Not a Chance in Helen

by Susan McBride

  “Just what the housekeeper said we would,” Biddle answered and nodded at the pair who grasped labeled evidence bags in latex-­gloved hands. Helen could see that one bag held what appeared to be a tin of English biscuits and another held what seemed to be a small plastic container.

  “What are those?” she asked.

  Biddle hiked up his pants, looking impatiently over her shoulder. “You know I don’t like playing guessing games,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, ma’am, I’ll wait till forensics gives me the answers.”

  “But—­“ she started, only to have him trample over her attempt to speak.

  “Would you excuse us, Mrs. Evans? We’ve got official business to take care of,” he said in a self-­important tone, and Helen nodded, stepping aside to let them pass.

  She stood there a moment after, watching their retreating backs until they turned left at the end of the hallway. Her stomach knotted, and she suddenly felt a little queasy.

  Was it possible that something Eleanora had eaten had killed her? Well, Helen had certainly heard of ­people dying from salmonella or that E. coli strain every now and again, but it seemed so rare.

  So if it wasn’t some kind of bacteria that did her in, and if they could find no other natural cause of death, then it must mean . . .

  Stop it, she told herself. She was letting her imagination run away again.

  Eighty-­year-­old ­people died every day without a push, she mused as she headed for the kitchen, trying not to dwell on the fact that most weren’t nearly as rich or as powerful as Eleanora was.

  Chapter Six

  “LADIES! LADIES, CAN I have your attention, please.”

  Voices continued buzzing across town hall despite the desperate plea for quiet. To Helen’s ears, the sum of them sounded like an angry swarm of bees.

  “Ladies, could I have your . . . aw, hell, girls, would you all just shut up!”

  Helen watched mouths pause midsentence as heads turned forward to the podium, where Verna Mabry stood in a pink cotton sheath and matching straw hat. Chairs squeaked as the members of the Ladies Civic Improvement League settled in to listen to their president, though Helen doubted anything Verna had to say would garner nearly as much interest as the news of Eleanora Duncan’s demise. Her death the previous night seemed to have already made the rounds on the local grapevine, which was, she thought, much like Superman. Faster than a speeding bullet.

  “She was past eighty after all”—­someone behind her was murmuring—­“and she did have a lot of hate in her heart at the end. If you ask me, that’s what killed her.”

  The whispers were quickly stilled by someone’s hissed “Hush!”

  Perhaps it was a good thing Jean Duncan hadn’t shown up, Helen decided as she looked around her, seeing no sign of her friend. She’d tried to call her last evening, but all she’d gotten was Jean’s voice mail. It had been the same again this morning.

  Ah, well, she figured it would probably just upset Jean to hear the way everyone was talking, which might be the very reason she’d decided to pass on the meeting and try out her gourmet delicacies on the LCIL another time.

  “Are we ready now? All right then.” Verna Mabry cleared her throat. Her dark gaze peered out from beneath the wide hat brim, which framed a face whose tautness implied intimacy with a surgeon’s scalpel; her brow was pulled so tight that she wore a permanent wide-­eyed look. Verna shuffled the papers in her hands and announced in her trilling tone, “We are gathered here today to discuss final planning for our annual luncheon. We have the place and time arranged but no one yet to do the food.” Verna waved her manicured fingers toward her audience. “Are there any suggestions?”

  A blonde in front of Helen popped out of her chair, waggling an arm in the air until Verna inquired, “Yes, dear, what is it?”

  “Why don’t we have the Catfish Barn cater again?”

  Someone behind Helen replied, “Sure, if we want to get food poisoning,” which caused an outbreak of laughter. Even Helen had to chuckle.

  “Well, their price is very reasonable,” the woman countered before sinking down to her seat, her shoulders slumping.

  Verna nodded, the pink hat rocking like a buoy bobbing in rough waters. “Fine idea, Mary Kay, just fine,” she chirped. “We’ll certainly take it into consideration.”

  The words elicited more than a few moans. Probably remembrances of the indigestion they’d all suffered last year at the lunch, Helen thought, remembering how the corner market had sold out its stock of Alka-­Seltzer within half an hour after.

  “How about that new French place in Alton?” a thin brunette hopped up to offer.

  Verna Mabry shook her head. “Honey, I’ve already talked to them, and they’re, shall we say, très expensive.”

  “Oh, shoot.” The dark-­haired woman sat down.

  Helen took that moment to rise to her feet. She tugged at the ribbed waist of her purple sweatshirt embroidered with a spray of violets, and Verna’s too-­wide gaze fixed on her like a guided missile.

  “Yes, Helen, what is it?”

  “I know just the person to cater.” She looked across the faces that turned her way. “How about Jean Duncan?” she said and smiled eagerly. “She’s just started her own business, and she’s a marvelous cook. I’d hoped she’d show up this morning with some samples, but I guess she wasn’t able to make it. Something must have come up.”

  Verna clasped her hands at her bosom, her expression suddenly as solemn as a preacher’s. “Yes, of course, something came up.”

  “And we all know what it was,” the woman behind Helen whispered, though her cohort cut off any further remarks with another vivid “Hush!”

  Unshaken, Helen looked straight ahead at Verna. “Jean’s trying very hard to get this thing off the ground. She’s calling it The Catery. Seeing how she’s from River Bend, I say we give her a chance. It’s the least we can do.”

  Verna pursed her lips, but she seemed to be considering the idea. “How about if we take a quick little vote?” she asked.

  “Sounds fair enough,” Helen said and plunked down in her chair.

  “A show of hands, ladies?” their pink-­clad president requested. “All in favor of having Jean Duncan cater the luncheon this year?”

  Helen raised her arm quickly then turned this way and that to watch who followed suit. She had to bite her cheek to fight her grin when she saw a sea of hands fill the air.

  “All opposed?”

  Helen counted only half a dozen who didn’t want to give Jean a shot, the blonde who’d supported the Catfish Barn among them.

  “All right,” Verna called out, “it’s settled then. It looks like the job belongs to Jean.” She nodded at Helen, who found it hard to sit still. “Would you mind giving her the news?”

  “I’d love to.” Jean would be thrilled, she knew, and it might be precisely the thing to take her mind off her estranged mother-­in-­law’s sudden passing.

  “Good. That’s settled anyway.” Verna shifted through the papers on the podium, the business of catering forgotten. “Let’s move on to table linens, shall we? Last time, I think, we narrowed it down to yellow or blue. Ladies?”

  But Helen heard little of what was said next. She was thinking of Jean, of how pleased she’d be at the turn of events. Maybe this would be the fresh start that she needed. After all her troubles these past two years, she certainly had it coming.

  When the meeting finally ended about forty-­five minutes later, Helen managed to slip away from the groups of women who hung around afterward to chat. Anxious to get over to Jean’s, she headed off on foot, up the block and then across Main. She’d barely stepped off the curb when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

  “Yoo hoo, Helen! Hey, wait up.”

  She paused in the gutter, looking over her shoulder to see Doc’s wife coming after her. Fanny Melvill
e pumped her arms as she walked, the skirt she wore dipping down to ankles bound by bobby socks. White Tretorns slapped the sidewalk underfoot. She was panting lightly when she caught up to Helen, but, after a few deep breaths, she tipped her chin and peered over her bifocals. “Always in the thick of things, aren’t you?” Fanny said, not sounding winded in the least.

  “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” Helen replied.

  “Oh, yes, you do,” Fanny cut her off. “Amos says you were at Eleanora’s last night just after Zelma found her body,” she went on, her eyes bright.

  Helen stepped back onto the curb so she and Fanny Melville stood on equal footing. “I happened to be there in the diner when Zelma came looking for the sheriff. If Eleanora was hurt, well, I wanted to help. But it seems we were all just a few minutes too late.”

  Below the white fringe of her bangs, Fanny’s pale gaze dimmed. She shook her head. “It’s awful, isn’t it? Amos feels terrible about how things turned out. He said that if Zelma had just called him when Eleanora first started complaining, he might’ve been able to save her.”

  “Don’t let Zelma hear you say that,” Helen said. “It’s likely to kill her. She was devoted to Eleanora.”

  “Hard to imagine anyone felt that way about the old girl,” Doc’s wife remarked, clicking tongue against teeth. “She was a prickly pear, wasn’t she? I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but she was a bitter lady. The way she treated poor Jean . . . “ Her voice trailed off, and she sighed sympathetically.

  Helen tried to change the subject. “Did Doc mention how soon the autopsy might be finished?”

  “I imagine it shouldn’t be long. Amos says Ed Drake told him they’ve had a real slow week at the morgue, so they could start on Eleanora first thing.”

  “What’s he looking for, do you know?” Helen pressed, as Doc usually confided in Fanny, and Fanny in turn confided in just about anyone willing to listen.

  “Well, of course, he has to consider the usual,” Fanny replied as she ticked off on her fingers, “heart attack, stroke, embolism, aneurysm, some type of allergy that proved fatal.”

  “And?” Helen knew those answers were merely the carrot meant to tease.

  “And what?” Fanny raised her eyebrows. “Oh, you must mean what he thinks the toxicology results will show.”

  Helen’s mouth went dry. “Does he think she was poisoned?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “Oh, my,” Helen squeaked, her voice suddenly small. That was the reason Eleanora’s fridge had practically been emptied out, along with the biscuits and whatever else it was Eleanora had been snacking on while Zelma had fixed dinner. Helen had assumed they’d leave no stone unturned, but to actually hear point-­blank that they were checking for poisons sent a shiver up her spine. “Oh, dear,” she murmured, “oh, dear.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “I hope Doc’s wrong about that.”

  “All I can tell you is he’s not counting anything out, though it’s hard to imagine anyone would actually stoop to murdering the old girl. Eleanora might’ve been a tyrant, but to kill her?” Fanny exhaled slowly. “It’s not like she hadn’t made herself some enemies, Jean included.”

  “Fanny, please.” Helen let out a noise of exasperation. “That’s absurd,” she said, amazed that Doc’s wife would even intimate Jean might have had something to do with Eleanora’s death. “Look, I’ve got to run. I want to give Jean the good news about the luncheon.”

  “Oh, sure, honey, go right along.”

  “Will you, um, let me know when Amos hears anything?”

  Fanny smiled.

  Helen started off across Main Street, following the zebra stripes of the crosswalk.

  “Oh, wait, Helen?”

  She paused in the middle of the road and turned around.

  “Is bridge still on?” Fanny yelled.

  “So far as I know,” Helen called back, giving a little wave as she hurried off, thinking that her bridge group would have her head if she cancelled the weekly game for any reason other than murder. And even that was pretty iffy.

  Chapter Seven

  HELEN PAUSED AT the base of Jean’s driveway and stared up at the house.

  The curtains were still closed behind the windows. Near Helen’s feet lay a rolled-­up morning newspaper. A glance at her watch told her it was half past eleven. Was Jean not yet up?

  Helen bent to fetch the log of newsprint and walked up the driveway to the kitchen door. It was usually left open, the screen door unlatched.

  But today it was closed and—­Helen tried the knob—­locked.

  She shifted the paper to the crook of her arm and knocked, calling, “Jean? Hello? Is anyone home?”

  When no one answered, Helen gave up, setting the newspaper down on the stoop. She walked around to the garage and peered through the dusty windows, but there was no sign of Jean’s car.

  Helen sighed, disappointed she’d have to wait to tell her friend about the catering job, but it appeared she’d have no choice in the matter.

  She headed up the sidewalk, back toward Main Street. Then she hesitated at the fork where Harbor Drive veered left.

  She was so close to the Duncan home, and she was certainly not in a hurry. It wouldn’t hurt to check on Zelma, she decided. See how she was holding up.

  The sun had risen above the bluffs and cast its warmth upon her shoulders, its rays undimmed by even the faintest wisps of clouds.

  The river was so near that its muddy smell filled her nose. She could hear the occasional rush of a car or thunder of a truck upon the River Road that ran alongside the brown waters, but otherwise, save for the birds overhead, the day was blissfully calm.

  She passed the harbor, where moored boats bobbed about like ducks, and spotted a pair of men with fishing rods on the docks.

  A smile slipped across her mouth as she thought of those afternoons years ago when she and Joe had spent endless hours trying to hook a ­couple of catfish to fry for supper. Back when you could eat the darned things and it wouldn’t kill you. Now fishing in the Mississippi was mostly for sport, and the only catfish she ate were pond-­raised.

  She shook her head as she walked, her smile disappearing as she thought what a damned shame it was. No wonder folks like that Floyd Baskin were up in arms. She couldn’t fault the man for his drive to save the river, though sometimes she questioned his means. Having his group dress up like dead fish and sprawl across the highway? It’s a wonder, she thought, that no one had been run over by a motorist. Dyeing the community pool red in a symbolic gesture? That had certainly been a mess. The pool had needed to be drained, scrubbed, repainted, and refilled, which had not endeared Mr. Baskin to many. His latest scandal had earned him some jail time, she’d heard, though it had gotten him plenty of press as well. The smoke bombs he’d set off at the power company downriver had activated the sprinkler systems and damaged a number of computers and equipment. She could still recall seeing Mr. Baskin on the nightly news as he was being dragged off to the paddy wagon. “This is just the beginning!” he’d yelled into the camera, his bearded face purple. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, ­people, and I won’t stop till something’s done!”

  Why, she wondered, did it even have to come to this, with fanatics like Baskin commandeering causes that, in the best of all worlds, wouldn’t need to exist.

  When she was young, no one worried about things like sewage and chemicals and toxic waste. And maybe that was part of the problem. No one considered the future, and what kind of life they were leaving for their grandchildren. She was glad she wasn’t growing up today, when it seemed everything you breathed or drank or ate was potentially fatal.

  The sharp snapping of hedge clippers cut into her thoughts and she slowed her steps, glancing up to see a lone gardener at work on the rose bushes in a yard many times the size of her own.<
br />
  With a quick tug on her sweatshirt, she started up the driveway that curved before the Duncan house, squinting at the sight of an older-­model Lincoln parked at the base of the steps leading up to the porch.

  She made her way around the mud-­splattered car, climbing onto the portico. She patted her hair, smoothing it as best she could, then reached up to take hold of the brass knocker. The door came open at her touch.

  Poking her head in, she called out, “Zelma, dear? It’s me. Helen Evans.”

  She stepped into the foyer, finding herself walking nearly on tiptoe, feeling like a trespasser. “Zelma?”

  She knew the housekeeper was rather hard of hearing, so she made her way into the kitchen.

  Empty.

  She headed down the rear hallway, perking up when she heard voices coming from the library. Raised voices.

  “Zelma,” she started to say, “is everything all . . . “

  She paused in the doorway, her mouth hanging open.

  “Good heavens,” she breathed, surveying the papers scattered across the woven rug. The desk drawers had been turned upside down, the contents dumped on the floor. “What’s going on here?”

  Two faces turned her way.

  Despite the thickness of the glasses distorting Zelma’s eyes, Helen could tell she was near to tears.

  The man apparently responsible for the mess scowled at Helen from across the room. Thin with salt-­and-­pepper hair, he had thick eyebrows slanted low over narrowed eyes that were anything but friendly.

  “Oh, Mrs. Evans,” Zelma cried, her hands clutching the front of her apron. “I tried to make him stop, but he wouldn’t listen. Look what he’s done to this place! Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, but Miss Nora will be furious . . . ”

  “She’s dead, you old goat,” the man snapped at her, and Zelma’s face became even more pinched.

  “She’s dead,” the housekeeper repeated, her owlish gaze suddenly downcast. “I’d forgotten for a minute.”

  The man merely sniffed and tugged out the one remaining desk drawer. Without concern that he was being watched, he went through it piece by piece, tossing papers to the floor just as quickly.