“Thank you all for coming today,” a clear voice said through the room’s speakers, and Helen noticed the pretty woman from the law firm who’d been gathering up the donations. She now stood up front beside the intricately carved chair.
Helen popped up on tiptoes to see Lady Godiva slumbering on a purple cushion, seeming not to care that the room was full of humans. Or perhaps she was depressed, grieving for Eleanora.
As the pretty lawyer droned on about Eleanora’s generosity and dedication to causes of all stripes, Helen found her mind drifting off.
She thought of Monday morning, when she’d gone out for a walk, and how she’d witnessed Lady Godiva chase a butterfly into the middle of Harbor Drive. Then Eleanora had stepped into the road, an engine had gunned, tires squealing as a car had driven right toward her as though it had meant to mow her down.
What if she hadn’t been there to pull Eleanora from its path? Helen’s heart pounded faster. She was sure that Eleanora would have been killed. Had the killer failed, only to succeed a second time with poison?
Helen closed her eyes and tried to recall what the car had looked like, but all she came up with were those things she’d told Biddle: it had been an older model sedan of some dark hue, maybe blue, maybe brown.
Jemima Winthrop drove a navy four-door.
She’d seen Stanley Duncan tooling about River Bend the past few days in a muddy late-model Lincoln.
And she remembered another brown sedan parked out front of the Save the River office in Grafton. Did it belong to Floyd Baskin or his girlfriend?
She turned at the sound of Zelma’s sobs and saw Jean still there, her arm wrapped around the crying woman. Helen’s throat tightened as she realized Jean owned a gray Buick.
I think somebody’s trying to kill me.
Those were Eleanora’s very words, as if she’d had some cause to suspect the worst. Had she been getting threats? Had an attempt been made on her life before that?
Helen had asked Zelma that very thing, but the housekeeper had said she couldn’t recall anything of the sort.
Helen let out a loud sigh, and Clara nudged her with an elbow.
Though she tried to focus on the perky lawyer babbling about Eleanora’s goodness, Helen’s mind drifted again. There was too much clouding her brain.
She flashed back to Jean’s smiling face. Oh, how happy she’d been at starting up her catering service. Why would she have risked it all just to be rid of Eleanora? Would it have been worth so much to her to have her mother-in-law out of her life forever?
The poison had been in Jean’s pâté.
The only fingerprints on the container belonged to Jean, Eleanora, and the housekeeper. Biddle had found a bottle of Splat in Jean’s kitchen, though admittedly one had been under Eleanora’s sink.
It all seemed so neat, almost too neat. If a bow had been tied around the evidence, it wouldn’t have appeared any more perfectly presented.
Was Jean being framed? she wondered. Everyone in town knew Jean hated Eleanora. But how had the murderer set it all up?
Helen had only heard about Jean’s new business venture from Jean herself the morning that Eleanora died. At that point, it wasn’t common knowledge. Who else could have realized the plastic container labeled The Catery was from Jean’s kitchen? Unless Zelma had let it slip that Jean had delivered the items or the murderer had looked up Jean’s newly-created web site.
There had been other food in the refrigerator. Why had the pâté been poisoned and nothing else? Biddle hadn’t mentioned sodium tetraborate being found in anything but the goose liver. So had the murderer intentionally poisoned the delicacy rather than, say, a jar of pickles?
What was she missing? Helen tapped a finger to her chin. The answer was there, she knew it. But the more she tried to figure things out, the more frustrated she got.
No wonder Biddle had lost so much hair.
“Lady Godiva was very special to Eleanora,” the pretty lawyer was saying and picked up the ball of fur from the throne. She held the cat high, as if on display. Lady mewed and took a swipe at her. “Lady Godiva inspired Eleanora to sit on the board of numerous animal rescue operations across the county. She hoped that all creatures, great and small, would find homes and be loved as much as she loved her precious baby.”
Lady let out another mew, but it was drowned out by a human howl.
Helen swiveled her head to see an unsmiling Jean trying hard to console a desolate Zelma. The poor dear bent like a hunchback, sobbing into Jean’s sweater.
What would happen to Zelma? Helen wondered. Where would she go? What about the house on Harbor Drive? Would that dreadful brother of Marvin’s get everything? Who would take care of Lady Godiva?
Helen murmured, “Excuse me a minute,” to Clara and Fanny, then she made her way toward Jean and Zelma.
“Can I do anything to help?” she asked and set down her half-empty cup of punch. She glanced sideways at the cake to see that Zelma had done quite an interesting job of cutting it up. It looked very much like she’d dissected Lady Godiva and Eleanora both.
This time, Jean didn’t look through her. Her friend’s pale eyes met hers. “Could you wet a towel with cold water? I think Zelma needs to sit down and cool off.”
“Of course,” Helen said, knowing there were all sorts of embroidered tea towels stocked in the powder rooms of town hall. She’d made half of them herself. “I’ll be right back.”
She maneuvered toward the back hallway, then to her right, where a pair of doors were marked LADIES and GENTLEMEN, although both bathrooms were exactly the same, with a pedestal sink, toilet, mirror, and trash can. The only difference was their colors—pink for girls and blue for boys—and the fact that the ladies’ room door never seemed to properly lock.
Helen grabbed the knob, which easily turned. She pulled open the door to the restroom painted Pepto-Bismol pink, flipped on the ceiling light, and found Stanley Duncan and Jemima Winthrop embracing.
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE PAIR PULLED apart as fast as they were able. Jemima smoothed down her dress and righted her yellow hat, which had been knocked cockeyed. Stanley wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, though he still wore a trace of lipstick on his upper lip.
“My word, woman, haven’t you ever thought to knock?” he growled.
Helen simply stared.
Jemima fingered her pearls. “I just came in to use the restroom, and I happened to bump into Stanley . . . uh, Mr. Duncan.”
I’ll say she did, Helen mused. She bumped into him so hard their lips locked.
“Well, I, uh, was just leaving,” Jemima murmured after composing herself. “So if you’d excuse me.”
Jemima came forward and tried to sidestep her, but Helen backed up to the door. She put her hand on the knob. “I think it’d be a good idea if you both just stayed put. I imagine the sheriff would like the chance to find out what’s really going on between you. I know I’m curious myself.”
Stanley and Jemima exchanged glances.
The knob rattled then turned. Helen felt the door nudge open and quickly stepped out of its path.
“What’s going on?” Jean looked into the room, the frustration on her face changing to confusion. “Zelma got herself so worked up she fainted. Fanny Melville’s got some smelling salts out, but I should really take her home.” She glanced at Helen though her eyes kept flickering back to Stanley and Jemima. “I figured you’d want to know.”
“I’m sorry I was so slow,” Helen said. “But something besides the tea towels caught my eye.”
Jemima’s head reared, and suddenly she appeared more like her old self. “Why, you’re not going to tell her, are you?” Her voice crackled. She crossed her arms over her breasts, the floral silk of her dress swaying with her indignation. “Of all the people . . . it would have to be you who butted your nos
e in where it didn’t belong.” She swiveled to Stanley. “She’s got the biggest mouth in town! She’ll twist everything all around, and by the time it gets to the sheriff’s ears, he’ll be ready to slap us in handcuffs!”
Helen blinked, trying not to take offense at the remark, considering the source. Jemima Winthrop was more than likely a murderer, or at least an accomplice. Compared to that, being called a gossip didn’t seem so awful.
“Hey, none of this is my fault,” Stanley countered. “You’re the one who wants to hook up in the strangest places.”
“Me?” Jemima shot back. “Well, you’re the one who couldn’t bear to wait another minute to put your paws all over me.”
“Hey, don’t go acting shy now, when you were the one who came after me like a cougar in heat.”
“A cougar in heat?” Jemima repeated, looking truly pissed off.
“You heard me,” Stanley told her.
“How could I not, the way you’re yelling.”
“I’m yelling? Of all the crazy . . . “
Helen felt as if she were watching Wimbledon, with the ball going back and forth, back and forth.
Jean stood in the doorway, wide-eyed. Her face was white as ash.
“What in tarnation is all this shouting?” Helen heard the sheriff sputter. Jean moved out of the way, and Frank Biddle entered the powder room.
“Ah, Mrs. Evans,” he said, like that explained everything, and Helen pointed at Jemima and Stanley, who still argued, nose to nose.
“I caught them red-handed,” she said before adding, “in a clench.”
“You don’t say?” The sheriff hiked up his belt. “Break it up,” he said as the pair continued to squabble. “Enough’s enough.” Biddle firmly moved Helen aside to reach Jemima and Stanley. He separated them, stepping in the middle like a boxing official stopping a fight.
“You ass,” Jemima said, and Helen couldn’t tell if she meant Biddle or Stanley.
“Crazy woman,” Stanley shot back, hoping he didn’t mean her.
They both crossed their arms and glared.
Biddle shook his head at them before he fixed his gaze on Helen. He sighed loudly. “Okay, Mrs. Evans, want to tell me what you’ve started now?”
Helen resisted the urge to say something she might regret. Instead, she jerked her chin at Jemima and Stanley. “There’s something going on between them, all right, just as I told you. When I walked in, I saw the two of them kissing.”
“Busybody,” Jemima whispered but pressed her lips tight again.
Stanley shifted on his feet.
“You’re so focused on Jean that you can’t see what’s right under your nose,” Helen told Biddle, gesturing at Jean, who lingered near the door. “These two have some explaining to do, Sheriff, don’t you think? For all we know, they murdered Eleanora and painted Jean as the prime suspect! Why else would they hide their relationship?”
Biddle cleared his throat, glancing from Jemima to Stanley. “She’s got a point, you know. I’d like to hear what the both of you have to say.”
“Are you arresting us, Sheriff?” Stanley spoke out first. “If that’s the case, let me step into the other room and get my lawyer. That pretty young thing works for the Duncan family, you know.”
“Why don’t you can it, Stan?” Jemima blurted out. “It’s time to spill.”
“But, Jemmy, you said that we had to keep on the down low—”
“I’m done with sneaking around,” she cut him off. “Don’t you get the picture? If we don’t tell the truth, the whole town’s going to think we murdered Eleanora. Mrs. Evans will make sure of it.” She gave Helen the stink eye.
Helen didn’t even flinch. “Did you kill Eleanora?”
“I certainly didn’t poison the old biddy,” Stanley said.
“And neither did I,” Jemima chimed in. “No matter what anyone thinks,” she added, looking directly at Helen. Then Jemima reached for Stanley’s hand and held it, her face softening. “We’ve been seeing each other for years, if you must know. I’d usually have to go meet him somewhere outside of town. It was too risky being seen together around here, especially with the bad blood between our families.” She hesitated. “I couldn’t take the chance of anyone finding out we’d gotten married.”
“Married?” Helen caught her breath.
Jean slipped inside the doorway, hands on her cheeks. “How?” she asked. “When?”
Jemima didn’t take her eyes off Stanley as she answered, “We saw a justice of the peace a week ago. That’s why Stanley came back. He said he wanted to talk to Eleanora about getting his mother’s wedding ring. Marvin had always promised he could have it if he ever found anyone worthy of settling down.”
Was that why he’d been in Eleanora’s house the other day, tearing the place apart? Helen wondered. Zelma had thought he was looking for money, but all he’d mentioned was wanting “what was mine.”
“I didn’t want my mother to know,” Jemima went on, a catch in her voice. “I couldn’t risk pushing her even further into madness. She’s living on the brink as it is, sometimes lucid and sometimes . . .” She sighed. “I was afraid that knowing Stanley and I were together would kill her, and I’d already lost Daddy to the Duncans.” She peered at Helen from beneath her hat’s yellow brim. “You saw what a fragile state she’s in. If she even heard mention of Eleanora, it sent her spiraling downward.”
And there’s the rub, Helen thought, speaking up. “So if Eleanora was out of the way, you two could stop sneaking around?”
Jemima’s eyes went wide. “I never said that!”
“Were you figuring, too,” Helen went on, “that Stanley would inherit the Duncan fortune? Then he could return to you what you’ve always believed Marvin and Eleanora stole from your family, including that acreage by the harbor you want for a new library. With the way prices of real estate have gone up around here lately, it’s probably worth a pretty penny.”
“Stop it, no!” Jemima cried out. “No, that’s not it! I mean, we discussed the fact that Stanley might inherit something, but we never talked of killing her. We just had to be patient.”
“Yes, patient,” Stanley echoed and squeezed Jemima’s hand.
But Helen didn’t buy a word of it.
“Jean? Jean, where did you go?” A soft voice preceded the shuffle of footsteps, and Zelma was at the door, her cheeks red and tear-streaked. Behind the huge Coke bottle glasses, her tiny eyes appeared puffy and pink. “I want to go home,” she mewled.
“Yes, of course,” Jean said and took her arm.
“I’ll drive you,” the sheriff said and headed out after them.
Helen couldn’t believe he was leaving Jemima and Stanley and not hauling them down to the station! She dogged his footsteps, telling him, “If I were you, Frank Biddle, I’d strongly take Eleanora’s will into consideration. With so much money involved, as well as control of Duncan Industries, there’s plenty of cause for those two to poison Eleanora. Why, even if they counted on Stanley receiving just a fraction, it’s good enough reason for murder in my book.”
Why was he shaking his head, for heaven’s sake?
“The money trail,” Helen said, not letting go. “Can’t you see where it leads?”
He stopped in his tracks and turned around. Jean and Zelma did the same.
“It doesn’t lead to them,” he said, looking smugly at Helen. “I spoke with Eleanora Duncan’s lawyers this morning.”
Stanley and Jemima emerged from the powder room in time enough to catch Biddle saying, “Stanley Duncan isn’t a beneficiary. No one is, not an actual person, anyway.”
“What are you talking about?” Stanley snapped. “I’m the only surviving Duncan! The old bat must’ve left me something.”
Jemima cocked her head, crooking her yellow hat.
Jean clutched Zelma to her more tightly
. “What did she do? Leave everything to charity?”
Oh, dear, Helen thought, surely Eleanora hadn’t bequeathed her millions to Save the River? If Floyd Baskin was getting it all, she’d eat her party hat.
“It won’t go to a charity, ma’am,” the sheriff said and cleared his throat. “It’s going to Lady Godiva. Looks like Eleanora left the whole kit and caboodle to the cat.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
HELEN INSISTED ON riding back to Eleanora’s house in the sheriff’s car with Zelma. Jean had decided against going back to Eleanora’s—“I wouldn’t feel right,” she’d told Helen, “not until Biddle’s got this thing solved”—and Lady Godiva would be escorted home by the attorney after the party was over.
As they pulled up in front of the Victorian mansion, Helen gazed up at the pillared veranda with a sigh, wondering if it was Lady Godiva’s house now. How did a cat pay bills? Or hire someone to mow the lawn? She still couldn’t get over the fact that Eleanora would leave her assets to a feline.
Helen loved Amber dearly, but she couldn’t imagine bequeathing her estate to him.
Once they got inside, Zelma said she was feeling better but excused herself to use the restroom. Helen attacked the cupboards in the kitchen, scrounging up tea bags, cups, and saucers.
“It’s not quite like it sounds,” Biddle explained from his seat at the kitchen table. “The lawyers tell me everything’s set up on a bunch of conditions. It pretty much goes like this.” He cleared his throat. “As long as Lady Godiva’s being cared for, Zelma can stay in the house just like always. She’ll get a salary to keep up the place, much as she did when old Mrs. Duncan was alive and kicking.”
“So Stanley doesn’t inherit a penny?” Helen asked.
“Not a red cent.”
“I still can’t believe it,” Helen said as she filled the teakettle and put it on the stove to boil. “I just can’t believe she’d do this to Zelma. The poor dear has given her life to Eleanora and her family. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
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