Not a Chance in Helen (7 page)

Helen hardly knew what to say.

“Well? Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

“Of course I am. Congratulations,” Helen said and reached for her hand, squeezing it warmly. She summoned up a smile, genuinely glad for her friend. “I’m thrilled,” she said. “And you do deserve it. This past year’s been so hard.”

“I’m determined to put it behind me.”

“When’s this party? I only hope it won’t interfere with the LCIL luncheon.”

“Oh, my God, the luncheon,” Jean repeated, and she raised her eyebrows. “Oh, Helen, don’t tell me that I got the gig?” Her hands went to her heart. “Is it possible?”

“The gig is yours,” Helen said, grinning, tickled by the look of surprise on Jean’s face. “Well, it’s yours if you want it.”

Jean breathed a soft “Oh, my.”

Helen took a sip of coffee, glad she set the cup down when she did, or it would’ve splattered across her sweatshirt when Jean hopped out of her chair and caught her in a hug.

“You did it, didn’t you? Probably forced me down their throats,” she was saying. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Helen laughed. “For heaven’s sake, I was doing myself a favor. I couldn’t bear the thought of having the Catfish Barn cater again this year. My intestines would never forgive me.”

The doorbell rang, and Jean let Helen go. Jean straightened up, tucking her blouse tighter inside her blue jeans.

“Are you expecting someone?” Helen asked.

Jean shrugged. “Not that I’m aware of.”

The bell chimed again.

“I’m coming!” Jean shouted. Assuring Helen she’d be back in a flash, she left the kitchen, the tap of her flat-soled shoes audible even after she was out of sight.

Helen listened as the front door opened and she heard a man’s voice, one she recognized well.

She got out of her chair and retraced Jean’s steps, walking into the foyer to see Frank Biddle standing in the doorway, his hat in his hands.

Jean turned to her with cheeks pale as chalk. “Oh, God, Helen,” she said, a warble in her voice. “Why didn’t you tell me the whole story? Eleanora didn’t just
die,
she was murdered.”

Chapter Ten

“
E
LEANORA
WAS MURDERED?”
Helen repeated, walking up to Jean and taking her arm. Her friend looked like she might faint. Helen didn’t feel very steady on her feet either. “So it’s for certain then? It wasn’t natural causes?”

“No, ma’am, it was poison,” Biddle told them. He spun his hat round and round in his hands. He didn’t seem any more at ease with the answer than she or Jean. “Doc said it was sodium tetraborate.”

“Oh, no,” Jean breathed and swayed against Helen, who kept an arm around her waist to steady her. “Oh, no, this can’t be happening.”

“Sodium tetra . . . what?” Helen asked the sheriff. Her chest tightened at the thought of such violence in River Bend, of all places.

“Sodium tetraborate,” Frank Biddle repeated, enunciating each syllable. “It’s a form of boric acid.” He glanced at Helen then Jean and back again. “It’s mostly used in insecticides.”

“Are you sure it was intentional?” Helen asked, wondering if the sheriff and Jean could hear the overloud beat of her heart. Her ears pounded with the noise of it. “Maybe it was an accident.” At Biddle’s lift of eyebrows, she added, “It has been known to happen.”

“The evidence is pretty forthright, ma’am.” The sheriff cleared his throat and inclined his head toward Jean, who stared at the floor, eyes unblinking, as though in shock. “Forensics tested what remained of the goose liver old Mrs. Duncan had been eating, and, from the concentration in what was left, they figured there was probably at least a teaspoon mixed in. It was more than enough to kill someone. It’s relatively odorless, you know. Doc said that since our senses dull with age, she probably didn’t even taste it.”

Helen nodded. Her mouth was too dry to form words. She found herself thinking of the car that had nearly hit Eleanora yesterday morning and wondered if the person behind the wheel had been the one to put poison in the goose liver. Suddenly she didn’t feel at all well.

Oh, boy.

She wet her lips and forced herself to ask, “This goose liver that had poison, was it something that . . .”

That Jean had delivered earlier that same day,
she left unfinished.

“It was in a plastic deli-type dish with a lid that had The Catery printed on it,” the sheriff answered. “It had Mrs. Duncan’s phone number and website, too.
This
Mrs. Duncan,” he added, nodding at Jean. “As I explained to her a moment ago, that’s the reason I’m here. I need to ask her some questions.”

“But, Sheriff, I had nothing to do with it.” Jean eyes were as wide as a child’s. “I-I didn’t put p-poison in the pâté,” she stammered and gestured helplessly. “You can’t believe it was me? But you must, or you wouldn’t have shown up on my doorstep.”

“Ma’am, I just . . . “

“Really, Sheriff, you can’t honestly think Jean killed her own mother-in-law,” Helen butted in, still digesting the fact that Eleanora had been murdered and it was Jean’s goose liver that had done her in. She stared at Frank Biddle in his tan uniform, his brown tie stained with ketchup. Through the open door beyond his shoulder, she saw his black-and-white parked at the curb. “For heaven’s sake, you haven’t come to arrest her?” she asked, the severity of the whole situation sinking in.

“Oh, no,” Jean murmured again, and Helen felt her sway.

The sheriff tucked his hat under his arm and shifted on his feet. “Look, I didn’t come to arrest anyone. I just need to ask Mrs. Duncan some questions. So if you don’t mind, Mrs. Evans, I’d like to talk to Jean,” he said.

“Of course,” Helen said and tightened her arm around Jean. “Come on, dear,” she said, leading her out of the foyer.

“Um, where do you think you’re going?” Biddle called after her.

Without missing a step, Helen tossed over her shoulder, “To the den, Sheriff. Are you coming or not?”

She heard the door as he closed—or, rather, slammed—it and the clomp of his boots as he crossed the tiled floor.

Helen had Jean settled beside her on the chintz-covered sofa by the time he walked into the den and dropped his hat onto the glass-topped coffee table. He plunked down with a grunt into a nearby overstuffed chair.

“Would you like a glass of water?” Helen asked Jean, but her friend shook her head, telling Helen in a voice so soft that Helen had to strain to hear, “Don’t leave me alone with him, please.”

Helen patted her arm. “As long as you need me, I’ll be here.”

The sheriff loudly cleared his throat. “Do you mind, ma’am?” he said, and Helen glanced up to find his eyes on her. He pulled a small notepad from his shirt pocket, slipped a pencil from its spine, and flipped the cover back to reveal a blank page. “Okay if I start?”

Helen turned to Jean. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

Her friend answered with a quick jerk of her chin. She clasped her hands in her lap and held her jaw square. She seemed over the shock of hearing about Eleanora and more pulled together than Helen would have been.

“All right, Sheriff,” Jean said, her voice remarkably steady. “What is it you want to know? Did I get along with my mother-in-law?” she started in before Biddle could speak up. “Well, the answer is no, though I’m sure I don’t have to convince you. The whole town knows how Eleanora treated me since the accident.” She hesitated, drawing in a sharp breath, though she didn’t drop her guard, not an inch. “She was horrible to me, really horrible. But did I hate her enough to kill her?” Her chin fell, as did her voice. “Maybe I thought about it, maybe I wished her dead a few times, but”—she raised her eyes—“I didn’t do it. I pitied her more than anything. She had lost all that was dear to her. I couldn’t blame her for hardening her heart.”

“The goose liver,” Biddle said after scribbling furiously on his notepad, “how’d it end up with old Mrs. Duncan? When you didn’t like her, I mean.”

“Well, I can tell you that much, Sheriff,” Helen interjected, leaning forward in her seat, but the sheriff waved his pencil in the air.

“I’d like to hear it from Mrs. Duncan, please.”

Helen settled back against the cushion, frowning, feeling a bit like a child who’d been told to wait her turn.

Jean sighed. “I was whipping up some appetizers yesterday morning. Samples of hors d’oeuvres and dips that I could drop off around town with some of the women’s groups and committees. Helen came around while I was making up the pâté.”

“It’s true, I did,” Helen said and nodded, adding with unfettered sarcasm, “and I certainly never saw her add even a teaspoon of poison to anything.”

Sheriff Biddle stopped writing. His mouth turned down. “That’s all very interesting, Mrs. Evans, but if you could just keep quiet until I finish with Mrs. Duncan, I might have a few questions for you as well.”

“I’m only trying to help—“

The sheriff cut her off. “Well, if you wouldn’t mind not helping for another few minutes, I’d appreciate it, ma’am.”

Helen didn’t respond. She merely pressed her mouth tightly shut, though it wouldn’t be easy to sit quietly through this, not when his questions all seemed to intimate that Jean was involved in Eleanora’s death.

“Go on, Mrs. Duncan,” Biddle coaxed. “You were saying you’d made some hors d’oeuvres.”

Jean pursed her lips before explaining, “Helen mentioned that Eleanora felt shaken after nearly being hit by a car, and I felt guilty, thinking she might’ve been killed and with all this garbage between us. I don’t know why exactly, but I wanted to see her. I figured I’d take some of my samples over as a gesture of goodwill.” She toyed with her wedding band and sat in silence for a moment. “They say that a brush with death makes people appreciate life. I thought maybe she’d realize how silly she’d been, I don’t know.” She sighed before continuing. “Anyway, I went to the house yesterday afternoon.”

Biddle had his tongue caught in the corner of his mouth as he jotted down Jean’s remarks, flipping to an empty page as soon as he’d filled one. When he realized she’d stopped talking, he looked up. “And what happened then, ma’am? Once you saw old Mrs. Duncan?”

“Oh, I didn’t actually
see
her, Sheriff.”

The lines at Biddle’s wide forehead deepened. “She wasn’t home?”

“Yes, she was home,” Jean told him. “That’s why I never got past the kitchen.” Her voice tight, she went on, “I guess when Zelma tracked down Eleanora and told her I was there, she received orders to send me packing.”

“So you were in the kitchen alone, ma’am?”

Jean was slow to answer. “Yes, I was alone. But only for a minute or two.”

“And after that?”

Jean shrugged. “When Zelma came back and asked me to leave on Eleanora’s orders, I took off. I had a few other errands to run, and I met Helen at the diner at dusk. You were there, weren’t you, Sheriff?”

Biddle glanced up from his notes. “Yes, ma’am, I was.”

“I went into St. Louis afterward, and I didn’t return until this morning,” she said, keeping her tone level. “So I didn’t even find out that Eleanora had passed until Helen came over a half hour ago.”

“She was taken by surprise,” Helen said, figuring she’d held still for long enough. She glanced at Jean, who avoided her eyes. “She didn’t know a thing about how Eleanora died, and she didn’t ask.”

As he scribbled, the sheriff murmured, “Maybe that’s because she already knew.”

“Please,” Helen sputtered.

Jean stood, her face flushed, the set of her mouth grim. “I think I’ve answered all your questions, Sheriff. So if you wouldn’t mind showing yourself out, I have a business to run. Now if you’ll excuse me,” she said and escaped through the back hallway leading to the kitchen.

Helen didn’t say a word till the
click-clack
of Jean’s footsteps died away.

Then she slid over to the edge of the sofa, fixed her eyes on Frank Biddle, and scolded, “That was uncalled for, and you know it.”

The sheriff didn’t respond. He merely returned the tiny pencil to the notepad, flipped it closed, and tucked it into his pocket. He put his hands on his knees and gave Helen a stern look. “If you haven’t realized it already, ma’am, this is a murder investigation, not a tea party.”

“You practically accused her of Eleanora’s murder!”

He picked up his hat from the table. “If she’s guilty, Mrs. Evans, I’ll find out. And even though you’re her friend, you won’t be able to protect her.”

Helen felt her blood pressure rise. This so-called investigation wasn’t going to be good for her health, she could tell that much already. “Jean didn’t kill anyone,” she told him, wondering why her voice didn’t sound as convincing as it should. For goodness’ sake, she didn’t believe it for a moment.

“No,” she said, for her own sake as much as Biddle’s. “Jean wouldn’t do such a thing. She couldn’t.” Something came to mind then, and she nearly laughed aloud. “Why, just yesterday as I was leaving here, after Jean had made up her mind to go to Eleanora’s, she made a comment about hoping Eleanora wouldn’t accuse her of trying to poison her.” She smiled at the irony. “If that doesn’t prove she’s innocent, then I don’t know what does. Why on earth would she say such a thing and then go poison her mother-in-law? That would be like pointing the finger at herself, wouldn’t it?” She shook her head. “No, Sheriff. That would be way too foolish. And Jean’s not a foolish woman.”

“You’re right, ma’am. She’s not,” he said dryly as he rose to his feet.

Helen got up, too.

He tugged on his hat. “Tell Mrs. Duncan I might need to talk to her again.”

“I don’t know why,” Helen scoffed.

“Oh, and Mrs. Evans?” he asked from the doorway. “Don’t let yourself get dragged into this one. It’s not your concern.” Then he tipped his head at her and left.

The heck it wasn’t, Helen thought, feeling suddenly weak in the knees.

Chapter Eleven

F
RANK
B
IDDLE STARTED
up his car and pulled away from Jean Duncan’s house, heading for Harbor Drive.

Why, he wondered, did Helen Evans seem to be everywhere at once?

She’d shown up at Eleanora Duncan’s before the body was even cold. Then when he’d knocked on the daughter-in-law’s door to ask her a few questions, Mrs. Evans had been there, too, with a protective arm around the younger Mrs. Duncan, endlessly interjecting and keeping him from doing his job.

He hit his hand on the steering wheel and grunted with frustration.

Did Helen Evans have a police scanner filed away in that gray head of hers? Whenever there was trouble in River Bend—and admittedly, it didn’t happen too often—she always appeared in the thick of it. Didn’t she have enough to keep her busy with nine grandkids plus all those women’s committees and bridge groups she belonged to?

He had to say one thing about her though: age didn’t slow her down. No wonder she ran around town in sweat suits and sneakers. Keeping her nose poked in so many other people’s business probably gave her a good workout.

He let out a slow breath as he drove past the harbor and down the road lined with houses as grand as those in any big city.

As his tires crunched over graveled pavement, he pulled the car against the curb in front of the imposing Victorian belonging to Eleanora Duncan. Well, that
had
belonged to her, anyway.

Frank reminded himself to check that out with her attorney. He needed to find out who’d get the place, not to mention the rest of her assets, now that the old lady was gone.

He slapped the car door closed and rounded the hood, crossing under an overhanging oak and then up a cobblestone path flanked by budding pink flowers. He appreciated a nicely landscaped lawn, though he wasn’t much of a green thumb himself. When he was off duty, the last thing he wanted to do was mow the grass or plant a bunch of pansies, though Sarah was always bugging him about pruning this tree or that.

Frank slogged up the stairs and stood on the porch, taking a look around him. Then he hiked up his pants, which promptly slipped back to the same spot on his hips below his protuberant belly—yet another thing Sarah was always nagging him about. These days it seemed like every other word she uttered seemed to be “fat” or “cholesterol.”

With her out of town, no one told him what to eat and when. Erma at the diner merely asked him, “What’ll it be?” and served it to him hot and quick.

He smiled to himself as he reached for the doorbell and pressed it soundly. He removed his hat, turning it around in his hands while he waited for someone to answer.

When no one came, he tried the brass knocker but got similar results. He touched the door handle and heard the latch click free. It was unlocked.

He pushed the door wide and ducked his head in. “Hello?” he called out. “Is anyone home? Miss Burdine, are you here?”

He heard the shuffle of footsteps a minute after. Sure enough, Zelma emerged from the rear hallway, hands kneading the hem of her apron.

“Sheriff Biddle,” she said and stopped in her tracks. Her eyes blinked behind thick round frames. “Is anything wrong? Had you told me you were coming by this afternoon? I’m sorry, but I don’t remember. My mind seems to be all in a fog what with everything that’s gone on.”

“No, ma’am, you wouldn’t have been expecting me,” he assured her as he made his way into the foyer. He dropped his hat onto a marble-topped table beside a stack of mail that Eleanora Duncan would never open. “It’s just that the preliminary autopsy report’s come in, and I have a few questions to ask you. You see, old Mrs. Duncan . . . I mean, your Miss Nora,” he began unsuccessfully, tripping over his tongue. He didn’t know any way to sugarcoat what he was about to say. “Well, ma’am, it appears she was poisoned.”

Zelma twisted her apron. Her mouth fell open, but no words came out.

“Looks like she ate some goose liver that was full of sodium tetraborate,” Frank informed her.

Zelma stared at him with that same blank stare. Her wrinkled face didn’t even twitch beneath the cap of mousy hair.

The sheriff pressed on. “I know Jean Duncan was here the afternoon of the murder. She told me herself that she brought over some food she’d made. Did you put it into the refrigerator, or did she?”

Zelma finally found the voice to answer. “Oh, dear, I can’t recall,” she said and swallowed, the folds of her neck quivering. She pressed a finger to her chin. “Wait, I remember. Miss Jean stuck everything in the fridge herself while I went to the library to tell Miss Nora she was here.” The housekeeper frowned. “Miss Nora didn’t want to see her. She was very upset that I’d let Miss Jean into the house.” Zelma rubbed her hands on the skirt of her apron. “Miss Nora didn’t care much for Miss Jean, not after Miss Jean drove the car off the road and killed Jim.”

Frank nodded. He’d heard the story before often enough. Sarah was a big one for gossip, so he pretty well knew all there was to know about most folks in town.

He looked across the foyer to the dining room on his right. It was chockfull of heavy furniture, probably pricey antiques. Above his head, an enormous crystal chandelier dripped from the recessed ceiling. Would Zelma inherit anything? he wondered. Whoever did get Eleanora Duncan’s assets certainly wouldn’t want for much.

“Ma’am,” he said, fixing his attention back on Zelma Burdine, “is there somewhere we can sit down for a minute and talk?”

“Certainly, Sheriff,” the older woman replied, bobbing her head. “Would you mind coming into the kitchen? I was about to feed the cat. She’s supposed to eat at precisely twelve o’clock, and I’m late as it is.”

“That’ll be just fine, ma’am.” He followed after her, walking slowly behind her shuffling gait.

Frank settled into a chair at the kitchen table and couldn’t keep his gaze from wandering to the spot on the floor where he’d found Eleanora Duncan lying the night before. His stomach did a little flip-flop and he swallowed, trying to wash down the bad taste in his mouth. How he wished old Mrs. Duncan had died of natural causes. It would have made his life so much easier.

Zelma hobbled about in her unhurried manner. She took a can from the pantry and stuck it under an automatic opener. At its gentle whir, the cat appeared, pushing through the swinging door that led in from the dining room.

“Nice kitty, pretty kitty,” Biddle said to the copper-hued critter as it swished past his legs. But the pug-nosed feline ignored him entirely.

Zelma drained the can then dumped its contents into a saucer. She turned and hesitated, her Coke-bottle gaze on Lady Godiva. “Well, here it is,” she announced, plunking the dish to the floor with a clatter. “It’s tuna fish and no complaining ’cause that’s all there is for now.”

Biddle half expected the cat to respond.

Instead, Lady Godiva picked her way across the floor to sniff at the offering. Then she lifted her flat face to Zelma and let out an unfriendly hiss. With a flick of her tail, she left as she’d come.

Biddle chuckled. “She’s a finicky one.”

“She’ll be back, believe me,” Zelma told him, hands on ill-defined hips. “Miss Nora spoiled her rotten, buying her gourmet cat food like she was royalty.” The wrinkled face fell further. “But the men last night took all the fancy slop when they emptied the fridge, and I don’t aim to drive all the way back to Alton to get any more, not when I’m in the state I am. There’s plenty of tuna besides.”

Biddle knew the price of a can of StarKist, and he figured that if tuna was coming down in the world, the cat was doing pretty well.

Zelma wiped off her hands before taking a seat across the table. “So,” she said and fixed her eyes on him, “you wanted to ask me some questions about Miss Nora?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he murmured. The old girl did look rather pale.

“I’ll do anything to help, Sheriff.” Zelma stared down at her hands. “Miss Nora meant more to me than you’ll ever know.”

“You were close?”

“As close as they come.” Zelma let out a tearful sniff. “I’ve worked here for most of my life. I was here when she and Mr. Duncan first married and when Jim came along. I could never imagine leaving.”

Biddle waited for the waterfall, but Zelma brushed at her cheeks and went on.

“She was like family, Sheriff. ‘What would we do without each other, Zelma?’ she always said.” The faded eyes clouded. “But now I’ll have to do without her, won’t I? She’s gone forever. She’s not coming back.” Zelma sobbed and reached her hand across the table. “What’ll I do without her?” she whispered. “What’ll I do?”

The sheriff stared at the outstretched fingers, thick at the knuckles and as wrinkled as the rest of her. He wondered what there was for him to say. How was he supposed to comfort the grieving? Sometimes words only seemed to make things worse.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he got out.

Zelma sighed and withdrew her hand, setting it down in her lap.

Frank shifted in his seat. “Um, ma’am, could you tell me more about yesterday afternoon? Was Mrs. Duncan the only one who was here?”

“Oh, no,” the housekeeper said, “hardly the only one. She was trying to nap, and they all showed up one after the other. Miss Nora was quite irritated.”

Frank leaned forward. “So who else dropped in?”

Zelma fiddled with her lace collar. “Miss Nora figured so many came because of her nearly being run down. She felt like they’d stopped by to see if she’d really escaped harm. They hoped she was on her deathbed, or that’s how Miss Nora saw it. She as good as called them vultures.”

“Is that so?” Frank pulled his pad of paper from his pocket, dislodged the pencil, and flipped to a blank page. “Can you recall their names?” he asked. “And perhaps the times they came?”

“Oh, goodness, let me think.” Zelma looked suddenly befuddled. “Let’s see, I got back from Alton after lunch, and Miss Nora, she was fighting mad at me. She claimed I’d left the front door wide open and the cat had gotten out.”

“The names of her visitors, ma’am,” the sheriff prodded.

“Well, there was Miss Jean, of course, bringing that food with her. She was the first of them,” Zelma said, counting on her fingers. “Then I think Miss Jemima was next.”

“Jemima Winthrop?” Frank asked.

Zelma nodded. “She said she wanted to talk to Miss Nora about land. She had plans to build a new library.”

“A new library? Hmm.” The sheriff hadn’t realized they needed one. River Bend already had a perfectly good library as it was.

“Miss Nora didn’t like the idea either,” Zelma told him. “But Miss Winthrop kept at Miss Nora, demanding back five acres near the harbor that used to belong to her family. She’d been trying to get Miss Nora to deed the land to her. Miss Winthrop wanted to put up a bigger library and name it after her father.” The housekeeper shook her head and sighed. “Miss Nora didn’t want any part of it, and Miss Jemima didn’t like that much.”

Frank jotted down more notes. He was certainly aware of the friction between the Winthrops and the Duncans. It was as much a part of the town’s folklore as the red-roofed lighthouse near the river, which residents swore up and down had guided Samuel Clemens safely through a storm during his days as a riverboat pilot.

“Did you ever leave Miss Winthrop alone in the kitchen?” Frank asked.

Zelma paused. “Well, I guess I did. She waited while I went off to tell Miss Nora she’d come. Only I was ordered to send her packing as well.”

“I see.” Biddle scribbled again.

“And then Mr. Baskin came by”—Zelma stopped and cocked her head—“or was it Mr. Duncan? Both of them asked to see Miss Nora. Well, Mr. Duncan demanded it.”

Biddle glanced up. “You didn’t happen to leave each of them alone in the kitchen, too?”

“What else could I do?” Zelma looked hurt. “I couldn’t just spring them on Miss Nora without warning her first. She would’ve had my head.”

“I understand, Miss Burdine,” Biddle told her, sure that facing her angry mistress would have been worse than turning away unwanted guests. “I’m sure you did everything just as you were told.”

Zelma smiled sadly. “I did my best, that’s true, and it was hard enough, let me tell you. Keeping things shipshape around here isn’t easy. The house is as big as a fortress. You ever dust fourteen rooms, Sheriff, or vacuum fourteen rugs?” Her shoulders stooped as if they bore the weight of the world.

“No, I can’t say that I have,” he admitted. “I think it’s amazing you’ve done it all on your own.”

Zelma’s eyes seemed to soften. Or else it was just those damned glasses distorting them.

Frank cleared his throat. “Let’s get back to Floyd Baskin. Can you give me an idea what he was after?”

“Why, he wanted money, of course, for his cause,” Zelma said matter-of-factly.

The sheriff knew Baskin and his cause very well indeed. “So he came by to get a donation for Save the River?”

“A donation?” Zelma repeated and laughed. “When he was alive, Mr. Duncan practically supported Baskin’s efforts single-handedly. When he died, he left them some kind of annual stipend. Only Miss Nora didn’t like the turn they’d taken.” Zelma let out a noisy
tsk-tsk
. “All they seemed to do lately was break into buildings, destroy property, and the like. Miss Nora had her lawyers working on a loophole to stop the payments.”

Frank’s heart beat a little bit faster. “You said Mr. Duncan was here as well.”

“Yes, the younger brother, Stanley,” Zelma offered.

The sheriff detected a hint of pink in her cheeks—even a flash of fear in her eyes—at the mention of Stanley’s name.

Zelma folded her hands on the table, and he saw they were trembling. “Miss Nora turned him away, too. Only he came again this morning,” she said, and her voice shook. “He tore up the place looking for money.”

Frank stopped writing. “So there was bad blood between him and Eleanora?”

Zelma nodded. “The younger Mr. Duncan was the black sheep of the family, Miss Nora called him. Mr. Marvin, now there was a fine man. Worked hard all his life for every penny he earned. But Mr. Stanley didn’t like to sweat. He depended on his brother for everything.” Zelma grimaced. “When the younger Mr. Duncan ran through what Mr. Marvin had left him, Miss Nora paid him off, just to keep him away. But yesterday when he showed up, she told me she was finished with him. She was cutting him off cold.”