Not a Chance in Helen

by Susan McBride

  “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

  FRANK BIDDLE 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,” s
he 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 an
d 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.