Not a Chance in Helen

by Susan McBride

  For the moment, Frank forgot about his headache. “You really didn’t like your sister-­in-­law, did you, Mr. Duncan?”

  “Are you serious? The old girl was a pain in the—­” He stopped midsentence, eyeing Biddle with suspicion. “You’re trying to get me to say something I’m going to regret, aren’t you?” He got up abruptly and brushed off his pants. “Well, you can forget it, Biddle. It won’t happen, not with me. Besides, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” He approached Frank’s desk and leaned over, looking him squarely in the face. “Jean’s the one who killed her. And even if Eleanora lost her head and wrote Jean into her will, I know for a fact that a murderer can’t inherit from her victim. So it looks like I’ve got a clear shot of finally getting all that’s mine.”

  He turned and started for the door.

  The sheriff scrambled to his feet. “Mr. Duncan?”

  Stanley turned around. “Yes?”

  “Do you mind telling me what’s going on between you and Miss Winthrop?”

  “Me and Jemmy?” Stanley lifted his shoulders then dropped them. “I hardly know the woman, Sheriff,” he said. Then he left, closing the door with a clatter.

  Frank got up from his desk and walked to the window. He watched Stanley cross the street toward the diner.

  So he hardly knew “Jemmy,” did he?

  Right.

  Frank sighed. Could Mrs. Evans be onto something? Were Stanley Duncan and Jemima Winthrop in cahoots?

  The mere thought made the hammering in his head even worse.

  Chapter Twenty

  HELEN HAD WANTED to call off the weekly bridge game already pushed from Tuesday night to Wednesday, but her friends wouldn’t hear of it.

  “My word, Helen,” Clara Foley had protested. “The world hasn’t come to a standstill. I don’t mean to sound callous, but don’t you imagine Eleanora Duncan would’ve gone on about her life if one of us had been poisoned? I doubt she’d have even noticed, to tell you the truth, way over there on Harbor Drive in that ivory tower of hers.”

  Maybe so, but Helen still didn’t feel like it was in good taste to play cards with Eleanora not even buried, Jean on the hook, and the real murderer running loose.

  Clara had laughed when she’d said as much. “Well, it’s not like her killer’s going to show up and cut the deck.”

  Or maybe her killer would do exactly that, Helen thought as she looked over the hand she’d been dealt, staring past Clara Foley’s topknot to the next table, where Jemima Winthrop sat opposite Bertha Beaner. Bertha hadn’t told her the name of the sub she’d found for Sarah Biddle, and Helen knew why.

  Jemima glanced up from her hand, and Helen quickly ducked her chin.

  “I bid a heart,” Clara Foley announced, the flesh of her cheeks dimpling several times over. The bright yellow of her caftan lent her the appearance of an overfed canary.

  Fanny Melville sighed. “Well, I’m beginning to wonder if the deck’s not stacked, the way the cards are turning in your favor. You got ’em marked or something, Helen?”

  “What?” She heard her name but missed the question. “Sorry, dear, I wasn’t listening.”

  Fanny gazed at her over the rims of her spectacles. “It’s amazing how you manage to keep winning, what with your mind a million miles away. You must be on automatic pilot.”

  Helen smiled, feeling a little sheepish for not paying better attention to the game.

  “I hate to do it.” Doc’s wife sighed and slapped her cards facedown on the table. “But I’ll have to pass.”

  Clara giggled and started to hum the Michigan fight song under her breath.

  Helen ignored her, studying her hand. Fanny was right. The tide did seem to have turned in their favor. “I bid a spade,” she said.

  Verna Mabry, in a lime green sheath with a cloche hat to match, sniffed loudly. “Good God, I almost think we should quit now and cut our losses, eh, Fanny?”

  Her partner chuckled. “Well, we each did throw a quarter in the pot tonight, didn’t we?” She put a finger to her chin and rolled up her eyes as if in deep thought. Then she waved a hand in the air. “Aw, go on, Verna. Fifty cents won’t break us.”

  The LCIL president’s taut face frowned. “Pass,” she said.

  And around again they went.

  The murmur of voices from the two tables filled the screened-­in porch, though the noise they made was a shade less than when there were three tables. But they were five players short tonight, what with Sarah Biddle still out of town, Bebe Horn sick with the flu, Lola Mueller babysitting her grandson, and Agnes March at an antiques auction in the city.

  And Jean was missing, too, Helen mused, scrunching up her brow as she remembered how shaken the poor dear had been after Frank Biddle had hauled her downtown this morning. Why, Jean had imagined she was about to be tossed behind bars, and it was no wonder she wasn’t in the mood for a few hands of bridge.

  “It’s too bad about Jean, isn’t it?”

  She looked up at the mention, hearing Verna’s voice, feeling as if she’d been thinking too loudly.

  “What’s that?” she asked, fixing her eyes on her friend.

  Verna waved manicured fingers. “It’s just that I can’t believe it was Jean’s pâté that was poisoned. I hardly think that’ll do much for her fledgling catering business, do you? Everyone’s heard about it, and now they’re all squawking at me to find someone else to do the food for the luncheon.” The tendons at her neck tightened. “I suppose I should wait to see if she’s actually charged with the murder before finding another caterer. But I’d hate to put it off too long and get stuck without anyone. Then I’d have to break down and call the Catfish Barn.”

  “Oh, God,” Clara groaned. “Talk about poison!”

  Helen couldn’t listen to another word. “Stop acting like the worst is going to happen,” she said more snippily than she’d meant to. “Jean’s not going to be charged with murder. She didn’t kill Eleanora.”

  Verna tipped her lime-­topped head. “I know you’re great friends with her and all, and I’ve nothing against her myself. But really, Helen, how can you be so sure?”

  “I hate to say it,” Fanny Melville added, “but sometimes even ­people we think we know the best turn out to be strangers. Everyone has their breaking point.”

  “Especially considering how Eleanora treated her,” Clara Foley chimed in. “The woman acted like Jean murdered Jim, as if she’d run her car off the road on purpose.”

  “Enough!” Helen smacked down her cards, earning her a trio of surprised stares. She felt embarrassed suddenly, knowing they hadn’t meant any harm with their gossip; they were just rattling on as they always did. She drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Then she smiled weakly and picked up her hand. “Let’s get back to the game and save the chitchat for later?”

  “Okey dokey,” Clara murmured.

  “Sure,” Fanny and Verna said, exchanging looks.

  Helen nodded at them.

  Fanny peered over her bifocals and asked, “Where were we?”

  “It’s my turn, so look out.” Clara squirmed, and the wicker chair crackled beneath her. “Two hearts,” she said in a rush.

  “Pass,” Fanny muttered.

  Helen didn’t hesitate. “Four hearts,” she said.

  Verna groaned. “Well, Fanny, I think you were right. Maybe we should just throw in the towel before they completely embarrass us.”

  “You’re almost making me feel sorry for you,” Clara said with a chuckle. “What’re you angling for, a sympathy card?” She laughed at her own joke.

  But Verna shushed her and leaned in. “That reminds me, girls. Mildred Masters, a friend of mine whose husband works at Hartford, Martin, Dervish, and Lynch in St. Louis, told me something interesting.” Her ever-­wide eyes darted from one face to another. “Anyone who subscribes to the River Bend Bull
etin online will be getting an email in the morning about it, but I’ll give you a heads-­up. It concerns Eleanora—­”

  “Didn’t you just agree not to talk about the murder?” Helen cut her off, not wanting to hear another word about whether or not Jean poisoned her mother-­in-­law.

  “But, Helen, it’s not bad news, and it has nothing to do with Jean,” Verna promised. “It’s about a party for Eleanora.”

  Clara let out a guffaw. “You sure you didn’t have your brain tucked with that last face-­lift, sweetie? Eleanora’s dead, remember?”

  “My brain is fine,” Verna replied with a sniff and absently patted her cheeks. “The party is part of Eleanora’s will. She left instructions that there be some kind of celebration when she kicked the bucket. I don’t know all the details, but it sounds like Lady Godiva is the hostess.”

  “The dead woman’s cat,” Fanny murmured, echoing Helen’s very thoughts. “That’s quite unusual, to say the least.”

  “It’s wacky is what it is,” Clara insisted.

  “Where will this party be held?” Helen asked.

  “Girls, please, I don’t know all the details,” Verna said with a roll of her eyes. “We’ll just have to check our email boxes in the morning. All Mildred knew was that Eleanora’s will stated in black and white that she wanted a party, not a funeral. And there’s no sense waiting on a party, since they don’t need the sheriff or the medical examiner’s permission to throw a shindig.”

  “Particularly one hosted by a cat,” Helen murmured, finding it very strange indeed.

  She couldn’t help but glance at Jemima Winthrop and wonder if Eleanora’s killer would be attending.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  HELEN WASN’T A very good geek. She considered herself a dinosaur in an age of high-­tech gadgets. So although she did like Skyping with her grandkids on occasion, she didn’t religiously check her computer for email every day.

  But on that Thursday morning after bridge club, Helen got online soon after waking. She checked for the email invitation that Verna Mabry had mentioned, but she didn’t see it in her in-­box or stuck amidst her spam.

  She fed Amber breakfast and chewed on a piece of toast with raspberry jam then looked for the email again afterward, finally finding precisely what she’d been waiting for.

  The subject header read: In Celebration of Eleanora Duncan. The body of the email explained the details.

  Please join Lady Godiva to honor the life of her dearly departed mother at River Bend Town Hall today at noon. Cake and punch provided. A donation of cash, a toy, or pet food for the Animal Rescue Fund is required for entry. Do come and help celebrate Eleanora’s generous spirit and love of creatures of all kinds.

  Helen noted the Do Not Reply to the Email message, so there was no way to RSVP. She guessed the Duncan family’s lawyers were figuring that whoever showed up showed up, and whoever didn’t, fine.

  A party hosted by a feline for her deceased mommy.

  Hmm, Helen thought. She’d lived long enough to have seen and heard almost everything, but this was a first. And still she knew she wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  THE TOWN HALL was packed to the gills. So crowded, in fact, that Helen had to wait in line to enter, and she’d arrived precisely at noon.

  So she stood on the sidewalk clutching a plastic bag full of canned cat food. It was the Liver ‘n’ Chicken that Amber had loved last week but rejected this week. Somehow, she doubted that dogs were anywhere near as fickle as cats.

  “Howdy, Helen,” Clara Foley said as she ambled up and took a place in line behind her. “Can you believe this? I’m having flashbacks of buying Cabbage Patch dolls for my kids.”

  Helen shook her head, gazing at the growing line behind them and the crush of bodies they could see through the open front door.

  “I didn’t know this many ­people even subscribed to the River Bend Bulletin,” Clara added and hugged a bag of doggy kibbles to her breasts.

  When they finally got to the door, a smartly dressed woman greeted them with a smile, took their donations, and gave them a pair of party hats.

  Above them, colorful paper streamers crisscrossed the ceiling. Pots of vibrant flowers sat on tabletops. Amidst it all were countless photographs of Eleanora with Lady Godiva.

  “So there you are!” Fanny Melville squeezed through the press of bodies to find them. Helen smiled at the sight of the polka-­dotted hat perched atop her gray head, the ever-­present spectacles sitting on her nose. “Oh, Lord, you have to see the cake,” Doc’s wife said, taking Helen’s hand and attempting to drag her through the crush. “There’s a giant photo of Lady Godiva and Eleanora painted in the frosting.”

  Clara came along, and the three of them traipsed toward the refreshment table across the room. Helen spotted a hatless Sheriff Biddle, his sparse hair neatly brushed across his pate. She saw Jemima Winthrop looking like she was dressed for a garden party in a floral dress and yellow hat.

  “They have punch in crystal bowls with strawberries in big chunks of ice,” Fanny was saying, hanging onto Helen’s hand so she didn’t lose her.

  Was that Floyd Baskin with the young woman, Lara, from Save the River? Helen couldn’t believe they’d had the nerve to come any more than Jemima had.

  Finally they reached their destination and Fanny let go of her hand.

  “You’d better take a look,” Doc’s wife said, “before they start cutting Lady Godiva and her dearly departed mother into little pieces.”

  “Oh, my heavens,” Helen breathed, and Clara let out a low whistle over her shoulder.

  The cake was enormous, nearly as large as the table itself. Fanny hadn’t lied. The colored frosting depicted Eleanora hugging a pug-­faced Lady Godiva. Helen had never seen such a happy smile on Eleanora’s face, at least not since Marvin and Jim had died.

  “Let’s get some punch before they’re out,” Fanny said over the loud chatter around them. Clara piped up, “I’ll help.”

  Helen stared at the frosting photo and wondered what her children and grandchildren would think if she wrote in her will that they should throw her a party with an obscenely large cake depicting her holding Amber. They’d probably figure she’d lost her marbles.

  “This isn’t right,” she heard a voice mutter from beside her, and Helen realized Zelma Burdine had quietly appeared on her left. “It’s just not right,” she said again and picked up the shiny silver cake knife set on the edge of the table.

  “Oh, Zelma,” Helen said, seeing the woman’s tearful face. Her eyes were saggy and shadowed, like she’d hardly slept in days. “How are you faring?” she asked, though the answer was apparent.

  “She had a husband and a son,” Zelma said, as if she hadn’t heard Helen’s question. “And when she lost them, there were still ­people who loved her. But all that seemed to matter was the cat.”

  The woman sniffled, and Helen touched her arm. “Grief is a terrible thing,” she remarked. “Eleanora lost so much. I guess she needed Lady Godiva to fill that empty spot in her heart.”

  “But she had me, too,” Zelma whispered, and, without warning, she brought the fat knife down into the cake, reaching as far as she could to cut a line down the painted frosting right between Eleanora and Lady.

  Just then, Fanny and Clara jostled their way over. Doc’s wife pushed a cup of frothy pink punch into Helen’s hand.

  “Oh, Zelma, are you cutting the cake already?” Clara asked, only to be interrupted by Fanny Melville bursting out, “My God, Helen, you have to see the setup in front. They’ve got Lady Godiva on a chair that looks like a throne.”

  Helen looked away from Zelma slicing up the cake and caught sight of Stanley Duncan, chatting up the mayor. She frowned. Surely he didn’t subscribe to the River Bend Bulletin, too?

  “This way,” Fanny urged, setting down her punch cup to grab hold of Helen. With Clara on
their heels, the trio pushed their way toward Lady’s throne.

  Helen could just see the high ornate back of a chair placed in front, where Art Beaner normally stood at the podium during town hall meetings. They were nearly close enough for her to glimpse Lady without standing on her toes, when something shifted around her. The atmosphere changed. ­People stopped talking. Everyone seemed to stand still.

  Helen smacked right into Fanny’s backside, and half her punch splashed out of her cup onto her shoes. It was a good thing she’d worn pink Keds. At least they matched the punch.

  When she looked over to see what had caused all the commotion—­or rather, the lack of commotion—­a lump caught in her throat.

  Jean Duncan strode into the mix with her head held high, her silver hair tied back neatly in a black scarf. She had on black jeans and a black twinset as well, pearls at her throat. She was the only one in the room dressed for a casual funeral rather than a death party with a kitty hostess.

  “What’s she doing here?” Stanley Duncan’s voice rose, and a ripple of whispers followed suit. “Someone throw her out!”

  “Jean,” Helen said as her friend came near, but Jean looked right past her.

  Eleanora’s daughter-­in-­law headed straight toward the giant cake. Was she going to deface it? Helen wondered. But it was Zelma that Jean was aiming for.

  The housekeeper let out a sputter cry of “Oh, you came! Someone does care,” she said and began to wail.

  Stanley Duncan quit shouting for the sheriff to drag Jean out. Indeed, no one said anything as Zelma cried her heart out against Jean’s chest.

  Helen’s heart lurched, hearing such gut-­wrenching sobs.

  At least Zelma’s grief was real enough, she thought and looked over at Stanley and then across the way at Jemima. Although soon after, Jemima’s yellow hat began to bob through the crowd and then vanished altogether. Helen looked around to see where Jemima had gone and realized Stanley Duncan seemed to have disappeared as well.