Not to mention the press that publishing a book by a murdered author might get, Biddle thought but kept to himself.
“No, I don’t have the manuscript in my possession,” the sheriff admitted. “But I imagine it’ll turn up shortly.”
“If the physical copy is missing, could you let me know if you uncover an electronic file?” Faulkner said. “Grace was afraid of being hacked, so it probably isn’t on a hard drive. If it’s been saved to a portable drive, I’ll be happy to take that off your hands. With digital publishing, we could get the thing out next month if we worked fast.”
“And I’ll bet it’ll go a lot faster without Grace around to get in your hair, won’t it?” Biddle asked.
Faulkner flashed an anxious smile. “Harold, please.”
“Won’t it, Harold?”
Faulkner wiped his palms on his trousers. “Well, I don’t think I’d put it as crudely as that, Sheriff, no.” He glanced at his clunky wristwatch and grimaced. “Are you done with me, then? I need to get moving.”
Frank set down his pencil. “You can go, Mr. Faulk—Harold,” he said. “But I may need to get in touch with you again.”
“No problem.” Faulkner reached inside his jacket and withdrew a business card. “I’d like to help in any way I can. What a shock this all is. Grace being killed on the cusp of her big break.” He sighed and pressed his fingers to his brow. “No doubt I’ll have to issue some kind of press release about the matter.”
“No doubt,” Frank said, not hiding his sarcasm.
“Good-bye, Sheriff.” Faulkner rose and extended a hand. Biddle rolled to his feet and reached across the desk. The man’s palm was damp, the handshake blissfully brief.
Frank nodded. “Drive safe.”
When Faulkner was gone, the sheriff leaned back in his old leather chair, wondering just how much publicity the little known Faulkner Press would gain by using Grace’s murder to promote her forthcoming book.
Chapter 11
HELEN TIPTOED UP the stairs, wincing as each step released a protesting creak. She paused at the top of the banister and let her eyes adjust to the dim. She’d given Nancy a cup of Sleepytime tea and had tucked her into the double bed set under the eaves in the converted attic. When Joe had retired, he’d done most of the work up there himself, while Helen had polished the old wood floors, sewn curtains for the windows, and made the patchwork quilt for the bed.
When Joe had passed three years before, she’d been grateful for the extra room. In the weeks that had followed, Helen had found it helpful having others in the house. She’d been so used to hearing another voice, a pair of footsteps besides her own, or water running. But she’d gradually grown accustomed to being on her own, and she enjoyed the time to herself. She could do whatever she wanted to do, watch the TV shows she wanted to watch, eat whatever she wanted to eat. There was something to be said for not having to run on someone else’s itinerary.
And she wasn’t actually ever alone, not with Amber in the house. Though he might have four furry feet instead of two human ones, he held up his end of a conversation better than some townsfolk.
Helen heard a gentle moan come from the bed.
“Nancy?” she whispered.
But the lump beneath the bedclothes didn’t stir.
It was nearly noon. Nancy had been asleep for hours already.
How exhausted she must be, Helen thought, though she could hardly blame her. After the trying events of the past twenty-four hours, the girl needed rest. Helen had insisted that Nancy stay at her house rather than go back to her apartment, and she planned to keep her there for as long as it took Biddle to solve Grace Simpson’s murder.
Helen shook her head, sure the sheriff’s barrage of questions had hardly helped matters any. As if stumbling upon a murder scene wasn’t frightening enough.
I didn’t mean for it to happen, she recalled Nancy telling Frank Biddle.
No, of course she didn’t.
It’s so unfair, Nancy had remarked after Grace had publicly humiliated her. I’ve worked day and night to make her happy, and it was never enough. I hate her, Grandma, I do. I’m so mad, I could choke her.
Helen frowned, knowing how hurt Nancy felt, how frustrated. But Nancy was a quiet girl who’d always worked hard and kept to herself. Even if she’d fought with Grace, she would never have picked up a baseball bat and beat her to death with it.
“Stop it,” she told herself.
Nancy wouldn’t hurt a fly, and Helen well knew it.
Unfortunately, Sheriff Biddle seemed to have his doubts.
The phone rang downstairs, twittering like a deranged bird, and Helen jumped.
She hurried back down the steps as quietly as she could, reaching the phone just as it twittered again.
Snatching it up, she asked breathlessly, “Yes? Who is it?”
“It’s me, ma’am. Frank Biddle.”
Helen gritted her teeth. “Sheriff, please, I told you I’d bring Nancy down when she was up and about. She’s still in bed, sleeping.”
“It’s noon,” he said.
“Thank you for that information,” Helen replied, telling him, “good-bye.” She was about to hang up when she heard him saying, “Ma’am, wait, ma’am!”
Helen returned the receiver to her ear. “Yes, Sheriff?”
“I just heard from Doc Melville, and it appears the murder was committed where the body was found, meaning Ms. Simpson’s bedroom. There’s no evidence the body was moved, so it looks like she died where she fell. Oh, and forensics confirms the murder weapon was the baseball bat that Miss Sweet was holding when she ran out of the house.”
“So?” Helen said stiffly.
“So your granddaughter’s fingerprints were on the bat, ma’am. In fact, they’re the only clear prints found on it other than Grace’s. There are a couple of smudged prints that we’re checking out—”
“Anything else?” Helen interrupted.
“Not yet, although Doc said the ME’s about through with his examination. I’m heading over to Ms. Simpson’s office now to see what I can find out there.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, ma’am, except that I’ll want to talk to Miss Sweet again.”
“Good-bye, Sheriff.”
“Ma’am, wait—”
But this time, Helen hung up.
Chapter 12
“SO IT’S TRUE?” Clara Foley asked, leaning over the table.
“Oh, it’s true all right.” Bertha Beaner nodded.
“Ding dong, the witch is dead,” Clara said and settled back into the booth, exhaling loudly. “Has anyone been arrested?”
“Mattie Oldbridge said the sheriff took Helen Evans’s granddaughter in for questioning.”
“Oh, my.”
“Well, he had to.” Bertha took a sip of her cola before adding, “She’s the one who found the body.”
“How was Grace killed?”
Bertha shrugged. “Mattie wasn’t entirely sure, but one can’t help but wonder—”
The door to the diner opened with a jingle, and Bertha Beaner stopped talking and glanced over Clara’s substantial shoulders to see Mattie Oldbridge entering the place.
“Speak of the devil,” Bertha murmured and lifted a hand. “Yoo hoo, Mattie!” she called and beckoned her over. “We were just talking about dear departed Grace. Seeing as how you live next door, well, we figured—”
“That you could fill us in on more of the details,” Clara finished for her.
Bertha gave her a look and muttered, “I was getting to it, for God’s sake.”
Clara merely shrugged.
Mattie glanced wistfully at the counter where a brown bag awaited. “I just came in to pick up a sandwich and soup,” she told them.
“Oh, come on, Mattie, spit it out.” Clara wiggled he
r fingers, the nails painted the same vivid pink as her muumuu. “You must know something more than the rest of us. After all, you’ve got a front-row seat.”
“Best seat in the house.” Bertha chuckled.
Mattie shifted in her LifeStrides. “I’m not sure I know anything more than I told Bertha here this morning.”
Clara pouted rosebud lips. “You didn’t see anything else going on next door?”
“No.” Mattie pushed at the bridge of her horn-rimmed glasses. “I haven’t been outside as much as usual. This past week hasn’t been an easy one, you know.”
“Of course it hasn’t, sweetie.” Clara sidled down the bench so she could reach for Mattie’s hand. “You must still be shaken after the break-in at your place.”
Mattie tugged her hand away. “I am.”
Bertha wrinkled her brow. “The sheriff hasn’t caught the thief?”
“No,” Mattie said, looking grim. “Whoever it is, he’s still out there, waiting to strike again.”
“I thought it was some kids from Green Valley,” Clara remarked, “or that juvenile delinquent Charlie Bryan?”
Mattie sighed. “I’m giving up hope that Frank Biddle will ever find who did it. I’m sure I’ll never see my precious things again. For all I know, they’re behind the counter of some pawnshop in Alton,” she added, eyes misting.
“And then to have Grace murdered just next door.” Clara clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Do you truly think Helen’s granddaughter had anything to do with it?”
Bertha cocked her head and listened.
Mattie looked from one to the other. “All I’m sure of is that Miss Sweet was the only one I saw go into Grace’s house since I watched Grace leave in her car the night before.”
“No one else went in or out?”
“I didn’t notice anyone. I was having a beer on the porch after supper. But it was getting dark and my program was coming on the TV. That one with the dancing stars,” Mattie said as Clara and Bertha both nodded. “There hasn’t been much of interest going on at the Simpsons’ place since Max moved out.” Her wrinkled face softened. “He was such a sweet man, but she treated him so badly. Sometimes they shouted at each for hours so I had to wear earplugs to get any sleep.”
“She and Max weren’t legally divorced, were they?” Clara said and tapped a finger to her chin. “I wonder if he’s going to collect all the earnings from her sordid book. . . .”
“Let’s hope that book never sees the light of day!” Bertha’s cheeks turned bright red. “If Grace hadn’t threatened to divulge all those secrets, maybe she’d still be alive.”
“Amen to that,” Clara whispered.
But Mattie Oldbridge said nothing. She just looked longingly at the brown sack on the counter again.
Chapter 13
FRANK BIDDLE LET himself into Grace’s office with a key from the ring in her purse. Her handbag had been found in her car, and it had contained her billfold, a tube of lipstick, a compact, her cell phone, and a handful of Kleenex.
Before he touched a thing, he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Then he groped at the wall for a light switch. The overhead lamp flickered on, and he looked around him, finding himself standing in a small waiting room. The walls were sparsely hung with framed prints of what looked like blobs of ink, like something someone’s kid might have done with black finger paint.
Chairs pressed tightly together lined the walls, with an occasional modern-looking glass table squeezed in between, its surface neatly covered with magazines.
Frank went through the door between the waiting room and inner office. He flipped on more overhead lights along the way. He first noticed a tiny kitchen set into a recessed spot in the wall. Or maybe “kitchen” was too fancy a word. It was more like a small cabinet on which sat a coffee machine, a tray full of creams and sugars, and a dozen floral mugs.
He opened the cabinet doors above to find office supplies, reams of paper, boxes of folders, and plastic-wrapped memo pads.
He walked ahead up the hallway, leaning into the opened door of a cramped-looking office. Was that where Grace had tucked Nancy Sweet? The space was hardly big enough for him to go inside and turn around without sucking in his gut. He decided to save that room for last.
Hitching up his belt, he continued past a framed poster of a staring Sigmund Freud to where a closed door blocked his path.
He opened it and stood inside the jamb, peering in.
So this was where Grace Simpson played headshrinker, he mused and let his gaze roam about. Sarah had told him it was nice, really fancy. I think she must’ve had a real interior decorator from the city, she’d remarked, her eyes wide as pennies. So you’ve satisfied your curiosity, now you don’t have to go back, Frank remembered telling her afterward. But Sarah hadn’t listened to him then any more than she ever did. Why his own wife couldn’t have talked to him instead of coming here, Frank hadn’t a clue. Maybe it was just one of those things women did that men never understood.
While her assistant’s office was little more than a closet crammed with file cabinets and desk, Grace’s domain was more the chamber of the queen.
The walls had been painted a rich cranberry, and the planked floor beamed with polish around the fringe of a plush, patterned rug. Behind slanted blinds, a wide window allowed an abundance of natural light in. The sunbeams glinted off gold frames mounted on the wall, the documents behind the glass stamped with seals and printed with graceful calligraphy.
Frank rubbed a hand over his head, ruffling the sparse hair that remained. Squinting, he took a look at each framed certificate, his lips moving as he read.
Bachelor of Liberal Arts in Psychology . . . Master of Social Work . . . Fully Accredited Member of the Psychotherapy Society of America.
There were half a dozen in all, enough to make Frank peg Grace Simpson as a bit of an overachiever.
There were shelves filled from end to end with texts, yearbooks, registers, and journals. He wondered if all the books were for looks or if Grace had read any of them. How much education did a person need to listen to people’s problems and give them advice? Frank usually found the wisest minds weren’t always the best educated but folks who had lived a hard life and learned from it.
A plush couch was positioned against one wall and above it hung a large unframed canvas that, to Frank’s untrained eyes, looked like someone had accidentally splattered with paint.
Was that supposed to be art?
He harrumphed and hooked his thumbs into his belt on either side of his belly. He wondered how folks made money off pieces like that when he had a drop cloth in his garage speckled with just as much paint though he doubted anyone would be dumb enough to pay him cold hard cash to hang it on their wall.
A coffee table in front of the sofa contained a host of brochures that had been carefully fanned out. Biddle picked up a few and noted they dealt with all kinds of topics like codependency, aging, stress, and addictions of various sorts.
A pair of armchairs had been situated on the table’s other side, the cushions comfortably worn.
But the sheriff didn’t share his wife’s interest in the décor. What interested him most was Grace Simpson’s desk, which faced him from its cockeyed position in the corner. The piece looked heavy, with carved legs and ball-and-claw feet. A leather chair sat directly behind it. Biddle went around and plunked down onto soft leather. He tugged futilely at each desk drawer but only managed to work up a light sweat. They were locked, and, at the moment anyway, he had no keys for them.
He took out his pad from his breast pocket and pulled the pencil from its spine. He gave the tip a lick for good measure and flipped to a clean page, where he wrote, “Ask N. Sweet about keys to G. Simpson’s desk.” He found no appointment book among the papers on her green blotter and figured her schedule was probably computerized. He jotted a note to ask Miss Sw
eet about that as well.
Frank didn’t see anything else lying about that warranted his attention, like client files or pages from the missing manuscript, so he tucked his pad and pencil back into his pocket, hiked up his belt, and headed for the closet up front that used to be Nancy Sweet’s office.
He squeezed inside the limited space between the wall of filing cabinets and the desk. He could barely turn around and had to suck in his gut to attempt to pull open the file drawers; but like Grace’s desk, they were locked up tight.
How, he wondered, could Nancy Sweet have worked here day after day and not felt claustrophobic?
When he tried the drawers to Nancy’s desk, they thankfully opened. Frank riffled through each one, finding only the most ordinary of things: boxes of paper clips, staples, rubber bands, rolls of stamps, stationery, a jumble of pens and pencils. If there had been anything of importance in the desk, it wasn’t there anymore.
Feeling defeated, Frank glanced above him then at a bulletin board tacked with countless Post-it notes. A number of them were addressed to Nancy, reminding her to pick up dry cleaning, to order St. Louis Symphony tickets, or to buy coffee and sweetener. The rest were for Grace, nearly all of them regarding phone messages from Harold Faulkner about her book.
He started to rise, but the space was so tiny that he got the leg of the chair caught on the wastebasket beside it, so that when he pushed back, he knocked the can over with a clatter. Trash spilled out all over his feet.
“Aw, damn.”
He put the wastebasket upright and began to pick up what had fallen out: a gum wrapper, a few discarded envelopes, and a crusty bottle of correction fluid. He flattened out two messages that had been wadded into balls. One concerned a dental appointment for Grace the next week. The second mentioned an attorney calling about divorce proceedings.
Biddle stuffed the latter in his breast pocket.
Then he smoothed out a piece of memo-sized note paper.
Dear Grace,
You are a hateful, small-minded bitch, and it was hell to come in every day and work for you. I hope your book fails miserably.
Unti Susan McBride #2 Page 6