“Good day, then,” Ida said briskly, and rose with a clack of booted heels. “Come along, Dot,” she instructed. With a shuffle of feet and the slap of the door, they were gone.
Frank fished two white pills from his drawer. He blew some fuzz from them before he put them on his tongue and forced them down, grimacing at the powdery taste. But he guessed that swallowing aspirin dry wasn’t half as unpleasant as putting up with Ida and Dot the better part of the morning.
He rubbed at his brow as he glanced at the yellow tablet between his elbows. Barely half the page was filled.
Good grief.
He’d talked with a handful of townsfolk this morning, and no one told him any more than Dot and Ida.
Someone had to have seen or heard something. This town was filled with nosy neighbors who knew more about each other than some spouses. Whoever had iced Milton Grone could not have done it without some kind of slip. No murder—or murderer—was perfect. Not outside the movies anyway.
Frank felt somewhat uneasy being at the helm of such a case. That’s why he’d left the city for River Bend all those years ago. He liked packing a gun, but he didn’t like using one. Here, he mostly mediated arguments, found lost pets, and kept the juvenile delinquents from stirring up trouble beyond stealing a boat for a joyride up the river. Those things, he did well. But solving a murder?
He sighed. That was a bird of a different feather. Kind of like Ida and Dot.
“Sheriff? I’m on time, aren’t I?”
He looked up to see Art Beaner standing across his desk, wiping a palm across his crown to smooth down the sparse tufts of hair.
“I’m not late?” he asked again, rubbing his hands on his plaid Bermudas. Beaner shuffled over to the chair vacated by Ida and sat stiffly. “I played a quick round at the club over in Jerseyville, but I turned down drinks at the nineteenth hole. I told ’em I had a business meeting. They would have gotten a big a kick hearing the sheriff wanted to grill me about Grone’s murder. They would have ribbed me to no end.” He cocked his egg-shaped head and fiddled with his glasses. “So? Can we get it over with as soon as possible? Bertha’s got lunch waiting at home.”
Frank picked up his pencil. If he wanted direct, he’d get it. “Where were you between seven and eight o’clock last Thursday night?”
Beaner leaned forward, his expression incredulous. “You know damned well where I was, Sheriff. Everyone in town knows where I am every Thursday p.m.” He yanked a limp handkerchief from his shorts and blew his nose. Then he stuffed the cloth back in his back pocket. “I’m the chairman of the town board, remember? Heck, I’m more the mayor of this town than Barney Plunkett. Dear God, the man’s barely mobile on a good day.” He went on in a mutter, “Has a cigar with his prune juice before Wheel of Fortune after dinner and then he’s out like a light.”
The ache behind Biddle’s forehead thumped, and he wished the aspirin would start kicking in. “We’re discussing Milton Grone not Mayor Plunkett.”
“Sorry.”
Frank tried again. “As I recall it, you and Milt didn’t get along any better than the Hatfields and McCoys. You had a running feud over community dues that he owed.”
“It wasn’t a feud, Frank.” Beaner shook a finger at him. “Merely a loud disagreement.”
Frank didn’t believe a word. “The man shot at you, Art.”
“Maybe so,” Beaner said, settling his sunburned forearms over the alligator on his chest. “But that doesn’t mean I’d go and murder him, does it?”
“Well, it gives you a motive.”
“What motive?” Art guffawed. “I had a better chance getting those back dues paid if Grone were alive and kicking, right?”
Biddle leaned forward. “I’d say you had a much better shot with Grone out of the way. You could hire Stanley Horn to work the legal system and collect all those overdue fees from his estate.”
“Oh, right.” Beaner looked down at his nails.
“You’re a real estate broker, Art. You’ve probably got your eye on Grone’s house, too. Had nerve enough to chat with his widow about her putting the place up for sale? You could probably get it for a song. It’d make one nice flip, as close to the river as it is.”
This time Frank saw Beaner flinch and knew he’d struck a nerve, so he pushed on. “I’ll bet you’ve already been chatting with your golf buddies about it, huh? Would it be nice having one of your pals from the country club living there instead of Shotsie Grone?”
Art finally gave up studying his manicure. “So maybe I did bring up the subject with Milt’s widow, but you can’t blame me for that. Life goes on.” His skin beamed red above his collar. “But I didn’t kill him, I tell you!” His nasal voice soared, enough to double the throbbing in Biddle’s temples. “I was at the meeting when Milton was snuffed. There are at least thirty people who’ll attest to it! My God, Frank,” he went on, retrieving his kerchief for the second time to dab at his forehead. “I was right there alongside Mrs. Evans when we left the town hall. I was the one who found the shotgun, remember? I didn’t even know the man was dead until then, same as everyone else.”
“Maybe you were late to the meeting.”
“I was not!” Beaner stiffened. “I’m always there fifteen minutes early, and I didn’t leave the podium until that loony-tune Ida led that lynch mob toward the Grones’ place.”
“Did you notice anything odd about that particular meeting?” Frank asked, taking a different tack this time, wishing now he’d gone to the meeting himself, rather than staying at home watching hockey with Sarah. Usually, the meetings bored him to tears, what with all that discussion of sewage pumps and recycling projects. Though this one, it seemed, would’ve been worth missing a Blues shootout win against the Blackhawks.
Art tapped a finger to his recessed chin. “Well, here’s how it went. Clara Foley read the minutes, as she always does. Then Ida started her song and dance about the riverfront land being sold, and Shotsie Grone started asking questions about how much money Milton got from Wet ’n’ Woolly.”
“Whoa.” Frank stopped taking notes. “Was Shotsie being there unusual?”
“I’ll say,” Art told him, and sniffed. “If you came every now and again yourself, you’d know why it’s strange. She hasn’t attended before, not even once. But that night she did. She stood up in the back and asked some very direct questions about the property upriver, what it was worth and why River Bend didn’t buy it from Milton.”
Biddle leaned forward. “She didn’t know?”
Art shrugged. “I guess for her, ignorance is bliss. Although I’m not sure as how Milt could’ve kept her in the dark, since the newspaper’s been full of stories about the deal for months.”
“Maybe Shotsie doesn’t read much,” Frank said, thinking of the curvy blonde. She was full of moxie, all right, but he wouldn’t exactly classify her as bright. She was more like a low-watt bulb than a floodlight. Biddle cleared his throat. “So what happened after Shotsie spoke up?”
Beaner shrugged. “First, Shotsie and Ida started arguing, and then Ida struck up the mutiny and town hall emptied out. I tried to make everyone come back, but no one paid much attention.”
Frank figured that happened to Art fairly often.
“I was one of the last to leave. Helen Evans and Dr. Fister can vouch for me. I tagged along with them. And if you can’t trust a grandmother and a minister”—Beaner waggled a finger at him—“then you can’t believe anyone, can you?”
“Right.” Biddle sighed.
Art picked at invisible lint on his plaid shorts. “Are you done with me now, Sheriff? Bertha made pot roast in the crock pot for lunch, and it’s the one thing she cooks that doesn’t taste like shoe leather. I’d hate for her to start eating without me.”
Seeing as how Bertha Beaner weighed at least twice what Art did, Biddle could understand the man’s fear about being late for a m
eal.
He set down his pen and nodded. “Go right along. I’ll let you know if I need you again.”
“Anytime, Sheriff,” Beaner chirped; but from the speed with which he hopped up from the chair and was gone, Biddle doubted he meant it.
Frank scratched the stubble on his jaw and pondered what he’d just heard.
Art Beaner might be a pompous jerk, but Frank wasn’t sure he had it in him to kill. No, Beaner was too concerned with what people thought of him. Murdering Milton wouldn’t be good for his image at the Jerseyville Country Club.
He pushed away from his desk, setting aside the yellow pad, the topmost page now filled with his chicken scratches.
A few names remained on his interview list. He’d hoped to get to them today.
But at the moment, his stomach growled. Art’s mention of pot roast had him feeling mighty hungry. Surely the investigation could wait until he’d had his lunch.
He went to the door and pulled it wide, only to come face-to-face with Earnest Fister.
The minister looked grim, not that Frank had seen him smile any too often. Still, he always had a kind word or warm greeting.
Now, he was oddly silent.
“Pastor,” Frank said, standing awkwardly there in the doorway. “Is there something I can do for you? I was on my way out . . .”
“I’ve a confession of sorts.”
Biddle smiled. “Isn’t that your department, not mine?”
But Fister’s frown remained. “Can we do this inside, Sheriff? I’d rather keep it private.”
“Of course,” Frank said reluctantly, trying hard to ignore the thunderous protest of his stomach. “Come on in,” he instructed, and gestured for Fister to enter.
“It’s about my daughter,” the pastor began even before Biddle had settled back into his chair. “She was having an affair, you see, with Milton Grone.”
Chapter 25
HELEN EMERGED FROM the grocer’s with a full brown bag in her arms. She’d picked up all the bare necessities, which in her case meant two dozen cans of cat food, a bag of dry food for Amber as well, skim milk, bananas, and toilet paper. She paused at the curb as a car rolled past then she crossed the street, passing the one-pump gas station.
She glanced over to see if the owner, Dexter Bigby, was around, as he’d suggested last week that she bring her Chevy in for a tune-up.
She didn’t spot Dex but did see a familiar lime green VW bug. A moment later a voluptuous redhead exited the tiny station, her hands fumbling inside her enormous pocketbook.
“Mrs. Grone?” Helen called out, shifting the bag in her arms so she could wiggle her fingers. “Yoo-hoo, Delilah!”
The woman hesitated beside the Volkswagen, squinting as she drew a cigarette into her mouth. “That you, Mrs. Evans?” she shouted, then clomped across the concrete toward Helen in her high-heeled pumps. “Well, hey there,” she said, and plucked the unlit cigarette from between her lips. “The last time I saw you, the Black Widow chased me out of Milt’s funeral service.” She shook her head and repeated, “Just days ago, though it seems more like a week.” She fiddled with her cigarette, her eyes staring down at it with obvious longing. She glanced up at Helen. “You mind if I smoke?”
Actually, Helen did. But something inbred in her made her say, “No, not at all.”
Delilah lit up, inhaling deeply several times before breathing the smoke out through her nose.
Funny, Helen thought, how awful the smoke smelled to her now, when she herself had puffed up a storm all through college until she married Joe and got pregnant.
“So,” she said, trying not to cough, “what brings you to town so soon again?”
“I, uh, ran out of gas, would you believe.” She jerked her chin toward the car parked by the lone pump. “I’d been at a winery in Grafton, then I got on the River Road to leave and realized the gas tank was empty.” She puffed again, then shook her head. “No, that’s not true. I wasn’t in Grafton.” She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth before adding, “I guess it can’t hurt to tell you the reason I’m back in River Bend is to see about Milt’s will.” Her thickly powdered skin wrinkled. “I thought I’d better find out if he left it all to that bimbo of his or if he put aside a few dollars at least for the kids. It wouldn’t make up for all those years he ignored them, of course, but it couldn’t hurt a bit.”
“Did you talk to the lawyer?” Helen asked, peering over the top of her grocery sack. “What did you learn?”
Delilah sucked on her cig and then blew out a stream of smoke. “What I learned from that bow-tied bozo of Milt’s is that he thinks he’s Perry Mason.” She rolled her eyes. “Stanley Horn might be a small-town attorney,” she grumbled, “but he can spout legal mumbo-jumbo with the best of ’em. When he opens his mouth and starts talking, I feel like I’m from another planet.”
Helen liked Stanley Horn. The fellow was always on the up and up. He’d handled Joe’s will and the family trusts, and Helen knew he was a stickler for attorney-client privilege. If Delilah and her kids weren’t in Milt’s will, Stanley wouldn’t talk to her about it.
“Was he helpful?” she asked.
Delilah snorted. “All he said was I wasn’t in it. I wasn’t related to Milt by blood or marriage so I don’t have the right to know what’s in it. Blah blah blah.”
Helen shifted the bag to her right hip. “Will the children inherit?”
“If they’re in the will, Mr. Stanley Horn, Esquire, didn’t breathe a word. He told me that we’d be notified about the reading if there was cause to do that. Then he pushed me out the door,” she said, frowning, “which is no way to treat a dead man’s wife.”
“You’re his ex-wife,” Helen gently reminded her.
“Like that blond ditz would ever let me forget.” Delilah took a long drag off the cigarette, exhaled a gray cloud, and dropped what remained, grinding it under her heel.
Helen winced. She was tempted to quip, The world is not your ashtray, but bit her tongue. She didn’t want to tick off Delilah and scare her away while she was still yakking.
“I can’t believe that piece of trash is gonna end up with all that bread,” she moaned, and pushed at her hairdo with crimson-tipped fingers. “What’d she ever do for him, after all?” she asked. “She didn’t even give him one baby, much less two. It hardly seems fair that I should get left out in the cold when I’m the one stuck raising his sons.”
“On the bright side,” Helen remarked, as if there was one, “I think it might be a while before the court divides up Milton’s estate.”
“Oh?” Delilah’s gaze locked on Helen. “And why’s that?”
“Well, what with his being murdered—” Helen said, then stopped at Delilah’s quick intake of breath. “You had heard?”
“My God,” Delilah sputtered. She had her hand on her heart as if about to spout the Pledge of Allegiance. “I’d almost forgotten about that. It still doesn’t seem real, even though I read that piece in this morning’s Telegraph.”
“It was a shock.”
“It’s freaking unbelievable,” Delilah said. “He was hit on the head, right? The paper said the weapon was a shovel that belonged to that stuck-up English lady next door.”
“Um-hmm,” Helen said, making a noncommittal sound. She did not want to drag poor Felicity into the conversation.
“Does the sheriff know who did it?” Delilah tipped her head.
Helen shifted the grocery sack to her left hip. “He’s investigating.”
“No arrests?”
“Not yet.”
“Christ.” Delilah laughed. “With all the people that hated Milton around here, I’d figure the sheriff would have suspects lined up a block long.”
“Since we’re on the subject,” Helen said, and glanced up Main Street, “perhaps you should stop by the station and talk to Frank Biddle yourself.”
“Well, you did say you came into town on Thursday night to see your ex-husband,” Helen said, reminding Delilah of her remarks after the funeral. “You told me you found him there on the ground when you arrived.”
“What are you saying, Mrs. Evans?” She plunged her hand inside her purse, no doubt in another search for her cigarettes. “You’re not implying that I had anything to do with Milt breathing his last?”
The grocery sack felt suddenly heavy. “Of course not,” Helen said. “But you might know more than you think.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Delilah pulled a compact from her bag and popped it open. She checked out her face in the tiny mirror, then began rubbing lipstick from her teeth. “The killer could have still been hanging around when I was there.” She snapped her compact shut and shuddered. “It gives me the creeps to think about it.”
Helen dared to ask, “Why didn’t you call for help when you found him?”
Delilah’s face tightened. “Like I told you before, Mrs. Evans, I heard all those voices coming up toward the house, and I didn’t want to be standing there kneeling over him. I know running off wasn’t the smartest thing to do but I was scared. Besides, what good could my asking for help have done? Even Doc Melville couldn’t have revived a dead man.”
That much was true, Helen thought. “So no one saw you that night?”
“I don’t think so. Milt didn’t even realize I was driving in after my shift. Everytime I called, he hung up on me, remember?” Delilah’s eyes welled suddenly. “I just wanted what was rightfully mine.”
Helen nodded, feeling sorry for Delilah and women like her who had marriages that failed and, even worse, husbands who abandoned their children.
Delilah sucked in a deep breath. “So you figure I should talk to the sheriff, huh?”
“I do,” Helen said. “Just tell him exactly what you told me. That you arrived in River Bend before eight.”
To Helen Back: A River Road Mystery Page 13
