Unti Susan McBride #2

by Susan McBride

  Nancy ran a finger around the rim of the coffee mug. “I’m not worried about what ­people say.”

  Helen shook her head. “You’d be better off going back to bed.”

  But Nancy stood firm. “This isn’t for Grace, Grandma. It’s something I have to do for myself. I need some closure, don’t you understand?”

  Helen didn’t. When the sheriff found the real killer and put him in handcuffs, now that would be closure.

  Why on earth would the girl want to go pay tribute to a woman who’d treated her like a minion, not a valued employee?

  “Whatever’s best for you, sweetheart,” she told her granddaughter and smiled, though she wished she could find a rope and tie Nancy to the chair so she couldn’t go anywhere all morning.

  “Thanks, Grandma,” Nancy said and got up. She went to the sink and rinsed out her mug before she headed up the creaking attic stairs.

  Helen started to get up but tripped over the giant lump of fur that had silently come to sit by her feet.

  “Amber,” she scolded, her heart thumping, relieved she hadn’t fallen and broken a hip. The oversized tomcat dogged her heels until she opened a can of Seafood Surprise and arranged the food on a saucer.

  As she set it on the floor, she gave the cat’s head a pat, thinking she had as much luck getting Amber to do what she wanted as Nancy.

  “Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me?” she asked.

  Amber sniffed the smelly blob of Seafood Surprise that was his breakfast. Then he tipped his head up and stared at her with marble-­sized yellow eyes.

  “No,” she told him and wagged a finger. “I am not opening another can. You gobbled up this kind last week, so I bought a case of the stuff. How was I to know you’d change your mind so fast?”

  Amber looked down at his saucer then up at Helen again. With an unhappy swish of his tail, he padded out of the room.

  Helen threw up her hands

  RIVER BEND’S NONDENOMINATIONAL chapel sat atop a mound of grass across a stone bridge that spanned a running creek. Whitewashed, with black trim, its pointed spire seemed to rise into the treetops that climbed the bluffs around it.

  The gentle noise of an organ thumped the air as Helen approached. Nancy gripped her arm so tightly that Helen felt as though she’d lost all blood flow.

  Helen determined from the persistent—­though sometimes awkward—­progress of the chords that the hymn was “Nearer My God to Thee,” the tune played on the Titanic as it sank, one that Emma MacGregor seemed to play at every funeral ser­vice Helen had ever attended in the chapel.

  The chords coughed from opened windows and hung upon the morning breeze in wheezing gasps, causing Helen to wince as she stood there, listening. But then Emma was nearly ninety if she was a day, and her arthritic fingers swelled enough to challenge her skills at organ playing. Still, Helen couldn’t imagine not having Emma at the keyboard, trudging through each piece, feet pumping the pedals madly.

  The wind tugged at Helen’s hair as she crossed the bridge with Nancy and advanced toward the brief stone steps leading up to the chapel’s double doors.

  The newly hired minister, clad in white robes, greeted comers with a damp handshake. “Good morning, Mrs. Evans, Nancy. We’ve quite a crowd this morning,” he said, sounding thrilled.

  Helen murmured a good morning as well before she entered the church with Nancy beside her.

  A red carpet ran up the aisle between the rows of carved pews and led directly to an oversized—­and not very becoming—­photo of Grace Simpson. It looked rather like a driver’s license picture blown up. To the right of the easel that held Grace’s frowning countenance was the pulpit; behind it hung a large wooden cross with a crucified Jesus.

  Helen thought it was no wonder Jesus appeared so sad and disappointed. She felt like a hypocrite attending the memorial ser­vice for a woman who had caused Nancy such pain. Helen knew she’d be a better person if she could forgive Grace, particularly now that Grace was dead, but she wasn’t quite ready to let go. Joe used to say she had Irish Alzheimer’s: she forgot everything except a grudge.

  “C’mon, Grandma, let’s grab a seat,” Nancy whispered.

  Helen wondered where they’d sit. The pews seemed ready to overflow.

  She picked out the heads of Bertha and Art Beaner, Sheriff Biddle and Sarah, Clara Foley, and even Mary from LaVyrle’s Cut ’n’ Curl. Helen didn’t see any sign of LaVyrle as she searched for her bouffant blond head.

  There were many more faces she didn’t recognize. Perhaps, she mused, they were Grace’s colleagues or from her publishing house in St. Louis? She recalled Nancy telling her once that Grace had few friends and no family outside of Max.

  Helen wondered what it must feel like to live so alone and then to die alone, too, and she managed to summon up a smidgeon of sympathy.

  She squinted at a man who suddenly appeared through the door that led into the pastor’s office. He was handsome, with a full head of dark hair touched gray at the temples. His dark suit fit him nicely, emphasizing broad shoulders. He spoke with a few ­people in the foremost pew and then looked up, and Helen’s cheeks warmed as his eyes met her stare, catching her in the act. He smiled, the grin in sharp contrast to his suit of mourning.

  “Is that Max?” Helen whispered to Nancy, who kept looking around, trying to find them a seat. “He was Grace’s husband?”

  Nancy shushed her and took her hand, drawing her toward the far side of a pew nearly hidden by a stone pillar.

  The turnout was amazing for such an impromptu ser­vice, Helen thought as she squeezed her fanny into a tiny spot beside Mary, with Nancy scooting in after. As Helen murmured a “hello” to LaVyrle’s assistant, she wondered how many of those present had gotten word of the ser­vice via the Cut ’n’ Curl. The place was River Bend’s own town crier.

  Mary smiled shyly in greeting. The lank brown hair that didn’t fit into her ponytail fell into her eyes. The rest she tucked behind her ears.

  “Where’s LaVyrle?” Helen leaned over to whisper as Emma MacGregor kicked the organ into a gasping rendition of “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” the music so loud that Mary seemed not to hear. She merely smiled a vague smile.

  The minister walked up the aisle and turned around. Then, with a sweep of arms, he urged everyone up. Helen stood along with the rest of the congregation.

  She glanced sideways at Nancy, but the girl was staring ahead at the big photo of her dead boss. Helen felt her heart stutter, wondering when things would get back to normal again. When would Nancy stop being a zombie and start to smile?

  If only Frank Biddle would catch the killer and set everything to rights. Nothing would change until he did.

  “What a friend we have in Jesus, all our grief and sins to bear . . .”

  Voices rose around her, and Helen shoved away her thoughts to join the chorus.

  “What a privilege to carry, take it to the Lord in prayer.”

  As the hymn came to a close and the pews of ­people sat down, Helen tried hard to focus as the pastor led them through the memorial ser­vice, speaking of Grace and her strength, her desire to help free others from their troubled lives. Even as she listened, she found herself thinking of the night of the murder. What if the killer was in the chapel right now, pretending to mourn the very soul whose life had ended with one whack of a Louisville Slugger?

  Her arms filled with goose bumps, and she rubbed them up and down. Still the idea left her cold.

  She thought again of the fact that Biddle had found no signs of a break-­in. Had Grace let her killer in? Or did the murderer have his own key? Nancy had one. What about Max? If Grace had bought the house before their separation, he’d probably come and gone at will.

  Helen’s heart thumped, feeling like she was on to something. What was it Nancy had told the sheriff about Grace’s saying that Max had “gotten all from h
er he was going to get”? Yes, that was it. Had she been giving him money? Helen heard he owned a sporting goods store in the city. Maybe he was deeply in debt. What if he gambled and blew his money on craps and liquor and women, the usual things that seemed to pull most men down? Could Grace have been providing him with a means to support his lifestyle, only to pull the plug when she’d found out he’d cheated? Had Max been on the verge of losing it all if she had divorced him for real?

  Helen kept on riding that train of thought. What if Grace hadn’t made up a new will following the separation? Wouldn’t Max, as her surviving spouse, get whatever had been hers, lock, stock, and barrel? What if he’d seen murder as his only choice?

  “Grandma,” Nancy whispered, touching her hand. “Are you all right?”

  Helen blinked.

  “Your hands are freezing.”

  “I’m fine,” Helen said, though her heart pounded.

  “You looked freaked out for a moment there,” Nancy whispered as the pastor’s voice rose and fell. Someone coughed. Another sneezed. “You’re not thinking that maybe I actually—­”

  “Heavens, no,” Helen cut her off, knowing right where she was going. She’d spoken loudly enough that Mary fixed her with a curious glance, as did several folks in the pew before them. Helen lowered her voice. “I’ve never doubted you for an instant, and I never will.”

  Nancy laced her fingers through Helen’s and squeezed hard. “I love you,” she whispered, and Helen smiled. For an instant, it felt like everything was all right again.

  Then the minister ceased his oration and introduced Max Simpson, who took his place at the pulpit. “What can I say about Grace?” he said and gazed up at the ceiling, lips pursed. “I’m sure everyone here knew how stubborn she was and how she could be like a bulldog with a bone, snarling if you tried to take that bone away.”

  Nervous twitters erupted, and Max grinned.

  As quickly, he turned solemn again. “She could also be incredibly softhearted. She really did like helping others. When I met her, she was working pro bono cases in the city, and she’d come home crying, telling me how unfair life could be and how she wished she could fix all the broken ­people at once.”

  “Yeah, so she could send out a big ol’ bill,” Helen heard a woman in front of her mutter.

  Max went on, “I’m sure most of you were aware that Grace and I were one of the broken things she couldn’t fix. I made a mistake that she considered unforgivable. I just wish”—­he stopped, brushing at his eyes—­“well, I wish we’d had more time to try to work things out. I believe we could have. Rest in peace, Gracie,” he said with a sob. “Rest in peace.”

  This time the woman in front of Helen murmured, “Good Lord, give the man an Oscar.”

  The minister resumed his place at the pulpit and brought the ser­vice to an end with an eloquent reading from the Book of Common Prayer. “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life. . . .”

  When he was through, his “Amen” was punctuated by a chorus of such. Then Emma MacGregor began pumping at the organ again, her fingers poking stiffly at the keys in a dusty rendition of “Rock of Ages.”

  The pastor led Max Simpson up the aisle to the church doors, ahead of those who rose from the pews and followed after.

  Helen slipped out after Nancy with Mary in her wake. As short as she was—­Helen liked to say she was five foot five if she stood up very straight—­she couldn’t see much above the heads moving in a single surge toward the open doors. But she could hear the voices.

  “So sorry about Grace . . .”

  “What a terrible thing . . .”

  “Such a shock . . .”

  Helen wondered how many of Grace’s clients were offering Max their condolences, all the while feeling relieved that Grace was gone and probably hoping that her missing book would never surface.

  She wasn’t sure what she’d say herself. So when she reached Max Simpson, Helen nodded and dryly uttered, “Poor man, you must be heartbroken.”

  Max didn’t seem to read her sarcasm. His handsome features beamed down at her, and he took her hand, holding it up as if he meant to kiss it.

  “So sweet of you to come, dear lady,” he said so that Helen wondered if he’d really heard her at all. He seemed to be going through the motions, like an actor in a play. Which was what he looked like, she thought as she studied him carefully before slowly moving away. She saw a dash of Cary Grant in his height and his hair, in the way he carried himself, but his eyes were a bit too close set. And there was too much humor sparkling in them for such a solemn occasion.

  When Max saw Nancy, those close-­set eyes widened. “Ah,” he said, “Grace’s lovely assistant.” He picked up the young woman’s hand as he had Helen’s, only something in his eyes looked different. “Maybe I could take you for coffee so we can commiserate?”

  “No, thanks.” Nancy turned a shade of green and jerked away her hand.

  Helen felt vaguely nauseous herself.

  “Let’s go, sweetheart,” she said, catching her granddaughter by the elbow and pulling her away.

  As they crossed the bridge with a swarm of others, Helen lost Nancy’s arm, but she didn’t worry. She figured they’d catch up across the bridge. Most folks paused in the grassy area beyond to chat as they always did after an average Sunday ser­vice.

  But when Helen turned around and searched for the brown head with the sun-­streaked highlights, she couldn’t find her. Where the devil had Nancy gone?

  “Hello, Mrs. Evans,” a quiet voice said, and Helen found herself standing eye to eye with LaVyrle’s girl Friday.

  “Mary,” she said. “I was surprised to see you here. Did you know Grace well?”

  The breeze pushed at Mary’s hair despite her attempts to hold it back. “Mrs. Simpson was one of our regulars.” She shrugged and blinked her big brown eyes. “I did her nails at least once a month, and LaVyrle did her hair more often than that.” She shifted on her feet, which turned slightly in at the toes. “Since LaVyrle couldn’t make it, she thought I’d better come. And you know how LaVyrle always gets what she wants.” Mary shrugged. “So here I am.”

  Helen nodded. “Yes, here you are. Is LaVyrle working on a Sunday? I thought the shop was closed.”

  “Oh, she’s not at the shop, Mrs. Evans,” Mary told her. “She’s got another job she works part-­time.”

  “Another job?” Helen recalled LaVyrle telling her that the Cut ’n’ Curl had been on shaky ground until these past few days, when new customers had flocked in. Had she taken on more work to pay the bills?

  “Please, don’t say I told you.” Mary pursed her lips. “She doesn’t like for ­people to know.”

  “I won’t breathe a word,” Helen said, but she wasn’t looking at Mary anymore. She’d spotted Nancy on the other side of the bridge, talking to Max Simpson.

  The man seemed to have Nancy’s arm in a death grip, and her granddaughter looked none too happy about it.

  “Nancy! Hey, Nancy!” Helen began calling out, loud enough that a number of heads turned in her direction. Helen continued to holler until Max loosened his hold and the girl was able to squirm away.

  When Nancy reached her, Helen drew her close and whispered, “What the devil did he want with you?”

  “Please, let’s just go,” her granddaughter pleaded, more upset than Helen had seen her all morning.

  As they walked across the graveled path toward the sidewalk, someone came running up the road.

  “Sheriff Biddle! Sheriff Biddle!” a boy yelled as he raced for the chapel.

  “There’s a fire!” the kid shouted, waving hands in the air. “It’s at Alma Gordon’s. Her garbage is up in smoke!”

  Helen panicked hearing the news. Alma’s house was right behind her carport.

  Without another thought
, she started off, striding as fast as she could toward the corner of Jersey and Springfield.

  By the time she arrived, she was out of breath, and so was the fire.

  “Slow down, Helen, there’s no need to fret,” Alma said when she saw her. “I put the kibosh on it myself.”

  Wearing a plaid duster and Crocs, Alma stood not six feet behind Helen’s carport in a patch of weeds, holding a dripping garden house. Beside her, a dented metal barrel belched malodorous gray smoke. Alma’s crab-­apple face looked up as Sheriff Biddle arrived with a crowd from the chapel in tow.

  “There’s nothing to see,” Alma announced, looking perplexed at the size of her audience. “It was probably just a cigarette got thrown into the garbage and set it to smoldering.”

  Biddle hitched up his pants and stepped forward, picking up a stick from the ground en route. He coughed as he poked at the charred refuse. Then he wrinkled his broad forehead and reached into the bin, retrieving something from it.

  “What’s going on?” Nancy asked Helen, coming to stand beside her.

  “I haven’t a clue.” Helen shrugged.

  “What have you got there, Sheriff?” Alma asked as she rolled the hose around her elbow. “It’s only trash, nothing to get worked up over.”

  But Sheriff Biddle’s expression appeared worked up and then some. His gaze roamed the sea of faces and settled on Helen’s before shifting to Nancy’s. “I do believe,” he said, holding up a piece of paper curled and black around the edges, “that I’ve finally found the missing manuscript.”

  Chapter 25

  “IT DOESN’T LOOK good for her, Mrs. Evans,” the sheriff said grimly. “The evidence seems to be stacking up against her.”

  Helen couldn’t believe what she was hearing! “But why would Nancy take the manuscript from Grace’s house? And why burn it? She was looking forward to the publication of the book. She told me it could mean a lot to her career.”

  “That was when she was still Grace Simpson’s assistant,” Biddle countered, staring at Helen from across his desk. “When Grace fired her, all bets were off.” He leaned forward in his chair, causing the hinges to squeal. “She didn’t have a thing to gain, only to lose, which probably made her even hotter about Grace giving her the boot. Taking the manuscript and burning it was the perfect act of revenge.”