“What was it you lost exactly?”
What, what, what? C’mon, Helen, think!
“It was my . . . um, glasses,” she finally got out. Her cheeks felt hot with embarrassment. “Yes, my favorite pair.”
John Danielson squinted at her. “You’ve got your glasses on, ma’am.”
Helen laughed nervously. “Oh, these?” she said and touched the bifocals perched on her nose. “They’re my old standbys. I must have left my new ones here the last time Clara and I sorted photographs. I’d hate to lose them.”
“I think you’re mistaken,” he said, “because I don’t recall seeing any glasses on the table when I cleared everything out. Trust me, I’m very meticulous.”
No doubt, Helen thought, considering how well he’d covered his tracks.
“I’m sure that’s true, but it wouldn’t hurt to check again, would it?” she said, adding, “Sometimes even careful folks make mistakes.”
He gave her a funny look. “All right,” he replied before he glanced around, the crow’s-feet around his eyes deepening.
Was he making sure there were no witnesses?
Helen was relieved to see a few diehards heading into the diner across the way. But otherwise the downtown was deserted. Most of the shops were closed and signs in the watery road reminded folks that the off-ramp to the River Road was still inaccessible.
If she went inside the Historical Society and screamed, would anyone even hear?
“Come on in,” the director said, “but let’s make it quick.”
Helen couldn’t do much except move out of his way.
He had his key ready when he got to the door, but as he jabbed it in, the knob instantly turned. “What the . . . ?” he started to say. “I know I locked up.”
“I do that sometimes,” Helen nattered on from behind him. “I think I’ve locked the door, and it’s open. Or I’m sure I turned off the TV, but it’s still on. Sometimes I tell myself that Amber did it.” She laughed nervously. “But of course, he can’t, right? He’s a cat.”
Danielson didn’t wait for Helen to enter before him. He clomped inside, not seeming to care that he trailed river water in with him. He barely paused to stomp on the interior mat before he swung his duffel aside, dumping it on the floor.
“Why are all the lights on?” he remarked as he walked through the hallway.
If he kept going, he’d see that Sarah had removed the padlock from the basement door, and the jig would be up.
C’mon, Sheriff, Helen thought. Hurry!
If only she could get her phone out and warn Sarah that they were inside. Although Helen imagined Sarah could probably hear their footsteps on the creaky old floors regardless. Surely that was warning enough.
“Maybe we should look upstairs on the second floor,” Helen suggested, trying to divert him. “My glasses might be in the big room where Clara and I used to work . . .”
“No!” Danielson said, so brusquely Helen took a step back, bumping into the fire extinguisher on the wall behind her. “I would have noticed them, ma’am, when I organized the room. They’re not there, I assure you.”
“Okay, let’s not go upstairs, then.”
A heavy thump resonated from below and then Sarah hollered, “Helen! She’s here! If that’s you up there, please help!”
Oh, Lord.
Helen cringed.
“What the hell’s going on?” Danielson’s narrowed gaze went straight to the basement door. Not only was it ajar, but the padlock hung freely from the ring of the hasp bar screwed into the jamb. “I won’t let you do this,” he snarled, and reached out to grab Helen’s arm.
Before he got her, Helen swiveled, pulling the fire extinguisher from the wall.
Her mind felt like mud as she tried to remember how to operate the danged thing. PASS, wasn’t it? Pull pin, aim, squeeze, and sweep. But her fingers shook so badly she couldn’t get the pin to come out.
Danielson caught her elbow as he threw the door open. “Get down there!” he told her, jerking her forward.
With her free hand, Helen swung the extinguisher at him as hard as she could. With a clang it connected with his head.
Danielson cursed her, letting her go as he stumbled backward. There was blood at his brow, which only seemed to enrage him. “You old bit—” he started to say.
But Helen took a few steps forward and hit him again.
This time he lost his footing. He cried out as he tumbled down the wooden staircase, thudding down the steps.
Her first thought: Oh, God, have I killed him? Is he dead?
Her second: Screw that!
Breathing hard, Helen dropped the extinguisher, reaching for the manual fire alarm on the wall. She grabbed the lever and pushed it down with all her might.
The alarm blasted noise through her head, and Helen sank to the floor, pressing her palms to her ears, feeling like her skull would explode.
Within a minute, she felt the vibration of feet and suddenly bodies were all around her. She looked up to see several men she didn’t know and then Erma from the diner, holding hands over her ears, as well. Helen wanted to cry with relief when she spotted the sheriff, hovering above her like a big beige hound dog.
“Where’s the fire?” Erma yelled through the din.
The sheriff shut off the alarm, extending his hand to Helen and helping her rise from the floor.
“I think Mrs. Evans must’ve already put it out,” he said.
Chapter 29
The sheriff called for an ambulance and then for Amos Melville.
Doc showed up in about two minutes flat with his black bag in hand. He went down to the basement with the sheriff, who told Helen to stay upstairs, keeping onlookers out and letting the paramedics in.
Sarah Biddle did not leave Luann’s side for a moment. Helen later heard that she’d used her key-chain screwdriver to remove the hinges of the door that Danielson had locked. Doc surmised that Luann had been in the basement for weeks.
The woman was in pretty bad shape, often left without a light on, given enough food and water to survive but kept heavily sedated, lying upon a bare mattress set atop a wooden pallet to keep her dry from the damp concrete floor.
When the ambulance showed up to take Lu to Jersey Community Hospital in Jerseyville, Sarah had insisted on riding along with her.
Helen got a glimpse of Luann, looking dirty and drawn, her hair matted and eyes foggy. Sarah clutched her hand as the paramedics set up the gurney to roll her out. As Helen stood aside, she heard Luann whisper in a paper-thin voice, “You were right . . . It was just like a horror movie.”
Sheriff Biddle had no sympathy when John Danielson complained of injuries from his fall down the stairs and from the growing goose egg where Helen had hit him on the head.
He arrested the man on the spot, telling him he’d haul his butt personally to Jersey Community Hospital and then happily turn him over to the good folks at the county lockup.
“I’m sure I’ll find Luann’s phone and laptop when I search your apartment, won’t I, Mr. Danielson. You’re going down for a long time, pal,” Biddle insisted as he cuffed the man’s arms behind his back. “Kidnapping, theft, fraud, assault, so many charges to choose from,” he chided.
“I did it for my mother,” Danielson said, his eyes on Helen, blood dripping from his temple. “You of all people should understand, Mrs. Evans. She’s got dementia and a load of other issues. You must know how expensive it is to care for someone who’s sick, what it costs to pay for help. She can’t be left alone. And that stupid man she married after my father went through her savings faster than a dog through kibble! He couldn’t even pay to keep up the house, and now I can’t sell it because of the liens.”
But Helen pursed her lips, saying nothing.
She had no sympathy for him, not after what he’d done.
You should have reached out and asked for help, she wanted to scream. If only he’d done that instead of looking for a victim online, for a woman willing to talk ab
out her life and her work, thinking she’d found a soul mate, when in fact all she’d done was reel in a desperate and dangerous man.
When the ambulance had gone and the sheriff’s black-and-white had departed with Danielson tossed in the back, Helen found herself alone with Doc Melville.
They stood in the front room of the Historical Society, the floor around them muddied by dozens of feet that had come and had gone. The smell of the river seeped into the air from the front door, left wide-open.
But it was finally quiet after so much confusion and noise.
“She’ll be okay,” Doc said as Helen stood quietly, arms tightly crossed. “She’ll be back here soon, right where she belongs.”
Helen looked around her, at the display cases surrounding them, filled with artifacts that Luann Dupree had so painstakingly researched and catalogued and put out for all of River Bend to learn from and share. It was clear to see how much of her heart went into this place, to preserving the past and all that had come before. To John Danielson, on the other hand, the relics were a means to an end, not to be cherished but to be sold to the highest bidder. And Luann had just stood in his way.
“It’s been a hard time around here lately, hasn’t it?” Amos went on. “Life is not easy sometimes, but we trudge on regardless. And at least there’s a happy ending to Luann’s story.”
“Unlike Bernie’s,” Helen said, her voice hoarse. She felt strangely defeated when she should have felt buoyed after Luann’s rescue. “But I guess there’s no happy ending when you have Alzheimer’s, is there?”
Doc said nothing. He didn’t even grunt, which roused her suspicions.
“Amos?” she said, uncrossing her arms and walking toward him. “What’s wrong?”
Doc looked positively ashen.
Helen had known Amos and Fanny Melville for all of the fifty years that she’d lived in River Bend. Doc had taken care of her family, her kids, and Joe when he’d gotten sick. In fact, Doc had done all a human could do to prolong her husband’s life, and she loved him for it. She loved Fanny like a sister.
She could tell when he was heartbroken, and he appeared to be that. She just wasn’t sure why.
“Are you okay?” she asked and jerked her chin toward a bench between display cases. “Can you sit a minute?” She nudged him toward it, and they plunked down side by side. He put his black bag by his feet with a sigh.
“Frankly, I’ve been better,” he said.
“It’s not Fanny?” Helen asked, although she didn’t think so. She’d seen her friend just the day before after Bernie’s rescue, and she’d looked fine. Still, looks could be deceiving.
“No, no, Fanny’s good.” Doc shook his head. “It’s Bernie Winston.”
Helen took a stab in the dark. “You’ve done an exam? Is the death certificate signed so Betty can proceed with cremation?”
Doc opened his hands, palm-up, as if showing they were empty.
Helen sucked in a breath before she let it out slowly. “Something’s off, isn’t it? You’re not satisfied.”
“He had no water in his lungs,” Amos said pointedly. “He couldn’t have been in the water for long, or else the lungs would’ve been filled with water, no matter how he died.”
“You can tell that without autopsy?”
“I can ascertain it well enough through palpation.”
If Helen hadn’t already felt like she was in the Twilight Zone, she would have thought it then. “Hold on a second. Are you saying that Bernie didn’t drown?”
“I’m saying it’s suspicious.”
“Maybe he fell and hit his head before he went into the creek? That would explain the lack of water in his lungs.”
“No, he didn’t have any new contusions or abrasions to his skull that I could see,” Amos countered. “Remember, I’d just examined him the day before when he came out of the woods. So I had a solid basis for comparison.”
“Heart attack?” Helen suggested.
“He’s got petechial hemorrhaging and some strange mottling around his nose and mouth. It’s as though something was pressed into his skin, almost in a pattern.”
“You think someone else was involved?”
“I’m saying I don’t know,” Doc admitted. He raised his hands to his face, touching spots around his own nose and mouth. “They were strange-looking marks, and you’ll probably think I’m crazy, but they appeared to be shaped like butterflies.”
“Butterflies?” Helen repeated.
Doc harrumphed. “I said you’d think I was crazy.”
“No,” she whispered, “sadly, I don’t.”
An all-encompassing weariness swept through her, a moment of epiphany that she wished she could undo by simply squishing her eyes closed. It had been a hard time lately, yes, far beyond anything she had understood until right then.
She wet her lips. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
Doc hung his head. “I don’t know, Helen. I truly don’t. I thought I’d talk to Frank and see if he wanted to pursue this. I could request an autopsy . . .”
“An autopsy?” Helen’s pulse jumped. “Oh, Amos, you know as well as I do that anything could have happened to Bernie. Can’t we let him rest in peace? That poor family has been through enough. Isn’t it time we let them move on?”
For a long moment, the doctor sat silently. He smoothed blue-veined hands over his knees, fiddled with his wedding band, until finally he cleared his throat.
“You’re right, of course. I have no proof that anything happened beyond an octogenarian with Alzheimer’s leaving his home in the middle of the night and ending up lifeless in the flooded creek. He could have had a fatal stroke or his advanced disease could have just told his lungs to stop breathing.” Doc turned tired eyes upon Helen. “It seems a logical conclusion, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would.” She patted his hand. “Does that mean you’re going to sign the death certificate?”
“Yes,” he said and picked up his bag, rising to his feet.
“It’s the right thing, Amos. It is.”
“Are you sure?” He looked at her, earnestly searching for an answer.
Helen nodded, but the companionable air between them turned awkward, and she understood why. He suspected what she knew. His eyes told her that more clearly than words.
And there was nothing either of them could do to change it.
Chapter 30
Helen parted ways with Amos, hardly seeing as she walked. It was as though her feet knew precisely where she wanted to go, and they carried her there, without a second thought.
She had to take a few deep breaths before she went up the path to the Winstons’ house, and not because she’d gone too fast. It would require a fair bit of courage to do what had to be done, but she couldn’t go on if she didn’t.
Helen wasn’t good at pretending. She never had been, particularly not with a person she knew as well—thought she knew as well—as Clara.
She’d barely tapped a fist against the door before it was answered.
Her friend stood before her, meeting her eyes, as if she knew why Helen had come.
“Is your sister here?” she asked, and Clara nodded. “May I come in?”
“Sure.” Her friend drew the door wide so Helen could pass.
“Is Ellen here with Sawyer?”
“No,” Clara told her. “They went back into St. Louis for a few hours, but they’ll return to spend the night.”
“Where’s Betty?”
“She’s been sitting on the back porch staring out at the flooded creek for the last hour.”
“I’m sure she has,” Helen said.
“I heard there was some commotion downtown,” Clara remarked, following behind her as Helen went through the cottage. “I got a call from Bertha Beaner. Art told her that John Danielson had been arrested, that Luann had been stuck in the basement all this time.”
“It’s true.” Helen paused in the kitchen, seeing through to the porch and to the back of the wicker cha
ir where Betty sat, her hair a white poof of cotton.
“So it seems that silly Sarah Biddle was right all along.”
“I guess she was, yes.”
Clara clicked tongue against teeth. “Sometimes things aren’t what they appear on the surface.”
“No, they aren’t,” Helen said, thinking that applied to people, too.
She turned her back on Clara and stepped out onto the porch. The sound of the water moving in the creek beyond the screens seemed so loud in its rushing. Trees hung in a canopy above the small speck of yard that was still green and not covered by muck.
Helen settled onto a bentwood chair with a hard seat. She preferred that it was uncomfortable. She hadn’t come to shoot the breeze.
Clara stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame. Helen half expected her to say, “I know why you’ve come, and you can’t do this. Go away.”
But she didn’t.
“Hello, Betty,” Helen said, though the cottony head did not pivot in her direction. “I had a most interesting conversation with Doc Melville a few minutes ago. He’s done his exam on Bernie. I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear that he’s going to sign the death certificate . . .”
“Oh, thank God,” Clara said, and put a hand over mouth. She started to cry, and Helen glanced over, concerned. But Clara waved her off and wandered inside.
All the better, Helen mused.
She pulled her chair closer to Betty’s.
“Don’t assume that Doc didn’t have some serious questions about what happened to Bernie, because he did. He still does, in fact, and so do I.”
Betty’s chin came up a notch.
“Here’s how I believe the story goes,” she went on. “I think it all started many, many years ago when you were first married and Clara was just a teenager. I saw the family photograph from the Historical Society archives before Clara stuffed it in her bag. She told me about living with you and Bernie when she was sixteen. She said you saved her life. She was pregnant then, wasn’t she?”
“She’s my sister,” Betty said, very matter-of-factly. “She needed me.”
“Was it her stepfather?” Helen asked. “Was he responsible for her condition?”
Come Helen High Water Page 19
