“On top of murdering her, you mean,” Helen said with obvious sarcasm.
The sheriff shrugged. “Anger makes people irrational, and irrational folks do crazy things.”
“Come now, Sheriff!” Helen threw up her hands. She was thankful she’d left Nancy at home. The girl would have had a complete nervous breakdown if she’d heard Biddle’s latest insinuations. “Nancy’s too smart to have done something so stupid as to burn the pages in the trash right behind my house!”
“Smart people can do very stupid things,” he said.
Helen tried to control herself. She knotted her hands, pushing them against her thighs. I will not blow up, she told herself. I will not blow up.
Twice she inhaled deeply and let it out.
“Pray tell, Sheriff,” she finally asked and managed to keep her voice level enough. “When was Nancy supposed to have set that fire in Alma’s garbage bin? She was at the memorial service with me when it started. She couldn’t have run to Alma’s to take a match to the manuscript and run back without being noticed.”
Biddle cocked his head. “Ever heard of an incendiary device, ma’am?”
Helen balked. “You’re not serious?”
“Or else it was just a coincidence,” the sheriff suggested. “Nancy ditched the manuscript in the neighbor’s trash, only to have someone toss in a lit cigarette just like Alma said.”
Helen rolled her eyes. “Good grief.”
“Don’t look at me like that, ma’am. I’m only telling it like I see it.”
Fighting with him wasn’t working, Helen decided. What if she tried a different tack? “Really, Sheriff,” she said, “isn’t it all a bit too obvious?”
“Lots of crimes are that, Mrs. Evans.”
“But think about it a minute,” Helen told him, and he seemed to be listening. “If Nancy had wanted to sabotage the book, why wouldn’t she have just tossed away Grace’s notes? She was the one typing them up. Grace despised computers, so it was up to Nancy to get the book in shape for the publisher. She could have destroyed everything then.”
“Nancy didn’t get canned until Grace had the manuscript in hand,” Biddle said and picked up a pencil. He tapped it on his desk. “And I haven’t found the flash drive yet, so maybe Nancy destroyed it, too.”
“What about Max Simpson?” Helen asked, since logic wasn’t working. “He could easily have come to town unseen and used his key to get into Grace’s house. He’s smarmy,” she added, not trusting him a bit. “You saw him at the memorial service. Didn’t he seem like he was putting on an act, and a pretty bad one at that? Does he even have an alibi?”
The pencil Biddle had been tapping slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. It rolled noisily across the planks before it stopped. Biddle cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, I asked Mr. Simpson where he was at the time Grace was killed,” he said, fidgeting in his chair.
“And?” Helen prodded.
“Er, he was engaged in an affair,” the sheriff told her.
“With a woman?”
“Yes?”
Helen leaned toward his desk. “Who was it? Did you speak with her? Can she vouch for him?”
“I spoke to her all right.” Biddle scratched at his jaw. “She’s, um, the wife of a rather prominent St. Louis politician. She asked that I keep her name under wraps for propriety’s sake. Unless the evidence shifts toward Max, I’m going to do exactly that.”
“Max’s alibi is a married woman and she’s worried about propriety?” Helen harrumphed.
“Like you said, smarmy.” He ran a hand over his thinning crown. “Look, Mrs. Evans, I’m not arresting Nancy yet. The investigation’s still ongoing.”
“Does that include checking out Charlie Bryan’s whereabouts the night Grace was killed?” Helen got up from her chair and walked partway around his desk so she could better eye the heavy door she knew led to a pair of holding cells. “I heard you locked up that teenage hooligan for selling stolen merchandise.”
The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “Sarah,” he said without asking.
“She said he sold a cigarette case stolen from Mattie’s and that you’re wondering if he’s the one who burglarized the houses here in River Bend.” Helen kept going when he didn’t interrupt. “You must be wondering if he also broke into Grace’s house and found himself trapped inside when she returned home unexpectedly.”
Biddle cleared his throat. “Like I told you, ma’am, the investigation’s ongoing.”
“And Nancy’s still a suspect?”
“Yes.”
“Because Grace fired her?”
“That and the burned manuscript,” he said.
That was it. Helen gave up.
She started toward the door, then did an abrupt about-face when another thought hit her. “Have you considered that Grace’s murder had nothing to do with her work at all? That maybe the whole to-do over the manuscript was just a lot of smoke and mirrors?”
Rather than wait for him to reply, Helen stepped out of the sheriff’s office, onto the sidewalk, and into the sun.
Chapter 26
THE RIVER ROAD Tavern sat wedged between a bait shop and a gas station on the main drag in Grafton. “Don’t blink or you’ll miss the place,” Max used to tell Grace whenever they drove north on the River Road to Pere Marquette State Park.
But unlike that speck on the map that was River Bend, Grafton at least had a couple of places to stop for a cold beer or a shot of Jack straight-up without being eyeballed by a gang of white-haired old ladies who figured you for an ax murderer and not just a guy out for a buzz. And after the memorial service for Grace this morning—after shaking the wrinkled hands of countless seniors who’d offered condolences and patted his shoulder—Max needed a drink, and a stiff one at that.
He waited outside, leaning against the rough brick of the tavern until noon, when its doors finally opened. The place was blissfully empty when he walked in: dark and quiet and smelling like sweat and the stench of the river. But Max would’ve settled for less at a time like this.
They served battered catfish along with the booze, and he found himself ordering a sandwich and a scotch on the rocks. A half hour after, the food lay untouched and the scotches kept coming.
When a fellow Max had met at the chapel—Grace’s publisher, Harold Faulkner—wandered in with a sudden burst of sunlight, Max had already made good headway toward sloppy drunk.
“Si’ down, si’ down,” he told the man and waved an arm toward the bartender. “Hey, I’d like a drink for my frien’ here. It’s on me. Anything he wan’s.”
Faulkner shook his head, but Max ordered a scotch for him anyway.
Clearly uncomfortable, the older man took the seat across the table and fiddled with the buttons on the jacket of his shiny suit. When the barkeep sent over the scotch, Faulkner pushed it away.
Max wondered why he was there. He squinted at the man’s face. Nice head of hair, he thought, and was that a Rolex he kept checking? “So you were Grace’s pub—” He stopped to belch. “Uh, publisher,” he finished.
“And you were her estranged husband?”
“So ya heard abou’ me?” Max grinned, sloshing around what was left of his most recent scotch. “Why’d ya track me down?”
The older man studied his manicure. “I wanted to speak with you about the book.”
“Ah, the mysterious book!” Max nodded. “So you’ve still got plans t’ publish it? Ya think it’ll sell a few copies?”
“I do.” Faulkner avoided his eyes.
“If the thing ever turns up, eh?” Max murmured. He set his scotch down and leaned over the table, hanging onto its sides. “You an’ Gracie . . . you get along? Or did ya end up wishin’ like hell you’d never met ’er?”
Faulkner fiddled with the knot of his paisley silk tie. “She was certainly sing
le-minded.”
“Single-minded?” Max repeated, slurring the words. “Ya mean she was a bona fide bitch.” Max tossed down the rest of his drink. He raised a hand to snap at the bartender. “Hey! Hit me ’gain!”
The guy shook his head. “Sorry, buddy, you’re cut off.”
Max blew him a raspberry.
Faulkner looked uneasy. “Have you spoken with Grace’s attorney?”
“About her will?” Max stared into his empty glass. “I’ve been trying, but I jus’ keep getting his friggin’ secretary.”
“I’m sure they’ll contact you shortly if there’s cause.”
“If she lef’ a will at all.”
“Not leave a will?” Faulkner looked apoplectic. “Grace was so obsessive about details that I can’t imagine she wouldn’t leave instructions about everything.”
“Oh, she was obsessive all right,” Max agreed, eyeing the scotch Faulkner hadn’t touched. “But she didn’t like dealin’ with law sharks any more than she liked computers. That’s why the divorce was takin’ so damn long. She tol’ me once when she got rid of me for good, she wouldn’t need a will to make sure I got nothing.”
Faulkner ran a finger between his neck and collar. “But if you’re not divorced and you’re not arrested for her murder, then it would mean—”
“That I get it all,” Max finished and grinned in a lopsided fashion.
“What about the book?”
Max laughed, reaching across the scarred tabletop to pat the man’s hand. “Well, if that idiot sheriff ever finds it, looks like you’ll be dealin’ with me.”
“But I assumed—”
“That with her out of the picture you’d have free rein,” Max said. Through bleary eyes, he saw the man’s Adam’s apple jump. “Well, you were wrong.”
Faulkner hardly appeared thrilled. “I hadn’t counted on this.”
“You mean, you hadn’t counted on me,” Max said and laughed loudly.
“I’ll be in touch,” Faulkner told him and rose from his seat.
“Like hell,” Max called out. “I’ll be in touch!”
The older man nearly knocked the chair over in his haste to retreat. He scurried toward the door, practically tripping over his shiny loafers.
A burst of sunlight invaded the dim as the door opened. Max cringed at the brightness, raising a hand to shield his eyes. He cursed under his breath until the gray of the room settled in again.
Then he reached for Faulkner’s untouched scotch. He thought of Grace, and he lifted the glass. “To my dearly departed wife,” he said before he knocked the liquor back so fast it burned his throat and tears filled his eyes.
Chapter 27
HELEN MARCHED OUT of Sheriff Biddle’s office feeling as baffled as ever by the day’s events. It was past noon already, she noticed, checking her wristwatch. She picked up her pace, her shoes tapping on the sidewalk as she headed past the McCaffreys’—and their barking dog—then by the Kramers’ picket fence until she finally reached home.
Amber reclined on the green-painted steps leading up to the porch. He rolled onto his feet as she approached. His back arched as he stretched and his tail lifted straight into the air. He raised a paw to tug at the screen door, banging it against the frame as if to say, For God’s sake, woman, where have you been? Let me in!
“I hope you had a better morning than I did,” she told him and pushed the door wide. He turned his yellow eyes upward and blinked before he trotted past, his tail swishing as he loped toward the kitchen.
“Nancy?” Helen called as she came in from the porch. “Sweetheart, are you here?”
“Upstairs, Grandma,” she shouted in reply.
Helen ignored Amber’s howls—they were the “feed me now” kind, as opposed to the “pet me this instant” or “don’t you think it’s time for fresh kitty litter?” Grabbing hold of the banister, she trudged up the creaking stairs to the attic. She felt tired, she realized, but then she hadn’t been sleeping well, and with good cause. Add to that all the running around town she’d been doing, and it was no wonder her knees ached and her feet felt sore. It was at times like this that she remembered she was seventy-five. She was supposed to be relaxing in her sunset years, not dogging the local sheriff in a murder investigation.
But then Helen figured she’d never been good at relaxing. Not even when she and Joe had vacationed. She was a doer. She wasn’t good at sitting still. When she kept busy, she didn’t feel like seventy-five; she didn’t feel any particular age at all. She just felt alive. Doing the things she loved had kept her going after Joe had died. Why would she want to slow down now?
As she reached the top step, Helen paused, catching her breath and thinking of just how far she’d come after losing her husband. She decided she could get through near about anything after that, even Sheriff Biddle all but accusing her granddaughter of murder.
“Nancy?”
“In here,” called a voice from within the bathroom.
Helen crossed the wood floor and poked her head in, expecting to find the girl soaking in a sea of bubbles. Instead, she found Nancy gathering her toiletries and stuffing them into a small canvas bag.
“What’s going on?” she asked, pausing in the doorway. “You’re not going back to your apartment already?”
“I think it’s time I did.”
“But it’s only been a few days.”
Nancy dropped a tube of toothpaste into the bag and looked up. Her hair was drawn off her face by blue barrettes, and her face was devoid of makeup. If she’d had braces on her teeth, she would have looked exactly like her thirteen-year-old self, not the twenty-three-year-old woman she’d become. “I want to thank you for letting me stay with you, but I need to get back on my own two feet.”
“You’ve been through so much,” Helen said, biting her tongue before she added, and it’s not over yet.
“Grandma, listen.” Nancy ceased putting things in her bag. “I’m okay. I really am. Being fired by Grace one day and finding her dead the next threw me for a loop. But I’ll get through it.”
“The sheriff thinks—” Helen started to say, unable to forget her very recent conversation with Biddle in his office. Despite professing to look at other suspects, he still had his sights set on Nancy.
“I’m not worried about him,” Nancy said. “He’ll find who really killed Grace sooner or later, and he’ll realize I had nothing to do with it.”
“Of course he will.”
“Of course,” Nancy echoed. She picked up her canvas bag and dropped in a compact and her toothbrush before zipping it closed.
She brushed past Helen and went into the attic room, where a larger canvas bag lay half filled atop the quilted bedspread. Helen followed, taking a seat on an overstuffed chair. “Could I ask you a question, sweetheart?”
“Sure,” Nancy said without so much as glancing up.
“Now don’t take this the wrong way,” Helen began, not sure how to put it. “But I was wondering about you and Max.”
Nancy’s chin jerked up. “Me and Max Simpson?”
Helen fiddled with a button coming loose from the chair’s tufting. “When I saw you across the bridge, talking with him, he seemed pretty, um, passionate.”
“Passionate?”
“He cheated on Grace, right?” Helen said and gazed straight into Nancy’s flushed face. “His alibi for the night Grace was killed was another woman, and a married one at that. So I couldn’t help thinking that maybe you and he—”
“You think I slept with Max?” Nancy interrupted. But instead of answering, she pressed her lips together and forcefully shoved several pairs of socks into her duffel bag.
“Did you?”
“Grandma!”
“Nancy, please,” Helen said, getting up from the chair and going over to the bed. “It’s importa
nt that I know what’s going on. If you don’t tell me now, I’m sure the sheriff will find out, and he could take it all the wrong way.”
Nancy stood stock-still for a moment. Then she dropped onto the bed and sighed. “I didn’t sleep with him,” she said, shaking her head. “He did drop by the office a few times to see Grace, and he hit on me big-time.” She squirmed. “Maybe he asked me out once or twice, but I didn’t go.”
“Did Grace know?”
“I don’t think so,” Nancy said. “If she had, she would’ve fired me long ago. Besides, he had plenty of other women. That’s why Grace wouldn’t take him back. Well, that and the money.”
“What money?” Helen asked, and her heart pounded faster. “Did he steal from her?”
Nancy shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. Grace just complained about him trying to bleed her dry. But I could tell that she still loved him. I think that’s why the divorce wasn’t final when she died.” She cocked her head. “So is this inquisition done?”
“Inquisition?” Helen feigned offense. “I’m as bad as all that?”
Nancy smiled and approached, kissing the top of her grandmother’s head. “You’re very curious, that’s all,” she said. “Curious as a cat.”
Then she picked up her bag, hooking its strap across a shoulder. “I’ll bring my laptop over tomorrow and hang out with you while I hunt for a new job online. Is that all right?”
Helen stood. “You’re welcome here anytime.”
She followed her granddaughter downstairs and walked her to the porch. From behind the screens, she stood and watched as Nancy headed up the road. The girl turned once to wave before she went around the bend and was gone.
Chapter 28
Unti Susan McBride #2 Page 14
