Not a Chance in Helen

by Susan McBride

  “You were nearly killed, ma’am?” Zelma turned around, hands clasped at her thin bosom. Her eyes went wide behind the thick lenses.

  Eleanora jerked her chin up and down. “I came an inch from being run over.”

  “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” Zelma breathed, her pinched features looking a tinge on the green side. “You weren’t hurt?”

  “Well, I’m standing here, aren’t I?”

  Zelma nodded, mouth compressed.

  “If I had been flattened, it would have been your fault, wouldn’t it? You’d be to blame,” Eleanora blurted out, unable to hold her tongue. Why, Zelma was a good ten years younger than she and was supposed to do the taking care of around here. At moments like this, however, Eleanora felt as if she was the nursemaid and Zelma the one who needed looking after.

  Oh, how she’d been tempted to get rid of the old girl time and again, but what would Zelma do without her? If not for this job, she’d have only Social Security to live on and not a stitch of family to check up on her. She had no one but Eleanora, who, after all these years, was about as near to a blood tie as Zelma would get. Yes, if she canned her, what person in her right mind would hire Zelma Burdine? The fool was losing her hearing and could hardly see two feet before her. It was a wonder the Department of Motor Vehicles hadn’t pulled her driver’s license already, which was one reason Eleanora was forever taking taxis. She was too afraid to let Zelma drive her anywhere.

  “I’m glad you’re all right, ma’am,” Zelma whispered.

  “I’m sure you are,” Eleanora said, though Zelma’s remark had taken some of the piss and vinegar out of her. “Did you deliver those papers to my lawyers, like I asked?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Her housekeeper nodded. “I handed them to the secretary myself.”

  “Good girl.”

  Zelma nodded and stepped up to the counter. She removed some containers from the brown paper sack and put them in the refrigerator.

  Eleanora peered over her shoulder. “Is that the food Lady likes so much?”

  Zelma finished placing the containers in the fridge then straightened. “It is,” she said and pressed a finger to the bridge of her glasses. “From that fancy boutique store that makes all their grub from scratch. Though I don’t know for the life of me why she can’t eat the regular store-­bought stuff. Other cats do,” she murmured as she closed the refrigerator and folded up the emptied sack.

  Eleanora’s hand went to her heart. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  Though Zelma continued to mutter, “I don’t see why you spoil her so much, acting like she’s a child. She’s just a cat.”

  Eleanora bristled. She stared at Zelma, at the owlish face topped by sparse tufts of hair, at the stoop of her back, feeling as if she was looking at a stranger. “Lady,” she hissed, “is hardly ‘just’ a cat.”

  “So it seems.”

  “And see that you don’t forget it!”

  Zelma tied on her apron, sighing quietly. “How could I?”

  Hearing Zelma’s dispirited tone of voice and seeing the sag of her shoulders tugged at something in Eleanora. She shuffled up beside her and cupped swollen fingers beneath the housekeeper’s chin.

  “Dear Zelma,” she said and peered at the wizened features, thinking that neither of them had aged particularly well. But they were both alive, weren’t they? Both walking on two legs and breathing without any appliances attached. “We’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we?” She smiled and patted Zelma’s wrinkled cheek. “You were with me when I first married, when Marvin and I built up the business, and when my son was born.” She swallowed and braced herself for the words to follow, ones much harder to say. “And you stood by me as well when Marvin had his heart attack and when I lost my darling Jim. What would I have done without you?” she asked, forgetting that moments ago she’d been envisioning just that. “What would we do without each other?”

  Zelma’s eyes brightened. Her cheeks flushed, and Eleanora was afraid she’d embarrassed the old girl.

  “Ah, well, I’ve things to do,” she said and let her hand drop. She left Zelma standing at the sink to take care of the dishes. “I’ll be in the library should you need me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Eleanor crossed the wood-­planked hallway with its worn Turkish rugs, bypassing the antiques-­filled living room and the dining room with its Chippendale table and chairs, heading for the door at the far end.

  Lady was there waiting for her. Perched atop the cushion of a Louis XV chair, the Persian raised her head as Eleanora entered. Her pug features appeared to be grinning. Eleanora went to her and rubbed the soft fur until Lady purred like a well-­oiled engine. Eleanora clucked and cooed for another few minutes before she let the cat alone and took her seat behind the English writing desk.

  Invitations sat in a neat little pile in the middle of her blotter. Requests for donations to this charity or that were stacked in another. She sighed and leaned back in the plump wing chair that had once been Marvin’s and still smelled of his pipe tobacco.

  Was there anyone except Zelma who didn’t want something from her, either her time or her money or both?

  Ah, to be old and rich, she mused, knowing the combination often brought more angst than pleasure.

  A face popped into her head, dark eyes topped by severely plucked brows, high cheekbones that carved furrows into cheeks.

  Ugh, Eleanora thought and pressed her fingers to her temples, as if the mere motion could wipe away the image.

  Jemima Winthrop.

  The name alone made her grind her teeth.

  The woman had been pestering Eleanora to donate a five-­acre site on prime land near the harbor for a new library, which Jemima wished to name after her deceased father. “After all,” Jemima had stated as she’d crossed her arms defensively, “the land should rightly have been mine, and I’d say you owe me far more, seeing as how you as good as stole it from my father.”

  Stole it?

  Eleanora sat up straighter. She sniffed, deciding that poor Jemima was just jealous. The Winthrops had once been a wealthy family in these parts, owning plenty of land around River Bend until Jemima’s daddy’s granary had gone belly up. Yes, Marvin had snapped up the company as well as most of the Winthrops’ assets for a song, but that hardly seemed reason for Jemima to act as if Eleanora was the cause of all her family’s woes.

  . . . you owe me. . .

  “Ha,” Eleanora said out loud. She didn’t owe the Winthrops a thing.

  She picked up her spectacles and unfolded them, propping them upon her nose as she went through the letters one by one.

  “Miss Nora?”

  She glanced up to see Zelma standing in the doorway. “What is it?”

  “It’s your daughter-­in-­law, Miss Jean. She said she heard about your close call this morning, and she’s come to see you. She’s waiting in the kitchen.”

  “Jean’s here?” Eleanora’s spine stiffened. The blood drained from her face. “I told you she wasn’t welcome in my house,” she got out, her voice trembling, “not after what she did to my son.”

  “But, Miss Nora, don’t you think you’ve . . . “

  “No!” Eleanora cut off Zelma with a sweep of her hand. “Send her away!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the housekeeper murmured.

  Of all the nerve, Eleanora fumed, her hands shaking, wondering what in heaven’s name would bring Jean over to see her. Hadn’t she done enough harm already? Hadn’t she brought enough pain?

  It had been Jean at the wheel when she and Jim had swerved off the Great River Road into the guardrail along the Mississippi River. Jean had driven them home from Jerseyville after Jim’s visit with the ophthalmologist. The rain had made the road slick, and Jim had apparently asked Jean to drive because the drops in his eyes had made it hard for him to see. Jean had missed tu
rning onto the back road to River Bend and had ended up in Elsah before getting onto the freeway. She claimed a pickup had veered across the lanes and she’d jerked at the wheel to avoid a crash. Their SUV had jumped the median, slammed into the guardrail, and flipped on the opposite side of the highway. The police had investigated but had never been able to track down the truck or drum up a single witness. Jean had emerged from the wreck with nary a scratch, but Jim had been crushed like a rag doll. He’d been dead on arrival at the hospital.

  Eleanora’s eyes blurred, and she blinked against the tears.

  As far as she was concerned, Jean had killed Jim, and Eleanora had no intention of ever forgiving her. Even if a coroner’s inquest had let Jean off the hook, Eleanora knew the truth. If not for Jean, her son would be alive and well.

  With a sniff, Eleanora pulled off her specs and set them aside, wiping the damp from her lashes with the back of her hand. Children weren’t supposed to die before their mothers. That wasn’t how the good Lord meant for it to happen.

  She pushed away from the desk. Her head hurt as well as her heart, and she wanted nothing more than to lie down for a spell. The day had already been a rough one by anyone’s standards.

  Glancing at Lady curled up on the nearby chair cushion, she figured a catnap might just be the thing for her, too. She’d only just settled herself down on the Queen Anne sofa, a chintz-­covered pillow propped under her head, when Zelma appeared.

  “Miss Nora?”

  She sniffed. “What is it this time?”

  Zelma rubbed her hands on her apron, her thin shoulders stooping. “It’s Miss Winthrop, ma’am. Said she got wind of what happened to you earlier, and she wanted to discuss the land . . . “

  “ . . . in case someone should try to run me over again?” Eleanora finished for her, resting her forearm on her brow, feeling the throbbing at her temples grow tenfold.

  “Should I tell her that you’re indisposed?”

  “Say whatever you want, Zelma, I don’t care,” Eleanora snapped. “Just get rid of her, you hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Zelma ducked out of the room as noiselessly as she’d come.

  So Jemima Winthrop had dropped by as well? Probably wanted to check and see if her pulse was still beating. Eleanora scowled. That woman would love nothing better than to find her with one foot in the grave. As if that might make Eleanora change her mind about giving in to Jemima’s whims when River Bend already had a perfectly good library as it was. She was just testing her, Eleanora knew, just pulling at her to see if the guilt she piled on as thick as clam chowder would break Eleanora down.

  She closed her eyes and sighed, somehow managing to nod off, though it seemed she’d slept but a few minutes when she felt a hand on her shoulder, shaking.

  “Miss Nora?”

  She forced open her eyelids to see Zelma’s owlish face hovering. Breath that smelled of minty Polident rustled her hair. “What now?” she asked groggily. “Well, go on, I don’t have all day.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I told him you were napping.”

  “Told who?” Eleanora raised her head from the pillow and sat up.

  “It’s Mr. Duncan.”

  Stanley was in town? Eleanora ground her teeth. Lord above, what could Marvin’s brother want now? As if she needed to ask. She knew the answer as surely as she knew her own name.

  Money.

  Stan had managed to squander away the inheritance Marvin had left him, blowing it on foolish investments and gambling on the Alton Belle. Eleanora had written him a check or two just to keep him out of her hair, but she was tired of bailing him out.

  “He wouldn’t leave, ma’am, not even when I mentioned your being out like a light. I gave him a cup of coffee in the kitchen. He insists on speaking to you, Miss Nora.”

  “I’m sure he does,” she said and gingerly swung her legs over the edge of the couch. She brushed at the wrinkled linen of her slacks, not even glancing up at Zelma as she announced, “Tell him the bank is closed.”

  “The bank is closed?” Zelma repeated.

  “If he wants a penny more, he’ll have to wait till I’m gone.”

  Zelma looked confused but uttered, “Yes, ma’am.” Then she disappeared from the library once more.

  All the comings and goings apparently disturbed Lady Godiva, for the cat let out an unhappy-­sounding mew. Eleanora pushed up and onto her feet. She went over to where the Persian sat poised like a lion atop the Louis XV seat, and she stroked the soft head, watching round eyes blink lovingly then close altogether. She listened as the cat rumbled with pleasure.

  Ah, Lady. When Eleanora had lost Marvin, and then Jim so soon thereafter, she’d had a hole in her heart big enough to fit a cannonball. Lady had been her saving grace. Without her precious baby to fuss over and spoil, Eleanora would have come apart at the seams. Lady’s presence made her feel somehow at peace. Zelma claimed she went overboard on the feline, but Eleanora disagreed. Lady demanded only her affection, which was a lot less than most ­people.

  “Miss Nora?”

  Dear God. What now? Would she never have five minutes to herself?

  “What?” Eleanora ceased petting the cat and straightened up with a sigh.

  Even Lady turned her pale eyes on Zelma and hissed.

  The housekeeper hung back in the doorway. “It’s Floyd Baskin, ma’am. He said he heard you’d nearly been run over.”

  “And he wanted to see if I was on my deathbed, just like the rest,” Eleanora remarked rather snippily.

  “I gave him a cup of coffee, ma’am.”

  “Well, take it back and send him off!”

  Zelma bobbed her head, the tufts of faded brown hardly hiding her scalp. The light reflected off her glasses so that for a moment she looked eerily like a blank-­eyed Orphan Annie. Then, without another word, she did an about-­face and disappeared.

  Eleanora braced a hand on the arm of the chair, trying to steady herself, wondering who could possibly be next; perhaps an agent from the IRS come to audit her?

  First there was Jean, then Jemima and Stanley, and now Floyd Baskin. Was there a national holiday regarding mortal enemies dropping in that Eleanora didn’t know about?

  She shuffled over to the desk and settled into Marvin’s old chair again, leaning her head back against the soft leather.

  Floyd Baskin ran a group called Save the River which, upon its inception, had quietly worked to clean up the more-­than-­muddy Mississippi. In those days, half a dozen years before, Baskin had seemed a dedicated and idealistic fellow, and Marvin had contributed often and generously to the cause. Even in death, Marvin had provided an annual stipend to Save the River. But Eleanora knew that if Marvin had lived, he wouldn’t have wanted to give Baskin another dime.

  The man had turned radical. He broke into the power plants that operated along the river and set off smoke bombs. He spray-­painted threatening graffiti on walls and left dead fish on doormats.

  No, Eleanora mused, clasping her hands on the desktop. Marvin would hardly support Baskin’s newfound terroristic tactics, and she was going to do everything she could to cut him off. She had her lawyers working on it now, and Baskin knew it. Even his constant begging, desperate letters, and frantic telephone calls wouldn’t work, not if Eleanora had anything to say about it.

  “Miss Nora?”

  “For God’s sake!” She shook off her thoughts and glared at Zelma, who shrank perceptibly beneath her stare. “What is it this time? Not another visitor? What is this place, Grand Central Station? Even Calvin Coolidge managed to find a few hours to nap every day, and he was president, for crying out loud!”

  “They’re all gone, Miss Nora.” The tiny eyes behind the lenses blinked. “It’s time for Lady Godiva’s supper.”

  Eleanora glanced at her wristwatch. “You’re right, it is.”

  Zelma started across th
e room toward the cat, but Lady hopped off the chair before Zelma got near enough to grab her. With a swish of tail, she darted under the desk, hiding by Eleanora’s feet.

  “I’ll take care of her,” Eleanora offered. “Oh, and Zelma, fix me up a plate of something as well. I haven’t had a bite to eat since breakfast. What with nearly being killed and all, I completely forgot about lunch.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As soon as the housekeeper was out of sight, Lady Godiva bounded into Eleanora’s lap. “C’mon, precious,” she cooed, rising to her feet with the cat in her arms. “Soup’s on.”

  Chapter Three

  HELEN SET DOWN the saucer heaped with the contents of a can of Liver ‘n’ Chicken. Her oversized yellow tom took a single sniff before shaking his tail at her and glancing up with pleading eyes, as if to say, Isn’t there something better than this?

  “No,” she told him, trying hard to be firm. “You’re getting too finicky in your old age, Amber. This was your favorite last week, remember?”

  But apparently he’d forgotten.

  He mewed at her in a sharp tone not unlike a child back-­talking. Then he padded out of the kitchen, tail straight in the air as if to let her know he wasn’t happy in the least with her decision.

  Good grief, she thought, shaking her head as she watched him go. No wonder there were plenty of folks who preferred dogs to felines. A pup ate whatever he was given and seemed glad for it, slobbering happily when he was done. Cats balked when you accidently fed them the same kind of canned food twice in a row. It was the fault of the Egyptians, she decided, wiping off her hands on her sweatpants. She couldn’t blame the furry creatures for expecting a lot. She would, too, if she’d once been worshipped as a god by the likes of Cleopatra.

  She smiled, figuring Amber was spoiled almost as much as that. And to think she’d very nearly missed out on having a cat altogether.

  In all the years she and Joe had been married—­all the while their kids had been growing up—­he’d been dead set against having an animal of any sort. “They’re dirty,” he’d said, “they shed like mad, and they stink.”