Sincerely,
Nancy Sweet
Interesting, Biddle thought, pushing back his hat and scratching his head. Was the note just a way for Miss Sweet to let off steam after Grace had canned her? If Nancy had truly intended to kill Grace, she would have been stupid to leave behind a message like that. Still, he folded the crumpled page and put it into his pocket.
He turned off the lights and locked up, rolling off the latex gloves and sticking them in his pocket. He was frowning as he headed back to his office.
Things weren’t looking good for Helen’s granddaughter, he mused. They weren’t looking good at all. She had some explaining to do, more than he’d heard as yet, thanks in no small part to Helen’s interference.
He’d get Nancy Sweet down to his office posthaste if it was the last thing he did, he decided, slapping his fist into his palm.
Only . . . only maybe he’d stop at the diner first and get something to eat. He figured interrogating a murder suspect was better done on a full stomach.
Chapter 14
HELEN SET THE cat food on the floor for Amber and watched him dive in up to his whiskers. Her twenty-pound tom had been pacing around her ankles and yipping at her ever since she’d removed a saucer from the cupboard. By the time she’d popped the top on the can, he’d gone bonkers. She wrinkled her nose as the smell of Salmon in Herring Aspic permeated the kitchen. It reminded her of the time she went to Florida one February at red tide.
She was rinsing her hands when she heard a gentle knock on her porch door, raps that fast turned more insistent.
“Mrs. Evans? Mrs. Evans, it’s me, Frank Biddle.”
Helen rolled her eyes heavenward or, in this case, attic-ward, wondering if the noise had awakened a still slumbering Nancy.
“Mrs. Evans?”
“Coming!” she called, muttering to herself as she wiped her hands on a dish towel.
She sidestepped Amber, who suddenly stopped gorging. He sniffed disdainfully and stared up at her as if to say, “You know, I’m just not in the mood for salmon in aspic. Would you pop the top on something else?”
“Not a chance,” she told him in passing.
By the time Helen reached the porch, the sheriff had the screen door half open and was poking his head in.
“May I come in, ma’am?” he asked. Before she answered, he entered, allowing the screen door to shut with a gentle slap.
“Oh, please, do come in,” she said wryly and, arms crossed, looked him over.
As always, Frank Biddle wore a slightly rumpled tan uniform, the belt of his pants hanging on for its life beneath a well-fed belly. He had his hat in one hand and smoothed down thinning hair with the other.
Helen didn’t invite him to sit, but that didn’t stop him from doing so. With a tense smile aimed her way, he ambled over to where a cluster of cushioned wicker congregated. He kicked out his dusty boots before him then cocked his head and said, “I figured that if the mountain wouldn’t come to Mohammad, Mohammad had better head on over to the mountain.”
Helen sighed. “I told you that I’d bring Nancy back down to your office as soon as she was fit. She’s still sleeping, and I’m not about to wake her up.”
Biddle shifted in his seat. “You don’t seem to realize, Mrs. Evans, that this is a murder investigation, not a sewing bee.”
Helen bristled. “I’m as aware of that as Nancy. But that doesn’t give you the right to harass the poor girl when she’s in a state of shock.”
“Point taken,” Biddle said, and he blushed. “But the first forty-eight hours are the most vital in a case like this, ma’am, and I don’t want to waste ’em.”
“Sheriff, I—”
“It’s okay, Grandma,” a soft voice interrupted. “I can talk now. Honest.”
Helen turned.
Nancy stood inside the opened French doors leading out to the porch. Though her face was still pale and her eyes were underlined with gray, she did seem calmer somehow.
She came forward in rumpled socks, with a white terry robe covering her from knee to neck. Her hands disappeared in the deep pockets. She smiled weakly at her grandmother before taking a seat across from Biddle and drawing up her legs beneath her.
“All right, Sheriff,” she said and sucked in a deep breath. “Fire away.”
Helen stood beside the chair and set her hand on Nancy’s shoulder, just to remind her granddaughter that she was there should she need her.
Biddle cleared his throat and gave his hat a final twist before he set it aside. “A witness heard you remark last night that you were mad enough to kill Grace.”
“Bertha Beaner,” Helen said and shook her head. “For goodness’ sake, Sheriff, Nancy was upset! And if I remember correctly, Bertha said she wanted to kill Grace, too—that Nancy would have to get in line.”
“Ma’am,” Biddle warned.
Helen shut her mouth, but it took some effort to keep it closed.
“Of course I didn’t mean it, not really,” Nancy replied, balling her hands into fists in her lap. “I was so frustrated with Grace. I’d worked my tail off typing up all her notes for her book, and then she fired me because of one mistake.”
“Did you go to her house and argue with her?” Biddle asked.
“No, she was dead when I got there.”
“I’m sure you didn’t go there intending to harm her,” Biddle pressed, “but sometimes emotions escalate and things get out of hand.”
Helen was ready to shout in denial, but Nancy beat her to it.
“No!” The girl fiercely shook her head. “No, it wasn’t me, I swear it. I didn’t go over to Grace’s house until this morning, right before I ran into you. Wasn’t she killed last night?”
Instead of an answer, Biddle asked another question. “Speaking of last night, where were you between seven-thirty and eight-thirty?”
Nancy glanced up at Helen. “I was home.”
“Alone?”
“Yes,” Nancy insisted. “After I had dinner with Grandma at the diner, I went back to my apartment and shredded Grace’s notes, pretty much all night, if you must know.”
“So no one can corroborate your story?” the sheriff asked.
“No one except the shredder,” Nancy whispered.
“Would you give me permission to search your apartment, Miss Sweet?” the sheriff asked. “If you have nothing to hide—”
“I don’t,” Nancy said and got up, disappearing inside for a bit and returning with her purse. She reached inside and plucked out a key chain. Her fingers shaking, she worked one key off and handed it to the man.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Biddle said and tucked the key in his breast pocket.
Helen chewed on the inside of her cheek, fighting to stay quiet.
“Speaking of keys . . .” The sheriff leaned forward and set his forearms on his knees. “I was over at Ms. Simpson’s office this morning, checking out the place, and I couldn’t seem to find the keys to any of the file cabinets or to Grace’s desk. Since those keys weren’t on the ring found in her purse, I thought you might have them.”
“Sorry, but I don’t.” Nancy sighed. “Grace didn’t want those keys to leave the office, so she had me hide them.”
“Where?”
“They’re in the box of staples in my top desk drawer,” she said.
Biddle pursed his lips. “Did she have an appointment book?”
“Yes, an old-fashioned one,” Nancy told him. “She liked to make her own appointments, and she didn’t like storing that kind of information on the computer. It should be in the left-hand drawer of her desk. That was where she kept things of importance.”
“One more thing and then I’ll leave you alone for now, Miss Sweet.” Biddle reached inside his breast pocket and withdrew several slips of crumpled paper. He smoothed the first one out on h
is knee and passed it across to Nancy.
Helen squinted at it from over Nancy’s shoulder. It appeared to be a pink memo of some sort.
“What do you know about divorce proceedings?” Biddle asked.
“You mean Grace’s divorce from Max?” Nancy handed the note back and shrugged. “It was moving pretty slowly, I think.”
“So this lawyer, Filo Harper, he’s the guy handling things?” Biddle said and put the note back in his pocket.
“Yes.” Nancy twirled a strand of hair.
“Was Max putting up a fight?”
Nancy stopped fiddling with her hair and sniffed. “I wasn’t Grace’s confidante, Sheriff. All I do know is that she was impatient to get things rolling after, like, a year of separation. She said she’d waited long enough to get him out of her life. That he’d gotten all from her he was going to get.”
“Which means?” Biddle asked, and his brow furrowed.
Nancy threw up her hands. “I have no clue! Like I said, I worked with Grace. We weren’t best friends.”
“You’re a bright girl, Miss Sweet,” the sheriff went on, looking cross. “You must’ve picked up on more than what Grace told you directly.”
Helen still had her hand on Nancy’s shoulder, and she felt her granddaughter stiffen.
“I didn’t spy on her, Sheriff, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“Let’s look at it another way,” Biddle said. “Did her husband ever come by to see her at work?”
Nancy exhaled slowly. “I guess he did, maybe once or twice.”
“Did they seem to get along?”
The chair creaked as Nancy wiggled against the wicker. “He cheated on her, Sheriff. Everyone in town knows that. It’s why they were divorcing. So knowing how Grace likes to hold a grudge, I’d guess they probably didn’t get along very well. Are you really through with me for now?” the young woman asked impatiently. “I’d like to take a long, hot shower and try to forget this morning altogether.”
“Just one more thing,” Biddle said and passed her the second piece of paper, which he’d smoothed out on his thigh. “Did you write this?”
“Oh,” Nancy whispered, shoulders slumping, and Helen squinted to see. “How did you get that?”
The sheriff stared, unblinking. “I found it in the wastebasket by your desk.”
This time, Nancy held the note for a long while, staring at it wordlessly before she turned her wide eyes up at Helen and then back at the sheriff. “I didn’t write it for anyone to see. I was just letting off steam.”
“Sure you were,” Biddle murmured.
Over Nancy’s shoulder, Helen read the message which began, “Grace, I despise you!” Oh, dear, she thought and swallowed, tightening her grasp on Nancy’s shoulder.
“Surely, Sheriff, you don’t think . . . ,” Helen started to say, but Biddle raised a hand, stopping her.
“I’d like Miss Sweet to explain, if you don’t mind, ma’am.”
“I-I was angry,” Nancy stammered. “I know it was a silly thing to do, but it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Under other circumstances, no, it wouldn’t,” Biddle agreed and reached out to take the paper back, though Nancy seemed reluctant to release it. He folded it and tucked it back into his pocket.
Helen had had enough. She let go of Nancy and came around the chair, her gaze narrowed on the sheriff. “Really, Frank Biddle, you can’t actually think that silly note means she intended to kill Grace Simpson!”
“Your granddaughter was found at the scene.”
“A mere coincidence,” Helen said dismissively.
“Her fingerprints are on the murder weapon.”
“Of course they were! She told you she picked up the bat.”
The sheriff stood. “Grace Simpson’s neighbor, Mattie Oldbridge, said Nancy was the only one she saw entering Grace’s residence.”
“Please!” Helen snorted. “Since she was robbed, Mattie’s inside by dusk with her doors locked and all her shades drawn.”
“She says your granddaughter looked fit to kill . . .”
Helen felt her cheeks heat up. “You know as well as I do that someone else could have been there before her. Grace could have been murdered hours earlier. For heaven’s sake, Sheriff, she was probably dead since the previous evening. She must have been, or else she would have gone to her dinner meeting in St. Louis.”
Biddle tugged his hat back on his head. “So maybe your granddaughter stopped by Grace’s last night, argued with her, hit her with the bat, and left her on the floor in a panic. Maybe going by the next morning was an attempt to cover her—”
“Stop it!” Nancy sprang out of her seat. “Just stop it, the both of you!” She held her hands out in front of her, pleading. “I didn’t do it, Sheriff, and that’s the truth, whether you believe it or not. Everything happened just the way I told you it did. I don’t have anything to gain by Grace’s death, nothing.” She dropped her arms to her sides then drew in a deep breath. She lifted her chin, but her quiet voice shook as she said, “Look, if you want to find out who killed Grace, why don’t you go after someone who might have benefitted. Like those clients of hers who’ve been making threats on the phone, afraid their dirty linen’s going to be aired in Grace’s book. Why don’t you start with the people who were gathered in front of LaVyrle’s.” Nancy met Biddle stare for stare. “Like your own wife, for instance.”
“My wife,” Biddle repeated.
“Yes, she was there,” Nancy snapped. “So was Bertha Beaner, not to mention a couple dozen others. People who’d had enough sessions with Grace to fear their cases might end up in print.”
“The book,” Biddle said, changing the subject. “Do you happen to know where she kept that thing?”
“You don’t have the manuscript, Sheriff?” At his silence, Nancy let out a tsk-tsk. “Grace had the only hard copy with her. She had me save it to a flash drive, which I gave back to her yesterday morning. If you find it, you should read it”—she paused and stuck her hands in the pockets of the bathrobe—“unless you’re as afraid as everyone else that your deep, dark secrets are on those pages.”
With that, Nancy padded away in her stocking feet, going back into the house. Helen heard her footsteps creaking on the stairs until all was quiet again.
Biddle started walking toward the door.
“Did you get the answers you wanted, Sheriff?” Helen asked. “Or did you end up with more questions?”
“Good day, Mrs. Evans,” he said and nodded in a manner that was little more than cursory.
Helen watched through the screens as he got into his muddy black-and-white, the car spitting out gravel beneath the tires as he took off, leaving Helen to stare after him, a worried frown on her lips.
SHERIFF BIDDLE’S VISIT left Nancy visibly shaken.
Helen found her upstairs, sitting on a corner of the bed. She had her knees pulled to her chest, and she was gently rocking herself. She looked up as Helen stopped at the top of the stairs before crossing the room to sit beside her.
“He thinks I’m guilty,” Nancy said, and Helen could see she was fighting to keep the tears from her eyes. “He thinks I did it.”
Helen settled an arm around the girl and squeezed. “Well, he’s wrong then, isn’t he?” she replied. “Someone else must have been at Grace’s house between the time she left LaVyrle’s and eight o’clock, when she missed her dinner meeting. Despite what evidence Biddle seems to think he has, there’s more to this than meets the eye.” She forced a smile and patted Nancy’s leg. “Don’t fret, sweetheart. The truth will come out. It always does.”
Even if I have to drag it out myself, Helen left unsaid.
“I wonder . . . ,” Nancy murmured.
“What?”
“I wonder who really killed her.” Nancy squinted in the dim. “Do you su
ppose it might be someone we know?”
Helen sighed. “It’s an awful thought, isn’t it? But highly likely, I’m afraid.”
“What makes you say that?”
Helen shrugged. “There were plenty of people in River Bend who were upset about Grace’s book, wouldn’t you agree? I’d be hard-pressed to come up with a good reason why a total stranger would have wanted her dead. Unless—” Helen paused as another thought came to mind.
Nancy watched her. “What is it, Grandma?”
“Unless,” Helen went on, “Grace’s killer was a thief.”
“A thief?”
“Someone broke into Mattie’s just next door not a week ago, didn’t they?” Helen said, finding that the theory didn’t sound so crazy once she’d voiced it.
“Yes, but—”
“Bear with me.” Helen sat on the bed and faced her granddaughter. “Did you happen to notice anything out of the ordinary when you went inside Grace’s house? You’d been there enough before to be familiar with the place.”
“I’ll say,” Nancy breathed.
“Well, was anything out of sorts?”
“I don’t know.” Nancy shut her eyes for a moment. “It’s hard for me to picture much else except finding her like . . . like that.”
“Try, honey, please.”
Nancy tucked her chin atop her knees and stared off into the rafters. “What I remember is that no one answered the door, no matter how much I yelled and pounded. I used the key to get in, and the house was dark. There were no lights on, and it was quiet. When I went into the living room, I saw that Grace’s writing desk was open. She always locked it, because it’s where she kept important paperwork. Then I went up the stairs and into her bedroom.” Nancy swallowed hard. “That’s when I tripped over the bat. I picked it up without looking at it. Grace’s clothes were a mess all over her bed, as though she’d dressed in a hurry and didn’t have time to put them away. Maybe she was running late for dinner. Otherwise she would have straightened up. She was such a stickler about being tidy, you know, everything in its place and a place for everything.”
Unti Susan McBride #2 Page 7
