Not a Chance in Helen

by Susan McBride

  “I’m sure I will. Thanks.”

  She hadn’t even swallowed the first spoonful of chili when the bell above the door jangled and Fanny Melville bustled in. “Hey, there, Erma dear, I’m here for my order to go.”

  “Be a minute, hon,” the waitress replied from behind the counter, where she refilled coffee cups, cleared plates, and slapped down steaming platters snatched from the kitchen pass-­through as if she had more hands than two.

  Helen caught Fanny’s gaze and her friend sauntered over, setting down her purse on the table. “You know I’ve been trying to phone you all day,” she said grumpily, peering at Helen above the spectacles perched on her nose. She lowered her voice and leaned in. “Amos got back the toxicology report on Eleanora Duncan, and it appears she was—­”

  “Poisoned, yes, I know,” Helen cut in. She hooked a thumb discreetly at Hilary and Clara. “I think everyone in River Bend has heard by now.”

  Fanny frowned. “Well, I’m sorry, dear, but I did try to tell you first. I phoned you just as soon as I learned.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “You were out, I guess.”

  Helen sighed and set down her spoon. “I was,” she said, “all day, as a matter of fact.”

  “So you don’t know about Floyd Baskin?”

  “You mean the protest? Believe it or not, I was there,” Helen admitted.

  Fanny laughed. “Oh, I believe it.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if it’s safe to leave the house.”

  “Then you probably also know that the sheriff questioned the old hippy.” Doc’s wife bent forward. “I think he’s a suspect.”

  “Floyd Baskin?” Helen wrinkled her brow. “Why?”

  “Why else?” Fanny said, adding, in a whisper, “money.”

  “Did the sheriff learn anything?”

  Fanny shrugged and slipped her purse back over her shoulder. “That I don’t know. Though I do have some news I don’t think has made its way around town yet. Amos says they’re pretty sure they’ve found the insecticide that killed Eleanora.”

  Helen sat up straighter.

  “The county crime lab is still running more tests, Amos said, and they should know by tomorrow if they’ve got a match.”

  “I see.”

  “Mrs. Melville!” Erma’s voice boomed from across the diner. “Your to-­go order’s ready, hon.”

  Fanny tapped the table. “Looks like I’m being paged. Bridge still on for tomorrow night? We’ve already postponed it from tonight, since we had to find a sub for Sarah Biddle.”

  “Oh, dear, I hadn’t even thought about it.” Helen wondered if she should cancel altogether. Not that the group had ever let her cancel before, and they probably wouldn’t see the need now either. After all, it wasn’t any of the regulars who’d been murdered, so they wouldn’t need to find another substitute at the last minute. “I guess it’s still on,” Helen said.

  “All right, I’ll see you then,” Fanny replied with a nod before weaving through the tables to pick up her bagged food at the counter. She paused to gab with Hilary and Clara for a minute before setting the bells to jangling as she departed.

  Helen stared after her, wondering who the evidence would point to once all the pieces to the puzzle fell into place.

  HELEN SLEPT BADLY that night, plagued by nightmares like she hadn’t had since she was a little girl. She awoke in a panic, a heavy weight on her chest, crushing her lungs, only to find Amber slumped across her rib cage, having no trouble snoozing himself. With a grunt, she unceremoniously dumped the old tom onto the bed beside her. He didn’t even stir. Then she dragged herself into the bathroom to brush her teeth and comb her hair.

  She hadn’t taken a bubble bath the night before, so she filled the tub, dumping in plenty of lavender gel. When things were good and frothy, she got in, reclining in the scented water until it cooled and her skin was as wrinkled as Grandma Moses’s. Her legs had been achy from all the walking she’d done, but soaking in the bath helped more than a buffered aspirin.

  Once she was dressed in her favorite green sweat suit, she felt somewhat better.

  Her mood improved even more when she went into the kitchen to find the trail of ants was broken. Only a few bugs still crawled across the linoleum—­or, rather, they staggered. More lay dead near the piece of cardboard dabbed with Splat.

  A thin smile crossed her lips. She was pleased to see the Splat had worked its magic yet again. If only Sheriff Biddle could be as successful at catching Eleanora’s killer.

  She fixed herself a bowl of cereal and took it with her out onto the porch. The paperboy was just passing by in his van, gravel popping beneath the tires as he sped through town, tossing copies of the Alton Telegraph out the window without even slowing.

  Helen heard hers hit the porch steps with a slap. Instinctively, she grabbed the handle of the screen door to pull it open, but it didn’t budge. Ah, yes, she’d locked it last night, something she’d rarely done in fifty years in River Bend. She unhooked the latch before retrieving the paper from the stoop.

  She picked up her glasses from the sofa before spreading the Telegraph on the table before her, eating as she read the morning’s headlines.

  There it was at the bottom of page one.

  WEALTHY RIVER BEND WIDOW MURDERED

  A story ran beneath it.

  Eleanora Duncan, 80, widow of Marvin Duncan, Duncan Industries, was found dead in her River Bend, IL, home on Monday evening. Dr. Edward Drake, Jersey County Medical Examiner, confirms that autopsy results on Mrs. Duncan have revealed she ingested a poison known as sodium tetraborate often used in over-­the-­counter insecticides. Sheriff Frank Biddle of River Bend, IL, states that suspects are being questioned, though no arrests have been made at this time.

  Oh, dear.

  Helen set the paper aside, unable to read another word. She pushed away her cereal bowl, no longer hungry.

  It seemed somehow more horrible and all the more real to see it written up in black and white with Eleanora’s picture staring out from amidst the page. Helen found herself suddenly tempted to crawl back into bed and hide under the covers until all was well.

  Whenever that may be, she mused with a sigh.

  If there was only some way she could help, some way she could find the answers that pointed to who did it. But what did she know that Frank Biddle hadn’t probably found out already? All she had were her eyes and ears, and even they weren’t as sharp as they used to be.

  “Helen? Yoo hoo, are you there?” someone called from the road. Moments after, there came the thump of feet up the front steps.

  Helen took off her glasses and squinted at the hazy figure on the other side of the screen. “Clara?” she said.

  “Mind if I come in?”

  Helen didn’t even have a chance to answer.

  Clara Foley pushed the screen door open so fast the spring squealed. With a slap, it dropped shut behind her.

  The sight of the bright orange muumuu hit Helen’s eyes like the sun on chrome, and she felt the need to put up a hand to shield them.

  “I was just down at the diner for some bacon and eggs, and I saw your friend Jean,” Clara started in with such a flush to her cheeks that Helen knew there was more coming.

  She only hoped none of the gossips had linked Jean to the poison. So far as Helen was aware, no one in River Bend beyond herself, Jean, and the sheriff knew it was Jean’s pâté that had been spiked with sodium tetraborate.

  “You saw Jean,” she prodded, trying to keep the worry from her voice.

  Clara pulled out a wicker chair and plunked herself down at the table, waving a hand toward the Alton newspaper. “Been reading about the murder, I see.”

  “Hard to avoid, isn’t it? It’s more like sensationalism than hard news the way they make everything seem so scandalous these days.”
<
br />   Clara chuckled, her shoulders shaking. Wisps of gray escaped from the poof of her bun, though Clara brushed them from her brow with a fast sweep of her fingers. “Everyone’s talking about it, of course. You should’ve heard the crowd at the diner.”

  “I can well imagine,” Helen murmured, figuring no topic in this town was sacrosanct.

  “Anyway,” Clara said and took in a deep breath, making Helen wonder if she hadn’t run all the way over. “I’d just finished the last of my toast when I looked out the window and saw the sheriff’s car pulling in across the way.”

  Helen sat up straighter.

  “He had someone with him, you see.” Her pale eyes widened, and her voice rattled with excitement. “It was Jean Duncan, as it turns out. He hustled her into his office pretty quick-­like, which made me wonder if he didn’t haul her down there on official business, seeing as how it’s so early in the morning and the expression on his face wasn’t any too friendly.” Clara paused for breath before rushing on. “And Jean, well, she looked like he’d dragged her out of bed and she’d thrown on the first thing she could find. Her blouse was hanging out of her blue jeans, and her hair looked positively wild. . . . “

  Helen was out of her seat and to the door before Clara had finished.

  She heard her friend calling her back, but she didn’t even turn around.

  Moving as fast as her legs would carry her, Helen followed the sidewalk away from the intersection of Jersey and Springfield, heading for downtown.

  By the time she reached the sheriff’s office, she was out of breath, so that she had to stop outside the door, put her hands on her knees, and gulp at the air, trying to get her wind back. Even then, she could hear the voices from inside.

  There was Frank Biddle’s familiar monotone, which—­when she had her sense of humor intact—­she thought sounded like a pretty good imitation of James Arness’s Marshal Dillon. And there was Jean’s voice, sounding so high-­pitched that Helen knew she was near to tears.

  Helen didn’t hesitate another minute.

  She wiped her hands on her pants, grabbed the door handle, and pushed her way in, leaving the bright of early morning for the dim of inside.

  The voices hushed at the slam of the door.

  Helen held her chin high as she strode past the bulletin board crammed with notices for garage sales and free pups, as well as MOST WANTED posters with penciled-­out teeth and drawn-­on mustaches.

  “Mrs. Evans, what in blazes are you doing here?” Biddle sputtered, half rising behind his paper-­cluttered desk.

  She ignored him and approached the chair in which Jean sat. Her friend looked up at her, the worry plain on her face, her eyes moist, her skin bare of makeup. Her silver hair, usually so neatly coiffed in a scarf-­tied ponytail, appeared disheveled. Her blouse looked rumpled and it was, as Clara had mentioned, hanging loose at the hem. For heaven’s sake, were those slippers on her feet?

  That alone got Helen’s dander up.

  She put her hands on Jean’s shoulders and stared straight at Biddle. “What’s going on here?” she asked in a tone that had once sparked fear in the hearts of her own children. “Is this how you’re operating now, Sheriff, shaking women out of bed and dragging them off like hardened criminals?”

  Biddle didn’t appear any too pleased by her accusation. From his neck to his near-­bald crown, he flushed an improbable purple. “You need to stay out of this, ma’am,” he said and shook a finger at her. “This is none of your business. You’re meddling in a murder investigation.”

  Helen blinked. “I’m what?”

  “You heard me,” he told her, frowning. “And I’d appreciate it very much if you’d just go on home.”

  “I will not!” Helen stood her ground, tightening her hold on Jean, who lifted a hand to cover hers. “I’m not moving an inch until you tell me why you’ve brought Jean here,” she said and somehow managed to sound less strident. “I don’t mean to interfere with your work, Sheriff, truly I don’t,” she added, trying her best to pacify him, knowing that to do otherwise might hurt Jean, not help her. “But I simply can’t mind my own business when a friend is in trouble.”

  Biddle looked mighty huffy, but he didn’t snap in response. Instead, he leaned back against his chair, tapping a pencil on his desk.

  It was Jean who spoke next, turning in her seat so she could look up at Helen. “They found out exactly what killed Eleanora. It was an ant poison. The sheriff showed up this morning with a warrant to search my house. He took that from my kitchen.” She nodded toward Biddle’s desk, and Helen noticed the bottle in the plastic bag set in front of him.

  She let go of Jean and stepped closer. The sheriff didn’t even make a noise of protest as she leaned over to squint at the bag’s contents. “Splat?” she said, recognizing the bottle instantly. She glanced up at Biddle. “You’re arresting her because of this?”

  Biddle squirmed. “She isn’t under arrest, Mrs. Evans,” he said, “but the evidence is pretty incriminating. First,” he ticked off on his fingers, “the poison was found in the goose liver she gave to Eleanora Duncan. Second, her fingerprints are the only ones on the container besides old Mrs. Duncan’s and her housekeeper’s. Third, she didn’t get along with her former mother-­in-­law, as everyone in town knew. And finally, the poison in the pâté is a perfect match for this, which I found under her sink.” He waggled a pinky at the bagged bottle. “It’s loaded with sodium tetraborate. Though,” he added almost grudgingly, “I did find the same insecticide under the sink at the Duncan house.”

  When Helen digested his final remark, she laughed out loud. “Good God, Sheriff, everyone in town uses Splat. The corner market sells it like hotcakes, just ask them. I bought a new bottle yesterday, and I certainly didn’t kill Eleanora!”

  Biddle ran a hand over his head, his frown deepening. “You’re not a suspect, ma’am.”

  “Well, thank goodness for that.” She crossed her arms over her breasts. “The paper says you’ve been questioning others connected to Eleanora. I hope that includes Floyd Baskin,” she said, remembering something Zelma had mentioned the night Eleanora died. “Mr. Baskin was at the Duncan house earlier the day she was poisoned, wasn’t he?”

  Biddle sighed. “So it seems.”

  “Jemima Winthrop and Stanley Duncan also stopped by to see Eleanora that afternoon as well,” Helen went on, because Zelma had told her that much, too.

  The sheriff nodded but said nothing.

  Helen shook her head, returning to stand beside Jean’s chair. Her friend’s expression had changed from one of anxiety to curiosity, as though she hadn’t known about Eleanora’s other visitors.

  “If you’re looking for someone who wanted Eleanora out of the way, why don’t you start hounding Ms. Winthrop and Mr. Duncan instead of Jean,” she suggested. “You might want to ask the two of them why they were meeting in secret at the playground last evening.” Helen raised her eyebrows as she tacked on, “I don’t think they were discussing the weather, do you?”

  Biddle opened his mouth as if to retort but clamped it shut again.

  Helen smiled tightly. “If you’re not arresting Jean, you won’t mind if I take her home, will you?”

  The sheriff shot her a grumpy stare.

  So Helen helped Jean up from her seat and hurried her toward the door before Biddle could change his mind.

  To her surprise, he didn’t come after them but merely called out, “Maybe Mrs. Duncan ought to call her lawyer. He might come in handy in the next day or so.”

  Helen briskly shut the door.

  Chapter Sixteen

  HELEN REMAINED AT Jean’s house just long enough to have a cup of coffee and make sure her friend was all right. Then she took off, walking toward the house on Harbor Drive that had—­for as long as she’d lived in River Bend—­belonged to the Winthrops. Despite losing so much in the bankruptcy auction,
they had managed to hang out to that.

  The stone and wood three-­story structure sat but half a block away from the Duncans’ home, yet they seemed miles apart in some respects.

  Helen hadn’t been inside the Winthrops’ place in years, not since Reginald Winthrop had died. Before the patriarch’s passing, the family had been one of the town’s wealthiest, sponsoring the annual Fourth of July picnic and fireworks.

  The house had been a wonder then, the lawns manicured, the shrubs pruned to perfection. The rosebushes surrounding the veranda had been breathtaking, blooming through the summers in every shade of red and pink one could imagine.

  As Helen paused on the sidewalk at the foot of the driveway, she realized how long ago it had been since Reginald’s death and how much had changed since.

  Where the houses nearby had groomed yards and fresh paint, the Winthrops’ looked sorely in need of a fresh coat. Every shutter was chipped and peeling, and the trim was blistered where it hadn’t flaked off altogether.

  The bushes in front were ill shaped and overgrown, and weeds poked their unsightly heads through bald patches in the grass.

  Helen shook her head, finding the sight of it terribly sad. It was truly a reflection of what had happened to the Winthrops since Reginald’s death.

  It didn’t surprise her that there was such bad blood between the Duncans and the Winthrops. As local gossip had it, Marvin Duncan had done more than simply buy the Winthrop granary out from under Reginald’s feet. He’d used every dirty trick in the book to get Winthrop Grains into debt, then he’d bought the business for a song at auction and—­if Helen remembered correctly—­most of Reginald Winthrop’s other assets as well, including the acreage near the harbor, family heirlooms, and antiques. Reginald Winthrop had started drinking heavily soon after and had died by his own hand from a mix of pills and a bottle of whiskey. His wife, Anna, had shut herself up in the house. Helen realized she couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen her. Was she as bitter as her daughter? Did Anna also blame the Duncans for her family’s misfortune?