And still the water rose.
Chapter 7
Wednesday
Helen tugged on her galoshes then hesitated as she stood. She looked around her, knowing she was forgetting something. One blurry glance at the clock, and she realized it was her bifocals.
She poked around the sofa where she’d left the morning newspaper with the crossword half-done, but she couldn’t find them. Had she set them on the bedside table after dipping into the latest Carolyn Hart mystery before she’d fallen asleep last night?
Absently, she patted her head, and she realized where she’d put them.
Oh, my.
Her head was like the black hole for missing spectacles: every once in a while she’d find two pairs up there.
Grandma Brain, she thought with a laugh, because there weren’t enough puzzles in the world to keep her mind from fogging up now and then.
Amber whined at the screen door as she reached to open it, but she nudged him back with her foot. “It’s too wet out there, buddy. You’re going to have to stay inside. If you need to pee, your litter box is over in the corner. You know the drill.”
He gave her a grumpy look and stomped off as she told him good-bye.
Then she left the house, securing the screen door so Amber couldn’t pry it open with a paw. She headed to the Historical Society to help Clara go through more of the old photos for the archives. It gave her something to do beyond her crosswords, jigsaws, and quilting. She couldn’t exactly work on the community garden with her cohorts in the Ladies Civic Improvement League, as the plot was currently underwater.
Pretty soon more than just the softball fields, pool, and garden would be flooded.
One glance across the street told her that the concrete walls meant to contain rising creek waters had given up entirely. Helen gauged there were at least two inches covering her own Jersey Avenue. Beyond the bridge, she could see that Springfield wasn’t wet yet. But Jersey was lower and more prone to flooding. So far only the homes on Springfield with yards backing up to the creek seemed to be in any danger. Everything looked dry on the left side of that road.
But anyone departing Springfield had to drive toward Main Street to reach the highway, also known as the Great River Road. It was the fastest and easiest way north to Grafton and Pere Marquette or south to Elsah or Alton. So unless folks took the back road out through farm country—a.k.a. the long way home—they were going to get very wet.
Still, there wasn’t so much water on the sidewalks that Helen couldn’t slog through the puddles from Jersey to Main Street. If she didn’t look down at her boots and the twigs and sludge that swirled around them, she would have believed it was just another nice spring day.
The scenery that had looked so dull through the winter—brown trees, brown grass, bare garden plots—had suddenly greened. Buds and blossoms abounded on shrubs and branches. Birds tweeted merrily and darted about, picking up bits and pieces to build nests. As always happened during any kind of disaster, big or small, life went on.
“You’re lucky you live up so high,” Helen told a robin that swooped down to perch on the branch of the rose of Sharon in the McCaffreys’ front yard. “You don’t have to worry about getting your feet wet.”
When she reached the business district within a few blocks, she noted the sandbaggers at work again. They continued to shore up the storefronts, though the water barely splashed over the curbs. Sandwich-board signs had been propped up on the street, sandbags wrapped around the legs to keep them in place. Slow Down, they cautioned. Haste Makes Wake.
Helen couldn’t help but crack a smile, thinking those looked a lot like the signs that usually resided at the docks, urging boaters to go slowly out of the harbor and into the river.
But her smile faded as she realized the signs wouldn’t be needed at the harbor for a while, not until the floodwaters receded, which could take weeks. Then there would be such a mess to clean up afterward.
She sighed. It made her tired just to think of it.
“’Morning, Helen,” Agnes said, popping out of her antiques shop. “Good thing you have your boots on. They’re fitting, too. They make me want to ribbit.”
Helen glanced down at the vibrant green galoshes with frog faces on the feet. Her granddaughter had sent them for her March birthday. “I think the water critters are the only ones enjoying things lately,” she said.
Agnes nodded and set hands on hips. Helen noticed that her friend wasn’t wearing a dress. She actually had on blue jeans, albeit dark ones that looked pressed. Helen couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen anyone in jeans with creases. Instead of pumps, Agnes wore navy-blue Keds. She did spot pearls in the cleft of Agnes’s collarbone between the lapels of her crisp linen blouse. There were pearl bobs clasped to her earlobes, as well. Even dressed down, Agnes knew how to look natty.
“How’s business?” she asked.
“What business?” Agnes shrugged. “I’m getting everything upstairs that I can carry. By tomorrow I’ll have my Closed sign up. It’s not worth it. The TV weathermen are calling for the river to crest in the next week or two. The tourists are scared away. I’ll just have to wheel and deal online for a while, until the river decides to play nice with us again.”
The parking spots on either side of the street did look mostly empty. Two extended-cab pickup trucks with oversize tires had parked in front of the diner. Other than the sandbag crews, all the traffic seemed to be on foot, as the sidewalks had puddles but weren’t underwater like the street.
“I’m thinking of moving to the top of the bluff,” Helen said, only half joking.
“If I have to haul my inventory upstairs one more year, I’ll go with you,” Agnes replied. She started to turn toward the door to her shop but paused to ask, “Have you heard anything more about Luann Dupree? Is she coming back soon? You always seem to have your ear to the ground, so I thought maybe . . .”
“Nothing,” Helen said. “Sorry.”
“Hmm, that’s odd, very odd. She never mentioned that she’d be going away,” Agnes murmured. For a moment Helen thought she was going to add something more, but instead she waved a hand dismissively. “Well, I’m sure she’ll be in touch when she’s ready.”
“Right.”
“I’d best get back to work.” Agnes nodded at Helen before she headed inside, the bells on the front door jangling as it dropped shut behind her.
Helen started toward the sheriff’s office next door to pick up the keys to the Historical Society. As she’d mentioned to Agnes, Luann Dupree had still not come back. Some were starting to gossip that she had gotten married in Las Vegas, and word had it that the town council was grumbling about replacing her. Art Beaner’s wife, Bertha, had suggested to Helen that they were going to officially put Luann on unpaid administrative leave, or even fire her outright, unless she returned to River Bend within the week.
“Art’s left her tons of voice mails, but she hasn’t called back,” Bertha had told Helen when they’d run into each other yesterday at the Cut ’n’ Curl. “He did eventually get a text message saying she was deep in the Grand Canyon or some such place without good reception, so she’d be in touch in a few days.”
If Luann truly loved her job as much as Sarah Biddle claimed she did, Helen was sure she’d come back rather than risk losing it. But if she had tied the knot in Vegas, maybe she didn’t care. So far as Helen was aware, Luann had never been married before. Perhaps she’d decided it was time to focus on her personal life and put her career aside for a spell.
Stranger things had happened.
In the meantime, Helen had promised Clara that she’d continue their efforts to identify the subjects in the mountains of photographs, something Clara seemed truly passionate about. “It’s one of the only things that I do to keep my mind off Betty and Bernie,” her friend had confessed.
Helen had also promised Clara that she’d open up the Historical Society that morning since Clara had enough on her plate. Only when she let herself into
Biddle’s office, there was no sign of the sheriff or anyone else. No doubt he was out with the sandbagging crews. He’d probably be gone a good chunk of the day.
So she went over to his desk and tugged open the top drawer—where she’d seen Sarah Biddle drop the keys two days before—only to find a host of paper clips, rubber bands, pens with missing caps, and not much else. The Historical Society key ring was not there.
Helen could only surmise that Clara had beaten her to it. Perhaps she’d gotten up early and had wanted to get a head start. She did seem very dedicated to the project.
That thought in mind, Helen left the sheriff’s office and made a beeline for the Historical Society building. Sure enough, the door was unlocked.
She went in and called out, “Clara, are you here?”
When no one answered, she hurried up the stairs and ducked her head into the makeshift storage room where they sorted the photographs. Though light streamed through the windows, the ceiling light wasn’t on.
She flipped the switch.
“Clara?” she said again.
Then she heard the footsteps overhead in the renovated attic space where Luann Dupree lived—or had lived, depending on which gossip was doing the talking.
Helen had a good idea who it was, too.
She gripped the banister and ascended to the third floor, found the door wide-open, and marched inside.
“Oh, dear,” she whispered.
Open boxes sat on the floor of Luann’s small apartment as the sheriff’s wife tossed things in willy-nilly. The place looked a disaster, like either a tornado had hit or someone was in the throes of moving.
“Sarah Biddle!” Helen said firmly, and the woman jumped, spinning about with one hand at her heart. “What in heaven’s name are you doing with Luann’s things?”
“Oh, Helen!” she cried out, eyes wide with shock. “Everything is such a mess! The mayor got an e-mail last night from Luann offering her resignation. He had Art Beaner call me at the crack of dawn to tell me to clear out the apartment since I’m Lu’s best friend and she doesn’t have family in the area. I’m supposed to put the boxes in storage until Luann shows up to claim them.” Sarah rubbed a sleeve across her cheeks and sniffled. “This all feels so wrong.”
The sheriff’s wife wrung her hands as she stood in the middle of Luann’s upended living-slash-dining room. Helen could feel her angst, and it settled like a knot inside her stomach. She picked her way through the mess and took Sarah’s hand. Within a few steps, she’d led her to the small kitchen table and sat her down. Then she pulled up the other chair catty-corner.
“Take a deep breath,” she advised. “Try to calm down.”
Sarah did as much, but her eyes still filled with tears, and her cheeks remained flushed. “I’m okay, really.”
Helen wasn’t sure about that. But she asked anyway, “Have you heard from Luann directly?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that. All I’ve gotten are a few text messages that are pretty generic. Like, she’s fine and dandy, and she’s having fun with Mr. Maybe and to stop worrying, that kind of stuff.”
“You haven’t spoken to her, then?”
“No,” Sarah said, sticking out her chin. “That’s why I’m having a hard time believing this is on the up-and-up. I need to hear her voice. I want her to tell me that she’s really in love and that she’s finished with River Bend. I need to see a photo of her with this guy, making googly eyes at each other.” She shook her head. “It’s all wrong, Helen. The Luann I know wouldn’t do anything this drastic without talking to me first. Something’s happened to her. I can feel it in my bones. Why won’t anyone listen?”
“I’m listening,” Helen told her. She was a mother and a grandma. Listening was what she did.
“Here’s what I don’t get.” Sarah rose from the chair and started to walk about the space. She pointed at the refrigerator first. “She’d gone grocery shopping last weekend. The fridge and freezer are full.”
“She hadn’t been on her date yet, though, had she?” Helen countered. “Sometimes all it takes is one moment to change everything. Expiration dates aren’t going to matter.”
Sarah pointed to a desk topped with papers and files. “Her laptop is gone, but she has a stack of bills that haven’t been paid.”
“Perhaps she’ll pay them online. Isn’t that what most people do these days?” Helen replied, although, personally, she didn’t trust Internet banking or bill paying. She liked leaving a paper trail, even if she was the only one alive who still wrote checks and put stamps on envelopes.
“Okay, I’ll give you that. But there’s more that doesn’t sit right with me.”
“Lead on.”
With a sniff, Sarah left the tiny living-and-dining area, walking beneath an open arch into the bedroom. Helen followed.
“She kept a suitcase under her bed, and it’s gone, of course. But she hardly took anything with her,” Sarah said, indicating neat piles of clothing settled on the duvet, shoes on the floor below. “I emptied her closet and drawers. Look at all the underwear, pajamas, slacks, blouses, pumps, you name it. It doesn’t seem like she packed for more than a few days, and haphazardly at that.”
“Clearly she didn’t mean to be gone for long.”
“Or maybe she didn’t do her own packing.” Sarah went over to the bureau, which appeared to have more atop it than was contained within the half-opened drawers. “She left good jewelry . . . pearls from her college graduation and rings her grandparents gave her that were important to her. When I took out the jewelry tray, I found her Social Security card and her birth certificate hidden beneath it.”
“And she left her passport, as well,” Helen added, having seen it in Sarah’s hand the very day they’d learned Luann had flown the coop. “But are there any signs she didn’t go willingly, any evidence of a struggle?”
“No,” Sarah grudgingly admitted. “But what if she didn’t have a chance to struggle? What if he caught her by surprise? He would have had to be crafty about it, because Luann was pretty tough. She flipped Frank flat on his back when he told her she wasn’t cut out to be a volunteer deputy.”
Helen had heard that story before. In fact, the whole town had heard it, and it had taken months for Frank Biddle to live it down. “My guess is that Luann went willingly.”
“Maybe she did, at first. Maybe she thought she was just running off for the weekend, then bam! He slipped her a Mickey and she ended up stuck in a cellar,” Sarah said, voice rattling. “Lu wouldn’t give up her home and her job. She loved this place. Even if she was a closet romantic, she was not a complete flake.”
“You are convinced, aren’t you?” Helen said, because it was clear that Sarah wasn’t going to be dissuaded from her theory that Luann had been abducted.
“I don’t know what to do to convince Frank that he needs to investigate,” Sarah replied. “He still says he can’t help until I find some kind of proof that she’s being held against her will. What does he expect me to show him? A ransom note made of cutout letters from magazines?”
“I know it must be hard, feeling like you’re on the outside,” Helen said, not sure how to console her. She’d been in Sarah’s shoes before and understood what a stickler the sheriff could be when it came to doing things by the book.
Sarah sighed and turned away, waving hands around the room. “The mayor wants me to pack up Luann’s belongings and move them out so they can hire a new director ASAP, but what am I supposed to do with everything? Frank will freak if I try to store this stuff in our garage forever. I guess I’ll eventually have to get one of those pod things or a storage unit in Jerseyville.”
“Didn’t Luann provide any kind of forwarding address in her resignation e-mail?”
Sarah shook her head. “I didn’t see the letter myself, but Art Beaner said it implied she was planning to travel indefinitely. He said she directed them to e-mail or text any messages, and to deposit her final paycheck electronically.”
“You’re
right,” Helen said. “It seems a bit odd that she doesn’t want to communicate in a more personal way. Unless she’s embarrassed by her actions and she’s trying to avoid everyone.”
“I’ve known Lu since the first grade,” Sarah said, voice cracking. “When her folks divorced during junior high and she clammed up, I was the only one who could get her to talk. I was the first one she called when her senior prom date dumped her and ran off with the cheerleader he’d knocked up.”
Helen made a vague “mm-hmm” noise.
“Yes, she kept a lot to herself,” Sarah added. “So she’s a bit of a loner. She’d rather hang out with dusty old relics than people, and she’s definitely not one for ladies’ lunches or gossip sessions. But I’m the best friend she’s got. Why would she be afraid to face me over something like this?”
“I’ve got a suggestion,” she said.
The sheriff’s wife perked up. “What is it?”
“Could you text her with a message that might trip up someone who doesn’t know her that well? Like asking how her arthritis is . . .”
“But she doesn’t have arthritis.”
“Right,” Helen said, nodding.
Sarah wrinkled her brow. “I took a similar tack already, asking if she remembered that her uncle Bob was due to pass through town this week, which he isn’t, of course, because she doesn’t have an Uncle Bob.”
“What kind of response did you get?”
“The text said that nothing could make her come back yet.”
“So either it’s really Luann or it’s a very clever captor.”
“Seems that way,” Sarah agreed. “Then I asked her to send photos from her travels, but she claimed the camera on her phone isn’t working. So I mentioned that her boyfriend could post pictures from his phone to Facebook, and I got a message saying he’d dropped off social media so he could focus on her, and she had gotten off, too.”
“Oh, dear,” Helen said.
“How am I ever going to know if it’s Luann and not . . .” Sarah hesitated.
Come Helen High Water Page 6
