Not a Chance in Helen (15 page)

“Now the cat’s going to have what should be mine?” Zelma struck a match and held it up. “No,” she said, “I don’t think so. It isn’t right. It’s just not right.”

A lump of fear filled Helen’s throat as she watched Zelma lower her arm. “No!” she cried out, about to lunge forward.

But Zelma dropped the burning stick to the gas-soaked heap at her feet. With a pop, the combustible pile exploded.

Helen fell backward.

Flames rose into a solid wall of fire, crackling and snapping as they leapt higher and wider. Smoke quickly filled the room, choking off Helen’s breath.

“Zelma!” Helen found enough air in her lungs to scream, her heart racing as the smoke and flames spread between them. The heat pushed Helen back toward the stairs and away from the fire and Zelma.

Chapter Twenty-Four

H
ELEN COU
GHED CONVULSIVELY,
drawing her hand to her face, her breaths choked off as the fire sucked the oxygen from the air.

She backed up until she bumped into the wall. Then she felt her way through the smoky haze. Her eyes burned, and her throat felt hot and raw. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. She had to get out of there and fast. She couldn’t risk trying to help Zelma. She only prayed there was some other way out and Zelma could escape. The flames were everywhere, feeding on the paint cans and storage boxes that filled Eleanora’s basement.

Helen blindly made her way up the stairwell, holding onto the railing. Her lungs aching, she hacked with every breath.

She dashed up the steps and burst free of the basement, closing the door behind her as she gasped for fresh air. Even still the smoke followed her, seeping beneath the door and swirling about her feet like the fog in an old movie.

Without another thought, she snatched Eleanora’s phone from the wall and dialed 911. The moment the voice asked, “What’s your emergency,” Helen blurted out, “There’s a fire in the basement of the Duncan house on Harbor Drive in River Bend! The woman who set it might be trapped down there. Please, hurry!”

As smoke began to fill the kitchen, Helen ran to the back door and pushed her way out to the driveway. As she made her way free of the house, coughing and sputtering, she felt thankful that Lady Godiva wasn’t inside.

She fell to her knees on the grass, shrieking as an explosion shattered the glass in the front windows. Helen buried her head in her arms, afraid to look up until she heard the sound of a fire engine approach.

As she pulled herself up from the lawn, she saw that curious neighbors had begun to gather on the driveway. Helen walked toward them, glancing back at the house to see blue-tinged flames licking at the broken windows.

The noise of sirens grew loud in her ears, and she spotted the engine from Grafton turning from the street onto the drive. It honked its horn as it drew closer to the Duncan house. Men in protective gear hopped off as soon as the vehicle stopped. Calling out to each other, they unleashed a never-ending hose from the top of the truck and hooked it to a nearby fire hydrant.

The hundred-year-old house crackled and groaned as the fire bloomed. The flames reached as high as the gingerbread-latticework atop the porch. Helen winced every time another window popped and shattered.

“Oh, Zelma,” Helen murmured, as the crowd around her thickened and the cacophony of voices and noises from man and machine nearly deafened her.

Someone reached for her then, calling her name, and she found Sheriff Biddle holding onto her arm, his face so near her own that his nose touched the tip of her nose.

“What the hell happened?” he yelled.

“Zelma,” she cried in return. “She killed Eleanora, but it was a mistake!”

“What?” He pointed to his ear. He couldn’t hear her.

Helen shook her head in frustration, leaning in closer and shouting, “Zelma lit a fire in the basement. She didn’t come out with me!”

His frown deepened, and she knew he’d understood her every word.

A fireman came their way, gesturing at them and the other onlookers, warning them to back off, urging them away until they stood on the sidewalk.

From there Helen watched as the men fought the flames. The way the firefighters held the hose looked like a tug-of-war. Helen couldn’t tell at first who was winning: them or the fire. Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of Zelma inside, and she clasped her hands at her breasts, praying silently, knowing she’d just have to wait it out.

It was two hours before the fire was brought under control, though it was another hour still before the crowd of spectators disbanded, along with a van from the
Alton Telegraph
.

As the firemen hosed down the still-hot embers, Helen repeated her story to the fire captain and then again to the sheriff.

“She admitted she killed old Mrs. Duncan?” Biddle asked as though he didn’t believe her.

“Yes.” Helen nodded. Every breath she took still felt tinged with smoke. “She didn’t mean to kill Eleanora. Lady Godiva was her intended victim. She thought that if she got rid of the cat, Miss Nora would shower her with affection. Only she mistook the cat food for the pâté from The Catery.” Helen squinted at the remains of the once grand house. “Can you imagine devoting yourself to someone for sixty years of your life and then watching them treat a cat better than they treated you?”

“She confessed all of this?” the sheriff said, still seemingly unconvinced that Helen hadn’t made it all up to save her friend.

Helen turned on him then, rage shaking through her and rattling her voice as she replied, “I’m not lying, Sheriff! Zelma said as much herself! She had her bags packed. I saw them in the back of her car! She planned to set the place on fire then take off for heaven knows where.”

“This is nuts,” Biddle remarked and pushed his hat back on his head, wiping at his sweat-damp brow. “I can’t believe it.”

“But it’s true, every word.” Helen swallowed down the grit in her mouth. “Do you think I could make something like that up?”

The sheriff cocked his head and looked at her like he was trying to figure that out.

Helen wanted to kick him.

“Sheriff?”

A fireman with a soot-stained face approached. “We think we found the woman you said might still be in the house.”

“Is she alive?” Biddle asked, but the expression on the fellow’s face made Helen’s heart sink.

“I’m sorry,” the fireman said. “It looks like she tried to get out through the cellar doors around back. She was on the stairwell. It was the smoke that got to her, not the fire,” he explained, though it comforted Helen little.

“She didn’t deserve that,” Helen murmured. “She may have been wrong, but she didn’t deserve to die.”

Biddle said nothing.

“Again, I’m sorry,” the man remarked before he walked away, and Helen hugged herself, trying to stop the trembling.

“Well, it’s over at least,” the sheriff said.

Helen nodded as she stared at the remains of the house. The once lovely Victorian mansion that had outlived uncountable floods was scorched and blackened by flames. It looked weary, with its gaping windows and splintered wood; defeated.

As Helen thought of Eleanora and Zelma, her heart felt near to breaking.

“Yes, it’s over,” she whispered, “but it’s not a very happy ending.”

“C’mon,” Biddle said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll take you home.”

For once, Helen didn’t fight him.

Chapter Twenty-Five

H
ELEN PLUCK
ED OFF
her bifocals and put aside the crossword from that morning’s paper.

She couldn’t seem to concentrate on the puzzle, no matter how hard she tried. Her mind kept going back to what had happened to Zelma Burdine.

Sighing deeply, she stared out through the porch screens. Though she gazed upon trees and bluffs, on the bridge that spanned the nearby creek, Helen didn’t see the beauty in her surroundings. She could only think of one thing: Zelma had poisoned Eleanora.

Helen couldn’t help feeling sorry for Zelma despite everything. How it must have hurt to realize she was prized far less than a four-legged pet.

“Helen?”

She glanced at the door to see a woman standing beyond the mesh. She squinted and quickly realized who it was. “Come on in, Jean,” she said, forcing a smile and waving a hand. “The door’s open.”

Jean Duncan stepped inside, dropping the door closed with a clatter.

Her silver hair was tied back in a brilliant red scarf, and she looked peaceful in a way Helen hadn’t seen since before Eleanora’s murder. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Nonsense.” Helen cleared away a half-read book and the newspaper so she could make room for Jean on the wicker sofa.

Her friend sat down beside her.

“It’s good to see you,” Helen said and reached over to give Jean’s hand a squeeze.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Jean told her, and she suddenly looked anything but serene. Her hazel eyes seemed on the verge of tears. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you this past week. If it hadn’t been for you, Biddle would’ve had me locked up in the Jersey County jail.”

Helen felt her skin warm. She squirmed and picked some of Amber’s pale fur off her sweatpants. “I knew you were innocent,” she said, “and the sheriff surely would have figured it out before long, even if I hadn’t poked my nose where it didn’t belong.”

Jean fiddled with the gold chains at her throat. “Well, just the same, I’m glad I had you on my side. If I’d depended on Sheriff Biddle to get to the truth, it might’ve been a long wait.”

“Now, Jean, he was just doing his job,” Helen said, repeating words told to her not so long ago, in fact. And she hadn’t liked them then any more than Jean appeared to now.

Her friend let out a slow breath. “I’m awfully happy to be off the hook, but it’s terrible the way it all turned out, isn’t it? Poor Zelma,” Jean added in a whisper, and her eyes filled with tears. “It might be a good thing that she didn’t have to live with the guilt of accidentally killing someone she loved. It’s heart-breaking.”

“Oh, Jean, what happened with Jim was an accident,” Helen said and took her friend’s hand. “If only Eleanora had been kinder to you and Zelma both. Sometimes grief just gets the best of us.”

Jean shook her head. “I just wish it had all turned out differently.”

“Well, what’s done is done.” Helen tried to cheer her friend up. “You need to look ahead now and put the past behind you.”

Jean glanced down at her lap. “If only I could,” she said. “But I have a feeling my catering business is over before it’s begun.”

Helen smiled. “I talked to Verna Mabry myself, and she’s willing to hire you to cater the annual luncheon. So I’d imagine you’ll need to get started on the menu. You do know how picky the LCIL ladies are.”

Jean looked up, and this time the tears in her eyes were anything but sad. “Yes,” she said, “I guess I do.”

“Just stay away from goose liver pâté, all right?”

“Oh, I will,” Jean laughed. “I definitely will.”

A
T NOONTIM
E,
H
ELEN
headed for the kitchen to make herself a sandwich. She nearly tripped over Amber en route.

He flew ahead as if determined to beat her in a foot race. Then he promptly sat down at his empty saucer. While Helen opened up a fresh can of cat food, she eyed the floor around her hungry feline, noting that all the ants had completely disappeared.

She found herself thinking that Splat really did the job—maybe too well in some cases.

Leaving Amber in the kitchen devouring Ocean Whitefish ‘n’ Shrimp, Helen took her sandwich to the porch. She heard the crunch of tires on gravel and looked up to see Frank Biddle’s black-and-white pulling up just before she could take a bite of grilled cheese.

He slammed the car door and hiked up his trousers as he walked up her stone path. The porch steps creaked when he climbed them. He doffed his hat, smoothing his palm over his head before he raised a fist to knock.

“Mrs. Evans? Is that you?”

“If it’s not,” she said, “will you go away?”

He grunted and opened the door despite the lack of invitation.

“Ma’am,” he murmured and took a seat opposite her at the table, the wicker crackling as he settled in and plunked down his hat. His eyes seemed to jump from one end of the porch to the other, touching upon everything but her.

“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked him.

“Well, Mrs. Evans, it’s like this,” he started, though she had a feeling she was going to have to drag whatever it was out of him. “I have a couple things I need to tell you.”

She settled back in her chair and waited.

He shifted in his seat. “First off, Jemima Winthrop took in old Mrs. Duncan’s cat. Though I guess she’s a Duncan now, too, isn’t she?”

Helen stared at him. “Jemima has Lady Godiva? How does that affect the will?”

“I don’t know exactly,” he told her and openly eyed the gooey sandwich on her plate. “My guess is they’ll try to get something out of caring for the critter.”

Helen sniffed. “Well, if they don’t come out of this a few dollars richer, it won’t be for lack of trying.”

“Guess we’ll just have to wait and see where the dust settles, won’t we? That is, once the estate goes through probate.”

Helen picked up half of the grilled cheese, only to put it back down. She pushed the plate away, not having much of an appetite.

“You gonna eat that?” Biddle asked.

Helen smiled. “Are you hungry, Sheriff?”

“A little,” he said and reached across the table. He picked up half the sandwich and took a big bite, muttering with his mouth full, “They’re settling down here, by the way.”

Helen blinked. “Jemima and Stanley?”

“Yep,” he got out as he swallowed. “She said they’ll live in the old Winthrop place. Stanley claims he’s gonna fix her up.”

“It could surely use some fixing.”

Biddle took another bite, chewed thoughtfully, and nodded. “Oh, and you were right about something else.”

Helen’s ears pricked up at that, and she noticed the sheriff’s ears turn red as did his cheeks.

“It appears Miss Burdine was planning on running away. The garage wasn’t too badly damaged, and we recovered her bags from the Ford. She took a few things that weren’t hers though.” He licked grease from his fingers before ticking off on them, “A sapphire necklace, a pair of diamond earrings, an ivory brooch, and a couple of platinum rings.”

“Oh, dear,” Helen said and thought again how much she hated unhappy endings.

She heard the pitter-patter of paws on linoleum and glanced over as Amber made his grand entrance. His yellow eyes first fixed on her and then on Sheriff Biddle. Not at all impressed by the company, he turned his tail and sashayed over to a sunny spot at the opposite end of the porch.

“It’s sad,” she remarked, “how blind we are sometimes to what’s right in front of us.” As Eleanora had overlooked Zelma, she was thinking, but Biddle obviously took her words to mean something else.

He wiped his hands on his pants and got to his feet, hooking his thumbs in his gun belt. “Uh, ma’am, I wanted to . . . well, I figured that maybe I owed you . . . “ His voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat.

Helen looked up at him, waiting.

“I realize I gave you a hard time about interfering in the investigation,” he said and shifted on his feet. His face flushed upward from his collar. “But I really, um, figure I should offer you—“

“My grilled cheese,” she cut him off with a smile, holding out her plate. “If you want the rest, it’s yours.”