Not a Chance in Helen

by Susan McBride

  Water had settled into small puddles beneath him. A trail of wet footprints led from the door. Biddle thought of his squad car, and he sighed. He’d tried to get the man to sit on a tarp, but he’d refused. So the black-­and-­white’s backseat and floor mats were equally begrimed.

  He scratched his thumb against his jaw, figuring he’d have to take a towel to it all when he’d finished up here. Baskin himself could use a good soaping, what with the way he smelled: like the river during drought season, when the water was low and fish washed up on the rocky banks like shells on the shoreline.

  Frank cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, Baskin’s unblinking gaze getting to him, as he was sure it was meant to. He steepled his fingers under his chin and remarked, “I heard you were at Eleanora Duncan’s yesterday afternoon.”

  Baskin’s head lifted. He squinted. “What?”

  Doubtless he’d assumed Biddle had brought him in to give him a lecture about picketing on the docks.

  Well, he was dead wrong.

  “I said I heard you were over at old Mrs. Duncan’s yesterday. You want to fill me in on why you were there?”

  Baskin pulled himself up a little straighter, sitting stiff-­backed in the chair. An improvement in posture, perhaps, but he didn’t look any friendlier for it. “Why do you care where I was? And don’t say it’s because Queen Eleanora complained. Hell, I never even saw her. She had that dim-­witted maid of hers send me away.” Something flickered in the dark of his eyes. “Besides, I know she’s dead. She had a heart attack or something. Word’s all over town.” He smiled thinly. “And no one can file charges from the grave, can they, Sheriff?”

  “She didn’t die of a heart attack,” Frank told him, and though Baskin’s smile wavered, it remained on his face, peeking out from his beard. “Or of any other natural causes.”

  “What’d she do?” the man asked, not sounding sympathetic in the least. “Overdose on prune juice? Take too many Maalox?”

  “She was poisoned.”

  Baskin’s grin vanished. He drew his legs up, leaving a trail of mud where his sneakers slid across the wood.

  “You act surprised.”

  The spark returned to Baskin’s gaze. “Of course I’m surprised.” His forehead wrinkled deeply, sending the slashes of gray brows lower over his eyes. “You’re not insinuating that I had something to do with it?”

  “Did you?”

  Baskin leaned back in the chair again, his long legs stuck out. His “hell if I’m gonna let you get to me” position, Frank figured. Baskin had had plenty of practice at it, and it showed.

  Frank picked up a pencil and tapped it against the palm of his hand. “Seems to me you’re awfully fired up about poisoning. Didn’t you tell those folks when I was dragging you off that they’d change their tune fast enough if they were to swallow something toxic?”

  “If you’d paid attention, you’d know what I meant,” Baskin snapped. “I was talking about the poisoning of the river, mucking up the water with sewage and plant waste and killing everything living in it with chemicals. That kind of poison.” He spat out the words as if even they tasted rank.

  Frank rolled the pencil between his fingers, never taking his eyes off Baskin. He liked to watch the play of emotions on his face, the quick shift of his gaze. “You still haven’t answered my question about why you tried to see Eleanora Duncan. What would she want with someone like you?”

  “I was there for humanitarian reasons, if you will,” Baskin said, though the line sounded more like a rehearsed phrase than an honest response. “I’d heard she’d nearly gotten run over in the street, and I thought I’d check up on her. You know, see how she was holding up.” His fingers loosened on the armrest then tightened again. “She was a big contributor to Save the River. Well, her husband was anyway. He was a fine man, even remembered us in his will. The money we’ve received from the estate these past two years since he died, it’s what’s kept us running if you must know the truth.”

  Frank recalled what Zelma Burdine had told him earlier about Eleanora’s lawyers looking for a loophole in Marvin’s will to stop further payments to Baskin. Funny Baskin hadn’t mentioned that.

  “You’re wondering why Mr. Duncan helped us out in particular, aren’t you, Sheriff? Him being such a well-­respected businessman in these parts,” Baskin rattled on, leaning forward in the chair, elbows on his knees. “He could’ve donated to any cause, isn’t that what you’re thinking?”

  “It crossed my mind,” Frank muttered and tried to keep his expression stoic. Sarah was always saying he had a face as telling as a billboard.

  “We fund research as well,” Baskin explained, and his bearded face appeared less sullen and more animated. “We’re trying to find ways to clean the water without causing further damage to the environment. And we’re studying a legal means of increasing EPA pressure on the plants that dump waste unchecked.” Then the fight returned to his eyes. He came out of his chair for a moment, his hands gesturing. “We have to make a lot of noise, don’t you see? That’s the only way we get heard. If we sat on our butts making phone calls and acting like a bunch of church ladies, no one would pay us the slightest attention. You think the press is gonna cover anything I do if I act like Pollyanna?”

  Frank didn’t respond. He couldn’t think of what to say, except that Baskin was probably right. A Goody Two-­shoes wouldn’t make headlines these days. Nope, the only stories that the TV, print papers, and Internet news seemed to want to cover concerned serial killers, terrorists, and lunatics like Baskin.

  “The old woman didn’t understand what we were about. She had no idea what we were doing and its importance.” Baskin’s voice rose and his skin flushed. He cut himself off, his face closing up like a door slamming shut.

  “Go on,” Frank urged, waiting to see if Baskin would admit that Eleanora had been trying hard to cut off Save the River permanently.

  “Like I said, she just didn’t sympathize with our cause, not like her husband had,” Baskin finished, offering nothing more.

  “I see,” the sheriff remarked, and he did see very well indeed. Without Eleanora Duncan around, Floyd Baskin didn’t have to worry about his cash cow being slaughtered.

  Baskin stared at him, unflinching. “Are you through with me now?”

  “That depends.” Frank set down his pencil and folded his arms across his chest. “Is there anything else you’d like to say about your visit to Eleanora Duncan’s house on the day she died? You didn’t go by to threaten her, by chance?”

  Baskin’s answer was a silent glare.

  “All right, then.” Obviously Floyd Baskin wasn’t going to make this easy for him. “You can go, but don’t go far,” Frank told him.

  Baskin rose from the chair, his soggy clothing clinging to his lean frame. He ran a hand over his damp hair. “Unless you want to arrest me, General, I’m off,” he said, and, when Biddle didn’t respond, he saluted him, his eyes bright and lips upturned, the mockery in the gesture more than evident.

  Frank felt his cheeks burn, but he held himself in check. Part of being a cop was knowing how to handle those without respect for authority. Still, it took everything he had not to slap some cuffs on Baskin and toss him into a cell just to teach him a lesson.

  Baskin’s sneakers squished noisily as he walked to the door and let himself out, closing it behind him with a slam.

  His gaze on the door, the sheriff swallowed, though the lump in his throat seemed inclined to remain. He didn’t like that fellow. Didn’t like him one bit.

  And he didn’t trust him any better.

  Chapter Fourteen

  HELEN WASN’T IN any mood to fix dinner for one.

  The day had been long enough as it was, what with the LCIL meeting in the morning, then finding Stanley Duncan tearing up Eleanora’s house, not to mention Biddle’s dropping in at Jean’s to tell them Eleanora had
been poisoned and then insinuating that Jean was his prime suspect. And, last but certainly not least, there was that scene at the harbor with Floyd Baskin’s troupe duking it out with the local fishermen.

  What, she wondered, was happening to this town?

  River Bend was usually so quiet. Well, quiet by today’s standards. Save for the occasional potlucks and auctions, church meetings, bridge games and bingo, not much went on to surprise its residents from week to week.

  Until Frank Biddle had dropped the bomb about Eleanora being murdered.

  Helen still couldn’t believe it.

  If she closed her eyes, she could picture Eleanora’s face and the fear in her expression as she’d pulled her out of the way of the speeding car. “I think somebody’s trying to kill me,” she’d said, words Helen couldn’t shake.

  If only she’d gotten a better look at that sedan, if only she’d seen who’d been at the wheel. If she’d caught even a part of the license plate, the sheriff would have had something more to go on.

  Stop it. Just stop it, she told herself. What good did it do now for her to surmise? It certainly wouldn’t bring Eleanora back, and it wouldn’t do diddlysquat to help catch the killer.

  Helen went into the bathroom and ran the cold water, dampening a washcloth to press to her cheeks and brow. She toweled off after, and her gaze drifted over to the bathtub.

  She sighed.

  Soaking in lavender-­scented bubbles might be just the thing to relax her. The idea of it certainly sounded better than cooking over a hot stove or, rather, in her microwave.

  Her stomach grumbled, and she realized she’d better do something to feed herself. Dinner first. Bath second.

  She headed into the kitchen, nearly stumbling over Amber, who seemed to dart out of nowhere. Where food was concerned, he had remarkable kitty radar. He sat down near his empty saucer, watching her with eyes as yellow as his name.

  Amber mewed, and Helen smiled weakly.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll get your supper,” she gave in. “What’ll it be tonight, huh? Cod ‘n’ Salmon? No? How about Turkey ‘n’ Giblets?”

  So long as it wasn’t goose liver, she found herself thinking as she opened the can and plunked the food into a clean dish. The watery sauce that came with it splashed over and onto the countertop, making a smelly mess.

  Helen wiped up the slop then set the bowl down for the cat. He sniffed suspiciously before he began to gulp down the contents without bothering to chew.

  Still bent over, she spotted a smattering of ants racing about. What with all the goings-­on, she’d nearly forgotten about her infestation. She’d meant to put down some Splat, but she’d been interrupted by Jean’s phone call.

  Well, better late than never, she mused, and brought out the insecticide from under the sink, where she’d stowed it when she’d unpacked the groceries.

  She’d bought Splat often enough to know how to use it without bothering with the instructions—­which she couldn’t read without her glasses anyway, and those, she recalled, were out on the porch beside her unfinished crossword.

  Tearing up the tiny piece of cardboard provided in the box, she dampened each square with the liquid before placing them strategically beside the floorboards where the ants seemed to be coming in. She did make sure they were well away from Amber’s food. The last thing she wanted was for her old tom to play with poison. Although Amber didn’t seem any too concerned about what she was doing. He gobbled up his meal, ignoring her entirely.

  When she was done, Helen put away the tiny bottle of Splat and washed her hands. Then she picked up her purse and headed for the diner.

  The walk wasn’t long, and, with the night settling in on the valley, the evening was a pleasant one. The air felt cool but not too cool, the breeze just enough to tickle her nose with the scent of wild honeysuckle and sweet peas.

  She breathed in deeply, listening to the even tread of her steps on the pavement, waving to those who called out greetings from their porches. All she wanted was a hot meal served by Erma. Afterward, she was sliding into the bathtub as quickly as she could draw the water and pour in the bubbles one of her granddaughters had given her last Christmas. She intended to soak until the cows came home or until the water got cold, whichever came first. Then she’d put on her softest nightgown and climb into bed with a good book. Maybe that new culinary murder mystery she’d picked up at the library the day before.

  No, she decided, that probably wouldn’t help her sleep at all.

  Helen quickened her pace, seeing the light from the diner spilling onto the sidewalk about a block ahead in the midst of downtown.

  She tucked her purse more tightly into the crook of her elbow, glancing around her as she hustled. She’d definitely make sure the doors were locked tonight, although admittedly she often didn’t bother. ­People watched out for each other in River Bend. Really bad things weren’t supposed to happen here like they did in big cities.

  But life seemed different these days, and crime had reared its ugly head in this small community too often of late. Now Eleanora was dead, and Helen felt unnerved in a way she hadn’t since Joe had died those three years ago and she’d been alone for the first time in her life.

  It frightened her to think that whoever had murdered the poor dear might be someone Eleanora had known for years.

  Like Jean.

  The thought buzzed around and around like a pesky mosquito.

  Helen scolded herself.

  How could she doubt her friend? Of course Jean wasn’t guilty. Helen simply would not believe that Jim Duncan’s widow could have actually put some type of poison into Eleanora’s pâté to rid herself of a mother-­in-­law who treated her badly. And if the sheriff couldn’t see that Jean didn’t have it in her, Helen would have to find a way to convince him. There were plenty of others who disliked Eleanora as much as, if not more than, Jean did.

  What about Stanley Duncan? Helen mused. There was clearly no love lost between him and Eleanora. Maybe he’d figured that with the wife of his dead brother out of the picture, he could stake claim to the Duncan fortune. After all, as he’d pointed out, he was the last of the family, what with Jim having been killed in the accident. He was the only blood relative remaining, anyway, as Jean was Jim’s wife, or, rather, his widow.

  Oh, dear.

  Helen frowned, coming to a stop.

  It all came back to Jean, didn’t it?

  She shook away the niggling sense of uncertainty that prickled the hair at the back of her neck, and she looked up to find herself past the diner, nearly past the two blocks of downtown altogether.

  Helen gazed at the playground that sat beyond a stone wall and meandering creek. The swings and slides were bathed in darkness and deserted at this hour. Beyond the bridge glowed the white clapboard of the chapel, its steeple poking up into the twilight.

  She started to turn around and head back when something caught her eye.

  Someone was emerging from the wooden playhouse behind the swings. Helen couldn’t tell much about the shadowy shape until the figure crossed the bridge over the creek and passed beneath the streetlamp.

  Jemima Winthrop?

  Helen nearly called out to her, but Jemima quickly scurried off in the opposite direction.

  Whatever had the woman been doing at the playground, of all places, particularly in the dark and all alone?

  Or perhaps she wasn’t alone.

  Another shadowy figure ducked out of the playhouse and crossed the bridge as Jemima had only moments before, pausing briefly beneath the streetlamp before heading up the sidewalk toward Helen.

  Uh-­oh.

  Helen scrambled around the nearest tree and pressed her back to the bark, holding her breath until the footsteps clicked past on the sidewalk. Helen’s heartbeat eased only when the sound of them disappeared altogether.

  She came out of her h
iding place, clutching her purse to her belly, staring up Main Street and wondering what in the world Jemima Winthrop was up to. Because Helen had a feeling she was up to something. Why else would she be meeting with Stanley Duncan at the playground?

  It certainly wasn’t to discuss his volunteering at the library.

  She sighed and headed back to the sidewalk, backtracking to the diner, thinking that Sheriff Biddle certainly had his work cut out for him. The list of those with cause to want Eleanora dead seemed only to grow, not shrink.

  Chapter Fifteen

  SETTLED INTO A booth at the diner, Helen munched on a salad as she waited for Erma to bring her a bowl of piping hot chili.

  Voices hummed around her, and the noise was comforting, familiar. She sat alone, despite an offer from Hilary Dell to join her and Clara Foley at their table.

  She looked over at them now and found their eyes on her as well. Clara blushed and turned away. Hilary merely smiled a dimpled grin, primping at her near beehive of silver hair before wiggling her manicured fingers Helen’s way.

  Helen nodded and went back to eating her salad, plucking out a slice of farm-­grown tomato and chewing without tasting. She knew what they were talking about, what everyone else in town was discussing, which was one of the reasons she’d turned down Hilary’s invitation.

  She wasn’t up to gossiping tonight. She didn’t want to natter on about Eleanora’s death as if it was simply the latest news flash, no weightier than who’d shown up at church with their slip hanging out or who was having an affair or divorcing or checking into Shady Acres.

  She didn’t care to hear Hilary’s opinion about who did it or Clara’s guess as to the culprit, as if it was all just a game.

  “Here’s your chili, hon.” Erma’s voice broke through her thoughts, and Helen gazed up past splattered apron and checkerboard pink, into the simple face framed by netted hair. “Hot out of the pot,” Erma proclaimed and set down the crockery before picking up the remains of Helen’s salad just as quick. “Enjoy.”