Not a Chance in Helen (6 page)

Chapter Eight

T
HE SCREEN DOOR
squealed open then slapped shut again.

Frank Biddle looked up from the
Alton Telegraph
spread on his desk. When he saw Amos Melville, he quickly folded the paper and stuffed it away in his top drawer.

“How do, Sheriff.”

“Something up, Doc?” Frank checked his watch. “You on your lunch break already?”

“Just between appointments,” Amos told him, and Frank nodded.

The sheriff knew that many folks in River Bend, like Amos Melville, still worked nine to five despite being past the usual retirement age. It heartened a middle-aged man like Frank to see all the gray hairs that kept things humming on Main Street, like Erma serving food at the diner, Hilary Dell running the stationery store, and Agnes March selling antiques just next door. People didn’t stop
doing
in this town just because they passed sixty-five. There were no big corporate bullies to tell them when they should retire, so it seemed to Frank that few did. Though he didn’t wager he’d be sheriff too far into his sunset years, it gave him a good feeling to know that no one around here would even blink if he wore his badge for another decade or more.

With an overloud sigh, Doc settled into the chair opposite his desk.

Uh-oh, Frank thought and cleared his throat. He had a feeling this wasn’t just a friendly visit. “You’ve heard from your friend at the medical examiner’s office,” he said as much as asked.

Amos ran a hand over his fluff of white hair, pushing back the strands that had fallen over his brow. He stuck his bifocals onto his crown and rubbed his eyes as he spoke. “Some of the tests have been run, and it doesn’t look good.”

“I see.” Biddle couldn’t think of any other comment. So he listened.

“There’s evidence of hemorrhagic gastroenteritis, which is inflammation and bleeding of the stomach and intestines,” Doc clarified, propping his specs back on his nose. “Ed found signs of cerebral edema and central nervous system depression, enough to have caused complete respiratory failure.”

Biddle cleared his throat. “Which in plain English means what?”

“It looks like Eleanora was poisoned.”

Biddle leaned forward. “Any sign of what did it?” he asked.

Doc’s pale eyes met his. “The tests of her organs and tissue aren’t all in yet. But from what’s been done so far and from the symptoms of tremor and convulsion Zelma described, I’d wager it was some kind of acid or acid compound, though I’d hate to trap myself into a guess just yet. The lab will narrow down an answer soon enough.”

“Poisoned.” Biddle breathed the word, dropping his hands to his knees and slumping back in his chair. “So someone did kill old Mrs. Duncan.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Ingested?”

Doc nodded.

“Think it was in the food she was snacking on while Zelma fixed her dinner?”

“Ed said he’d have all the answers later on this afternoon.”

“Holy cow,” Biddle murmured, his chair squealing as he rocked forward again and got to his feet. He hiked up his pants, though his belly kept them from budging much higher. “I can’t believe someone really did her in.” He shook his head and turned on his heel so he was looking down at Doc. “You’re sure about this, now?”

“I’m dead certain.”

Frank raised his brows.

Doc tacked on, “So to speak.”

“She was murdered,” Frank said, simply because it floored him each time something like that happened in this tiny town. For the most part, major crimes involved fishing rods stolen from boats in the harbor or skinny-dipping in the community pool on hot summer nights. “Murdered,” he repeated, more softly this time, thinking of the car that had tried to run down Eleanora Duncan the previous morning. Were the two incidents connected? He had suggested as much last night, but it had been a comment made on the spur of the moment. Now he wasn’t so certain he hadn’t been right.

Doc came out of his chair. “I’d better run. Fanny’s got a kid coming in with chicken pox in half an hour. Think I’ll pick up a sandwich at the diner and take it back to my desk.”

“Holler when you know something more,” Frank called as Doc left his office.

The sheriff got up and walked over to the screen door. He looked through the mesh, watching as Amos Melville crossed Main Street and headed straight for the diner. Every now and again, a car would creep its way up the street or down. Voices cropped up and faded as people passed his office at a leisurely pace. No one in River Bend ever seemed in much of a hurry. Frank figured that was part of why he liked it here.

He’d left the police force in St. Charles a number of years ago, settling into this tiny river-side community with Sarah and running for sheriff unopposed. He’d gotten tired of the crime that had seemed to spread like a fungus beyond the St. Louis metroplex, creeping into St. Charles. He’d wanted something better for himself and Sarah. He’d figured River Bend was the answer, particularly since he didn’t like using a gun. Most of the time he could get through a week without anything more urgent than calls about cats up in trees or a fender bender on the graveled roads. Once in a while, some kid would pocket a candy bar or a magazine from the drugstore or steal a pickup and go joyriding up to Cemetery Hill.

But murder?

That wasn’t something he saw much of in River Bend. With so many older folks in town, death wasn’t uncommon. But dying in your sleep wasn’t criminal. Eleanora Duncan hadn’t gone willingly. Someone had given her a shove.

Biddle sighed again.

Now all he had to do was figure out who did it.

His stomach grumbled, and he realized he was hungry.

He couldn’t do much on the Duncan case until the medical examiner had finished the autopsy, so he figured he might as well have lunch.

He pushed open the screen door and went out. He let the door slap shut behind him. Hiking up his pants, he started across the street as Doc Melville had a minute before, making a beeline toward the diner just as the carillon in the chapel began to play a noontime tune.

Chapter Nine

T
HE PLUCKY CHIMES
of the carillon filled the air as Helen walked home from the Duncan house.

Without so much as a glance at her wristwatch, she knew it was noon. Her stomach growled on cue, and she wondered if somehow her body hadn’t over the years learned to react to the carillon’s chimes at midday and dusk like Pavlov’s dog.

As she approached her cottage, she noticed that the screen door had been pushed open about six inches. Helen figured that Amber had made his way inside, ready for lunch. That was all well and good so long as the old tom hadn’t brought her anything from the creek bed or the bluffs, like a frog or the little gray field mice he was so fond of.

She entered the house and surveyed the porch. Carefully, she inspected the floral cushions atop the white wicker. She even stooped to check beneath the sofa and chairs, but she didn’t see anything more startling than dust bunnies.

Entering the interior through open French doors, Helen crossed the dining room and went into the kitchen.

There he was, as expected.

Amber sat on the floor with his tail vaguely twitching. His ears pricked up at her footsteps, but otherwise he gave no indication that he was happy to see her.

He stared sadly down at his food bowl, which Helen had filled with Salmon ‘n’ Cod just that morning and which now appeared nearly empty. Whatever did he find so engrossing about his leftover breakfast?

“You’re not old enough to be senile,” she murmured, taking a few steps closer. Despite how her knees protested, she crouched low behind him and squinted down at the linoleum. Within seconds, she saw what caught his interest.

A thin trail of black ants marched from a crack in the floorboard below the dishwasher across to Amber’s saucer and back again.

“Ugh,” she muttered and slowly straightened, putting her hands on her hips. She looked down at Amber, who turned his yellow eyes in her direction. “Well,” she told him, “
do
something, would you? Earn your rent.”

He blinked at her, and his pink-gummed mouth seemed to be grinning, as though he was enjoying the whole scene immensely.

Helen sighed, realizing she was going to have to take care of the ant trail herself. She lifted a sneakered foot and brought it down, squashing as many of the little buggers as she could. With a grimace, she scratched their carcasses off the sole of her Ked with a paper towel.

Amber mewed gruffly, like she’d spoiled his fun. Then he sauntered off with his tail in the air.

“Sorry, pal,” Helen said as he disappeared around the corner. Gathering up her courage, she pulled open the dishwasher but didn’t see a sign of ants inside. Well, that was something good, anyway.

Though she scrounged beneath the sink, pushing aside cans of air freshener, floor cleaner, spot remover, brass and silver polish, and assorted other sparklers and shiners she didn’t use near as much as she should, all Helen could find was a bottle of ant killer with just about a drop left. Definitely not enough to do the job at hand. Splat, it was called, and it was great stuff. Made by a little company in St. Louis, it got rid of the pests better than any big-name brand she’d ever tried. She’d heard talk it was about to be banned—but then Helen heard lots of talk around here—and besides, the corner market still stocked it. Helen knew she wasn’t the only one who’d raise a stink if she couldn’t buy some. It was the one thing that truly worked against modern-day bugs with their cast-iron stomachs.

She dusted off her hands and dropped the empty bottle of Splat into the trash can.

Hmm, she thought as she peered into her near-empty refrigerator; if she didn’t get to the grocer’s pretty soon, even the ants wouldn’t have much to snack on. She knew her stash of cat food for Amber
was
getting dangerously low. All right, all right. After she put something in her stomach, she’d take a trip to the store and fill up.

That settled, she gathered up the few slices of American cheese, butter, and bread that remained and fixed herself a grilled cheese sandwich. It was exactly what she’d meant to eat for supper the night before but had forsaken when Jean had called and asked to meet her at the diner. What with dogging Frank Biddle to Eleanora’s and finding her dead, Helen had ended up coming home to a bowl of Raisin Bran at close to nine o’clock.

She took the sandwich and a glass of ice water out onto the porch. Within five minutes, she’d devoured the grilled cheese, even licking the greasy residue off her fingertips when she was done.

It took her twice as long to locate her glasses. When she found them buried behind seat cushions on the wicker couch, she propped them on her nose and retrieved that morning’s
Alton Telegraph
. She neatly folded the paper to the section that featured the crossword puzzle. The purple pen she used to fill in the squares sat right beside it. She picked both up and settled down.

Ten across. Five letters.

A river in German wine country
(Ger. sp.).

Helen paused for a moment, but only that, then said aloud, “Mosel,” writing down the answer in deep lavender print.

She backtracked to three down.

A seven-letter word for
insolent.

“Stanley,” she uttered without thinking, laughing at herself when she realized what she’d said. Well, it fit, didn’t it? And Stanley Duncan certainly was insolent if nothing else.

It was too bad, she mused, as she filled in the squares with “abusive,” that Eleanora couldn’t have used a little Splat to rid herself of her awful brother-in-law.

What gall he had, tearing through Eleanora’s things like a madman, frightening Zelma half to death, and with Eleanora not even buried.

She found herself hoping Eleanora had left the obnoxious man little, if anything, in her will. Unfortunately, she realized, he
was
the only Duncan left, the only surviving family.

Poor Eleanora, she thought. What else had the woman had to put up with that Helen hadn’t known about? Who else besides Stanley Duncan had wanted something from the old girl?

Stop it, she told herself. Eleanora wouldn’t want your pity.

Still, Helen suddenly wasn’t in the mood to do any more of her crossword. She set down the paper and pen alongside her spectacles then cleared her dishes from the porch. After putting her dirty plate and glass in the sink, she gathered up her purse and headed off for the corner market.

Just as Helen was approaching the doors leading into the store, she ran smack into Jemima Winthrop, who rushed out like the place was on fire.

“My, but you’re in a hurry,” Helen said, rubbing her arm where Jemima had bumped it.

Jemima mumbled an apology but didn’t pause. She tightly clutched the small brown sack in her hands and dashed off.

Helen watched her go, striding away up the sidewalk in her khaki pants and pale sweater, shoulders stiff and back ramrod straight. Jemima was much like her father had been, feisty and determined, quick to speak and as quick to act. The family had once held a fortune nearly as big as the Duncans’ before there had been some sort of trouble, and Reginald Winthrop had ended up practically giving away his granary to Marvin Duncan in some type of bankruptcy auction. Old Mr. Winthrop had taken to drinking and had died not long after, leaving behind his wife and unmarried daughter. Jemima, headstrong girl that she was, had plunged into volunteer work, taking over the reins of the local library, doing her damnedest to make it something to be proud of.

Maybe she had urgent library business that had sent her scurrying off. Certainly Jemima hadn’t meant to give her the brush-off? Helen shrugged. No matter, she thought and shoved open the glass door to the market.

Half an hour later, she pushed her cart up to the counter, unloading her goodies one by one so the ponytailed checkout girl could ring her up.

A display of Splat near the register reminded Helen she was out of the stuff, and she quickly added a bottle to the rest.

“Ants must be bad this year,” the teenager said, noting the purchase. “ ’Cause I’ve sold, like, a hundred bottles of the stuff this week alone. Miss Winthrop just bought her second batch in two days, would you believe.”

“All I know is I’ve got an army of ants in my kitchen,” Helen told her, writing a check for the total as the girl packed the groceries into two recyclable bags.

“Good luck with the Splat,” the checker said, waving as Helen left.

By the time she’d walked home, Helen’s arms were dead tired. She’d barely set the bags down on the kitchen counter when the phone shrilly rang. She hurried to catch it. Whatever happened to that nice jingly-ring landlines used to have? she wondered as she scooped up the receiver and uttered a brisk “Hello?”

“Helen, it’s Jean,” said the excited voice on the other end.

“Jean? For goodness’ sake, where’ve you been?” Helen started in. “I’ve been trying to reach you since last evening. I’ve left several messages on your voice mail. I even went by your place this morning after the LCIL meeting, but you weren’t around.” She paused to take a breath, which allowed Jean to jump in and explain.

“Did you leave a message? I haven’t checked them yet. I had to go into St. Louis late last night and ended up staying with a friend. You won’t believe what’s happened . . . “

“No, dear, I think it’s you who’ll be surprised to hear what’s been going on.”

“Listen, Helen . . . “

“No,
you
listen, my friend . . . “

Jean burst in before Helen could finish. “If you come over right now, I’ll explain everything. Will you do it?”

“Of course,” Helen told her. How could she refuse, when her curiosity was on overload? “Give me about half an hour,” she said then hung up.

She got the groceries unpacked in record time. After a quick pit stop, she was off, heading back toward Bluff Street, thinking that all of this walking would no doubt mean going to sleep tonight with her nose filled with the smell of Bengay.

Jean came out of the house as soon as Helen turned into the driveway.

“I’ve got wonderful news,” Jean said as she took Helen’s arm and walked with her up to the house. Jean’s eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed. She looked every bit as excited as she’d sounded on the phone. “Something good has finally happened to me, and it’s about time, don’t you think?”

“Jean, wait.” Helen stopped walking.

Jean let go of her arm and stared at her, puzzled. “Whatever’s the matter with you? You’re acting as if I’ve done something wrong.”

“You
did
hear about Eleanora?”

Jean’s sunny face clouded. “I told you last night that I don’t want to have a thing to do with her anymore. So if you’ve got some sob story about her falling and breaking a hip, I don’t want to hear it, not even after Zelma’s histrionics in the diner last night.”

“Oh, I think you might,” Helen insisted.

“You make it sound serious. Should I sit down for this?”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

Jean nodded and went over to the steps, settling on the stoop. “Okay, shoot,” she said once she was off her feet.

Helen went to sit beside her. “All right, here goes,” she said and dove right in. “Eleanora’s dead.” There was no easy way to put it. “She was having convulsions then stopped breathing. That’s why Zelma came after the sheriff. By the time help arrived, it was too late. I’m sorry.”

Jean set her arms across her knees and looked away. “Well, she was nearly eighty-one. She had to go sometime.”

Helen stared at her, speechless for once in her life. Such a coldhearted reply wasn’t like the Jean Duncan she knew at all. But then, Eleanora had hardly been a loving mother-in-law to the woman. Still, she’d expected shock or sympathy,
something
more than this. Instead, she heard only indifference.

She studied Jean’s profile and saw no softness; just the hard set of her jaw and the frown on her mouth. “Aren’t you even the least bit curious as to
how
she died?” Helen quietly asked.

Jean replied with a cool “No, I can’t say that I am.”

“It so happens they took her body to the morgue for . . . “

“Helen, stop,” Jean said and got to her feet. “I don’t want to talk about Eleanora, not now or ever.” She offered Helen her hand. “Now, do you want to come inside and have some coffee so I can fill you in on my first official job as a caterer?”

Helen realized that pursuing the subject of Eleanora Duncan was fighting a losing battle. “All right, you win.” She got up and brushed off the back of her sweatpants.

Jean pulled the screen door wide, waving an arm. “After you,” she said, and her eyes lit up again. She smiled brightly, as though Helen had never even made mention of Eleanora’s death.

Helen stepped into the kitchen and sat at a table cluttered with cookbooks and handwritten recipe cards.

Jean poured them each a mug of coffee smelling deliciously of cinnamon. She passed Helen’s over then pulled out the chair beside Helen’s.

“Hmm, were should I start?” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Okay, last night after you left me stranded at the diner, I had Erma pack me up a meat loaf sandwich and brought it home. The phone was ringing just as I walked in. Turns out it was a friend of mine from college who’d moved to St. Louis about a week before and looked me up. Seems she’s with a public relations firm that’s putting on a fancy brouhaha for some clients, and their caterer bailed at the last minute. She said the company was in a panic, and did I know any good people, since she was new to the city and all. When I mentioned I’d started up a catering business myself, she asked if I’d consider working their party. Only thing was, they had to hire someone by this morning. So I hightailed it over to her place and spent most of the night working on menus and bouncing ideas off her until I had something really good put together.”

“Does that mean you got the job?” Helen asked while Jean drew in a much needed breath.

“Yes!” Her scarf-tied ponytail swayed as she announced with a squeal, “I got it, Helen! I went into work with her this morning, showed them my stuff, and they told me the job was mine. Can you even believe it? I’m still on cloud nine.”