Not a Chance in Helen

by Susan McBride

  The sheriff knew Baskin and his cause very well indeed. “So he came by to get a donation for Save the River?”

  “A donation?” Zelma repeated and laughed. “When he was alive, Mr. Duncan practically supported Baskin’s efforts single-­handedly. When he died, he left them some kind of annual stipend. Only Miss Nora didn’t like the turn they’d taken.” Zelma let out a noisy tsk-­tsk. “All they seemed to do lately was break into buildings, destroy property, and the like. Miss Nora had her lawyers working on a loophole to stop the payments.”

  Frank’s heart beat a little bit faster. “You said Mr. Duncan was here as well.”

  “Yes, the younger brother, Stanley,” Zelma offered.

  The sheriff detected a hint of pink in her cheeks—­even a flash of fear in her eyes—­at the mention of Stanley’s name.

  Zelma folded her hands on the table, and he saw they were trembling. “Miss Nora turned him away, too. Only he came again this morning,” she said, and her voice shook. “He tore up the place looking for money.”

  Frank stopped writing. “So there was bad blood between him and Eleanora?”

  Zelma nodded. “The younger Mr. Duncan was the black sheep of the family, Miss Nora called him. Mr. Marvin, now there was a fine man. Worked hard all his life for every penny he earned. But Mr. Stanley didn’t like to sweat. He depended on his brother for everything.” Zelma grimaced. “When the younger Mr. Duncan ran through what Mr. Marvin had left him, Miss Nora paid him off, just to keep him away. But yesterday when he showed up, she told me she was finished with him. She was cutting him off cold.”

  Zelma sniffled. “But he did come back, and if it wasn’t for Mrs. Evans showing up when she did, he would have torn up the whole house and not just the library.” The woman’s owlish eyes fixed on him again, looking petrified. “He said he’ll be back, Sheriff, that he won’t let me rest until he gets what he wants.”

  The sheriff hardly heard the last part of it. His ears had ceased listening when he’d heard the words “Mrs. Evans.”

  He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Evans was here earlier?”

  Zelma nodded.

  Frank pursed his lips. Didn’t that woman ever stay home?

  “And thank God for her, too,” the housekeeper told him. “She chased him off. Threatened to call you up and turn him in.”

  “Right,” Frank said dryly.

  “Is there anything else, Sheriff?” Zelma was biting at her lip as if she might burst into tears.

  “Just one more thing, ma’am, and then I’ll go,” he said. “Did Miss Nora ask you where the goose liver had come from?”

  “No.” Zelma sounded repentant. “She wouldn’t have eaten a bite if she’d realized Miss Jean had brought it over, so I didn’t say a word. I didn’t figure there was any harm in it. Despite what Miss Nora believed, I rather liked Miss Jean. I didn’t blame her for what happened to Jim.” Her teeth gnawed her bottom lip. “If I’d have mentioned where it came from, Miss Nora never would’ve eaten any of it. She would have made me throw it all away. Oh, dear!”

  Zelma sobbed, and Biddle glanced up at her from his notepad. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

  “Please, Sheriff, I’m not feeling so good all of a sudden.” The woman pushed up her glasses to dab at her eyes with her apron. “It’s just that I’m so tired. I didn’t sleep well last night. I’m not used to being alone, and poor Lady howled until morning.”

  He tucked the pencil and pad into his shirt pocket. “You’ve been real helpful, ma’am. If you don’t mind, though, I’d like to take another look around.”

  Zelma struggled to her feet. “Might I go lay down? I’m feeling dizzy.”

  Frank nodded. “Please don’t worry about me. I can let myself out when I’m done.”

  The old girl disappeared as fast as she could shuffle out, and Frank didn’t waste a single second. He pulled on a pair of disposable gloves before opening up the cabinets under the sink. That was where his Sarah kept everything, from dishwashing liquid to carpet cleaner to pot scrubbers and insecticides.

  He found a trash bag from a box set against the drainpipe then dropped in a few cans and bottles of poisons aimed at killing any kind of bug infestation.

  Frank hated to admit it, but maybe Helen Evans wasn’t so off base after all. Maybe there was more to this case than the obvious.

  If the food Jean had left for Eleanora had been in the refrigerator all of yesterday afternoon, it meant any of Eleanora’s drop-­in visitors could have had access to the goose liver, not to mention the motive and means to murder old Mrs. Duncan. And it would only have taken a matter of minutes.

  Chapter Twelve

  HELEN WALKED AWAY from Jean’s house and headed up Bluff Street toward a grassy spot with a wrought-­iron bench. She sat down and took in the view of the river. The water sparkled so brilliantly beneath the sun that it almost fooled her into thinking it was blue and not a muddy brown.

  But her mind wasn’t on the Mississippi or the lovely view.

  Instead she thought of Jean and how she’d reacted to Biddle’s visit. At first she’d seemed as genuinely taken aback as Helen had been by the sheriff’s announcement that Eleanora had been poisoned. But Jean had recovered awfully quickly. Her voice sounding distant, she’d been cool as a cucumber as she’d answered Biddle’s questions. It had reminded Helen of a student reciting a memorized lesson. When Helen had sought Jean out after Frank Biddle had left, she’d found her calmly thumbing through a cookbook in the kitchen.

  “Are you all right?” Helen had asked.

  Jean had glanced up, worry creasing her forehead. “You won’t tell anyone about this, will you, Helen? If word gets out that I’m under suspicion for poisoning Eleanora with my pâté, I’ll never get another job in this town or anywhere else. The LCIL will probably drop me from catering the luncheon, and I don’t even want to think about losing that job in St. Louis.”

  Wow, Helen remembered thinking.

  She felt the same now. It was like stumbling into an old episode of Twilight Zone.

  Maybe Jean was going through some sort of denial. The woman had lost her husband tragically just two years before. Then her mother-­in-­law had blamed her for Jim’s death. It had taken an enormous amount of willpower for Jean to pick herself up and move on. Now Eleanora was dead, and it was Jean’s goose liver that had killed her.

  Helen could hardly fault her friend for her strange behavior. Perhaps Jean didn’t have the strength to deal with another death, not so soon and not this way.

  Helen sighed, praying this would all be over with posthaste. Jean needed to get on with her life and her brand-­new catering business. How could she do either with the suspicion of murder hanging over her head?

  Helen shifted uncomfortably on the wrought iron bench.

  Frank Biddle would find the perpetrator, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t try to pin this on Jean? Sometimes it seemed to Helen that River Bend’s sheriff tended to focus only on the obvious rather than looking any deeper.

  She felt her chest constrict.

  What if he’d gotten it into his head already that Jean did it, no matter who else had a reason? And Helen knew there were plenty who did. Eleanora hadn’t reached eighty years old and accumulated such wealth without making a few enemies along the way.

  Would Biddle do a thorough investigation, looking beyond Jean for suspects?

  Helen had to believe that he would. He might be stubborn, but he was a good man and he wanted to do the right thing. He reminded Helen of her late husband in some respects: stubborn, unbendable, and unwilling to look to the left or right when he was sure the answer lay smack down the middle.

  Don’t let yourself get dragged into this one, she could hear Biddle saying, it’s not your concern.

  Helen frowned, feeling rankled by his warning.

  Let it go?

  Ha.

  T
elling Helen to stop protecting her friend was a lot like asking Amber to stop chasing mice or rabbits or birds. It wasn’t going to happen.

  With that settled—­in her own mind anyhow—­she got up from the bench and dusted off her pants. Then she meandered down Harbor Drive.

  When she reached the turnoff that would take her toward Main Street, she paused to lift a hand above her eyes, squinting at what looked like half a dozen ­people marching up and down the docks with signs. Others stood nearby in a cluster, simply watching.

  What in the world was going on?

  Helen’s curiosity got the better of her, and she bypassed the sidewalk, cutting across the grass toward the harbor. The nearer she got, the louder the voices became. They chanted, “Stop the killing, save the river . . . stop the killing, save the river,” shaking their signs all the while.

  As she approached the docks, the fishy odor of the water filled her nose, and Helen caught herself holding her breath. She headed over to the clump of spectators, who murmured among each other and stared at the goings-­on with wide eyes. She noticed then that several men with fishing gear were attempting to descend the steps to the docks, but the sign-­wielding protestors blocked their path. Between the curses and the chanting, Helen could hardly hear herself think.

  She spotted her bridge partner, Clara Foley, among the onlookers. Dressed in a hot pink muumuu, she would have been hard to miss. Helen shouted her name and Clara waved, her dimpled face beaming beneath her graying Gibson girl bun.

  “What’s this about?” Helen asked when she reached her side.

  “It’s that Floyd Baskin and his loony tunes,” Clara told her loudly enough to make herself heard above the racket. “They won’t let anyone onto their boats.”

  “Has someone called the sheriff?”

  Clara’s eyes twinkled, as if she was enjoying every minute. “I understand he’s on his way.”

  Helen turned her gaze to the protestors, easily picking out Floyd Baskin from the pack. His bearded face looked the same as it had on television weeks ago when he’d been tossed in jail for his stunt at the utility plant: flushed, fiery, and determined. He wore jeans and a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his figure lean and wiry. He probably kept in shape, she figured, by marching around all day and pumping signs.

  Helen squinted at the one he held now, which proclaimed in bold black letters, Poisoned Water, Poisoned Fish! Another sign drawn in crimson screamed, Stop Murdering the Mississippi! And a third declared, The Blood’s on Your Hands!

  “Oh, dear,” she murmured, wondering what they thought they’d accomplish by picketing on the docks when all they seemed to be doing was antagonizing the fishermen.

  The gaggle of men clutching poles and tackle boxes congregated at the top of the wooden stairs, and not one looked even vaguely amused.

  They mostly seemed to be trading words with Baskin, though Helen couldn’t make out much, as Baskin’s comrades chanted every bit as loudly.

  A sturdy fellow in a lure-­covered hat started to shoulder his way down the steps, only to have Baskin stand right in front of him. As the docks were hardly wider than a yardstick, it didn’t leave the fisherman any room to maneuver around him. So after shaking his fist and cursing out Baskin, he, too, backed down.

  Did Mr. Baskin imagine this little exhibition was going to win him any supporters? Did he actually think it might cause more of the townsfolk to write him checks and eagerly send him donations?

  Helen would have bet that most of the fisherman had sympathized with Baskin’s cause before. But trying to keep the sportsmen from their boats only made them angry. Hardly the way to shore up your supporters, she mused.

  “He’s coming!” the spectators murmured, and Helen felt Clara’s elbow nudge her side.

  She looked toward the graveled parking lot to see Biddle’s squad car pulling up. He emerged seconds after. His hands balled into fists as he approached, and his hound dog’s face appeared as grim as it had been this morning when he’d appeared on Jean’s doorstep.

  Helen peered at him over Clara’s shoulder.

  “All right. Enough,” he said, sounding beyond fed up. “The show’s over, so why doesn’t everyone just go on home?”

  No one budged.

  “Okay, fine, stay right where you are,” he told them. “But keep back from the docks. We don’t want anyone falling in.”

  “Or you might turn into a two-­headed turtle,” Clara murmured.

  Helen glanced toward the harbor water, shuddering at the thought of toppling into the smelly, opaque brown. She could only imagine what kinds of bacteria and sludge lay beneath the surface.

  The sheriff pushed up his hat and scratched at his near-­bald head as though contemplating his course of action. Then he tugged his hat back down and stomped toward the docks, heading for the group of fishermen.

  Helen watched as Frank Biddle hooked his thumbs in his gun belt, apparently listening while the fishermen did a lot of pointing and yelling.

  The sheriff made his way around the men and their gear until he stood nose to nose with Baskin.

  “We’re not leaving until we get everyone in town to listen,” Baskin hollered, his voice megaphone loud. “Don’t you get it? The river is poisoned. Every citizen of River Bend would stand behind us if they were made to drink this very water and breathe it, like the fish!”

  “We just want to get to our boats,” the fisherman nearest Frank Biddle yelled. “So take your nutty pals and shove off.”

  “Over my dead body!” Baskin fired back.

  “Hey, now, let’s take this down a notch,” the sheriff said and patted the air with a palm. “Mr. Baskin, I don’t believe you filed for a permit to picket. So you need to get your folks and head out, or else I’ll have to—­”

  “Arrest us?” Baskin said, interrupting. “What are you going to do, put us all in handcuffs and throw us in a holding cell?”

  “If I have to,” the sheriff told him.

  “Then do it!” Baskin replied, and his contingent lined up right behind him. “But you’ll have to drag us off, because we’re not going willingly.”

  “I’ll drag you off, you loudmouthed son of a—­”

  Helen flinched as one of the fishermen got around the sheriff and charged Baskin, knocking him off the dock and sending them both splashing down into the murky water. Before Helen could see either emerge, Baskin’s sign popped up and floated across the frothy brown surface.

  Then another fisherman bypassed Biddle and swung at the nearest protestor, the pair plunging into the harbor next.

  “Oh, dear,” Helen murmured, shaking her head.

  Though Clara Foley seemed far more amused. She had to slap a hand across her mouth to mask her laughter.

  The sheriff seemed to be doing his best to stay out of the path of the fishermen, who wheedled their way around him and tackled the remaining protestors until not one was left standing. Muddy water splashed onto the docks, soaking the wood as the fight continued in the harbor.

  Helen knew the harbor wasn’t deep, and she imagined the viscous mud at the bottom sucking shoes off feet. She only hoped there weren’t any water moccasins in the vicinity. The last thing Sheriff Biddle needed was to have to deal with a bunch of very angry, waterlogged, and snake-­bitten men.

  A young girl standing with her mother jostled Helen as the child dug into her pockets to retrieve a pink plastic whistle. Almost timidly at first she gave it a few quick toots. Urged on by the crowd, she put out several shrill bursts that made Helen’s ears ring for a few minutes afterward.

  But the splashing and the fighting abruptly stopped.

  Once Frank Biddle stopped wincing, he gave a jerk of his thumb as he shouted, “I hope that cooled you off. Everyone out of the water! And I mean right now! Pick up your signs and go home, you hear?” As Floyd Baskin flung a leg over the dock and dragged h
imself up, the sheriff put a hand on his soggy shoulder. “Not you, Mr. Baskin. I want a word with you in my office. I’ve got a tarp in the trunk you can sit on so you don’t foul up my car.”

  Grumbling about missing a day’s catch, the soggy fishermen squished off with their rods and tackle boxes and cartons of fresh bait. The equally soaked protestors straggled off in the opposite direction.

  Helen watched as Biddle nudged Baskin away from the docks toward the squad car. They came close enough that the bearded Baskin had a chance to pause and glare at the lingering onlookers; close enough for Helen to get a whiff of the man as well. It was enough to make her nose wrinkle.

  Without warning, Baskin spat in the grass in front of Clara Foley. Helen wasn’t the only one who jumped back a step.

  “Poison,” he said, the fire in his eyes not dampened by the harbor waters that dripped from his hair and beard and clothes. “How’d you like to take a drink of that, huh? How’d you like to swallow something so toxic?”

  Clara made a noise of disgust and huddled behind Helen.

  Frank Biddle’s gaze met Helen’s for an instant before he grabbed hold of Baskin’s wet shirt and dragged the man away.

  “What a dreadful person,” the mother of the girl with the whistle murmured.

  “Can you believe his tactics?” another remarked.

  “I hope Biddle locks him up this time!”

  Voices rattled on behind her, but Helen shut them out. All she could hear were Baskin’s shouts about swallowing poison. She kept her eyes on the squad car as it pulled away from the graveled lot in a cloud of dust. Despite the warmth of the afternoon sun, she shivered.

  Chapter Thirteen

  FRANK BIDDLE LEANED his forearms on his desk, taking in the sight of Floyd Baskin.

  No one ever looked entirely comfortable seated in the chair across from him, for obvious reasons. But Baskin appeared as out of place as anyone he’d ever seen.

  The fellow didn’t sit so much as slump, his long legs stretched out before him, his tennis shoes caked with mud. With his head leaned back against the wood slats, his eyes watched Biddle in return, the only sign that he was anxious in the least besides the curl of his fingertips around the armrests.