dissected Lady Godiva and Eleanora both.

This time, Jean didn’t look through her. Her friend’s pale eyes met hers. “Could you wet a towel with cold water? I think Zelma needs to sit down and cool off.”

“Of course,” Helen said, knowing there were all sorts of embroidered tea towels stocked in the powder rooms of town hall. She’d made half of them herself. “I’ll be right back.”

She maneuvered toward the back hallway, then to her right, where a pair of doors were marked
LADIES
and
GENTLEMEN
, although both bathrooms were exactly the same, with a pedestal sink, toilet, mirror, and trash can. The only difference was their colors—pink for girls and blue for boys—and the fact that the ladies’ room door never seemed to properly lock.

Helen grabbed the knob, which easily turned. She pulled open the door to the restroom painted Pepto-Bismol pink, flipped on the ceiling light, and found Stanley Duncan and Jemima Winthrop embracing.