Come Helen High Water Read online

  Dedication

  For my father, who is living with Alzheimer’s

  and can no longer read the books I write.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Before the Flood Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  After the Flood Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  The World of Susan McBride

  About the Author

  Also by Susan McBride

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Before the Flood

  Chapter 1

  Sunday

  The “walk of shame,” wasn’t that what they called it?

  Despite the hangover that played timpani drums in her head, Luann Dupree cracked a smile as she locked her car and scurried toward her front door in the gray light of early morning. She’d always been such a straight arrow that it tickled her to envision herself being labeled a hussy. Unfortunately, it appeared that no one was around to witness her predawn homecoming.

  She glanced right and left, checking an all-but-deserted Main Street beneath the still-glowing streetlamps. It felt very much like a ghost town, though there were a few signs of life: the lights flickering on at the diner down the block; a whip-poor-will calling out from a nearby tree; and a cat with a bell on its collar darting beneath a parked car. Otherwise, the town slept, not to awaken until the morning newspaper landed hard upon front porches.

  “No one here but us chickens,” she murmured, shaking her head.

  She let herself into the building that had, half a century ago, been the Spring Creek Hotel. Through the years the hotel had fallen into disrepair. When its owners died and their heirs placed it on the market for a pittance, the town council had scooped up the property for the River Bend Historical Society. Walls had been torn down to create vast space on the first floor for a museum. The second floor held countless documents and photographs that needed scanning into the system. Its unoccupied rooms also provided storage for the dozens of boxes found in the attic during the renovation and an extensive inventory of items left to the Historical Society by deceased town residents.

  The renovation had been fully completed a year ago, and Luann was still sorting through the jumble.

  She’d assumed the helm of the Society a decade before and had spent so much time in the building that it felt like home. Heck, it was her home. Before the town council had pushed forward plans to turn the attic into a tiny one-bedroom apartment, she’d often slept on the couch in her office. Though her brand-new living space was hardly bigger than a breadbox, it was all that she needed, seeing as how she was single without even a pet to her name.

  One of these days, Lu imagined moving into a cottage perched atop the bluffs above the Mississippi River. How glorious it would be to wake up every morning and see the sunrise dapple the water! It would be even better if she had someone to share it with, she mused wistfully.

  Not that there was anything wrong with living alone. Luann had been alone most of her fifty-two years. If she’d liked pets, it might have been a different story. But she was bored to death of herself and itched to share her passion with someone else, hopefully before another decade passed her by while her nose was buried in census tomes or dusty old photographs.

  “It’s never too late in life to have a genuine adventure.”

  Lu thought of the quote from an author whose book about pirates she’d devoured. When had she experienced a genuine adventure? When had she just thrown caution to the wind and let go?

  She felt like all she did was dig into the past and discover other people’s adventures. But what she did mattered, she reminded herself. Uncovering the past and telling its stories was important for future generations. What she left behind as director of the Historical Society—the artifacts, the books, letters, diaries, and photographs—they lived on. They were her progeny.

  Maybe it wasn’t the same as having a family and raising children to unleash on the world, but it had to be enough.

  With a sigh, she hesitated in front of the antique hall tree that sat inside a small foyer just off the main entrance. She stared at her weary face in the mirror and attempted a smile.

  Her chin-length bob looked disheveled. Her eyes were puffy and underscored by melted mascara. Her lipstick hadn’t lasted through her third martini, much less one passionate kiss.

  She had turned into a lightweight in her middle age, she decided. She used to be able to handle her liquor without having to be put to bed like a child. Try as she might, she could hardly remember a thing from the night before beyond sitting at the bar and flirting with her newfound beau. It was a very good thing that he had been such a gentleman, or she could have ended up in dire straits.

  “You’re not very adept at playing the party girl,” she told herself and winced.

  She was already dreading having to entertain the volunteers who would show up at the Historical Society later that morning. Perhaps she’d stay in bed and put a Do Not Disturb sign on the locked front door. Still, she had her doubts that they’d go away. Most of the townsfolk she dealt with were hardly the mousy live-and-let-live types. They were kind, yes, but bossy and prone to interfering in everyone else’s business.

  How they would love to hear what she’d been up to last night! If she dared to spill the beans, they’d have enough fodder for the grapevine to carry them through the next week, even longer if they were to learn that she’d met her paramour online and their romance had blossomed via texts, e-mails, and secret Facebook messages. To modern-day daters those things were the norm. To the widows of River Bend, of which there were plenty, such newfangled ways of courtship were distasteful at best and suspect at the very least.

  But Luann wasn’t about to share all her secrets. She had grown up in this tiny Illinois river town. She knew how things went. So ten years ago when she’d moved back to River Bend from St. Louis to take over the Historical Society, she’d done her best to keep her private life private.

  Mostly.

  She wasn’t big on trust, particularly where women were concerned. It seemed like the single ones were usually jealous and the married ones judgmental. If she had to call anyone her best friend, it would be Sarah Biddle. Luann had known her since grade school. Besides, who better to keep tabs on her than the sheriff’s wife, just in case her Internet beau turned out to be Jack the Ripper? Though she hadn’t confided much about her online relationship to Sarah, she had told her about The Date.

  “Let me go with you to meet this guy. I’ll keep my distance so I don’t scare him away,” Sarah had offered. “What if you get catfished?”

  Lu had laughed. “The only catfish in my plans are the fritters at the Loading Dock.”

  Sarah had frowned. “You’re not taking me seriously.”

  “Give me some credit,” Lu had told her, squeezing her hand. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Says every woman in every horror movie who goes into the dark basement when they hear a bump in the night, and what h
appens to them?” Sarah had prodded with an anxious look on her long face. “That’s right,” she had finished, not waiting for Lu to answer. “They end up shish-kabobbed and eviscerated.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m not meeting him in a dark basement,” Luann had replied, adding a silent Thanks for the reassurance, pal.

  As if she hadn’t been nervous enough.

  She’d quieted the somersaulting butterflies in her belly with beer, sipping a bottle as she prepared for her date. She’d even considered backing out at the last minute, only to remind herself, What the heck have you got to lose?

  Besides, she and Mr. Maybe had agreed to meet in a public place, which made Luann feel safe enough. If she didn’t like him in person, she could always leave.

  As it turned out, Lu and Mr. Maybe had hit it off so well face-to-face that she’d overindulged in the dirty martinis he kept insisting on buying her. She couldn’t remember much besides waking up in a room at the Ruebel Hotel—alone—and hoping she hadn’t screwed up her chance at love by passing out. She’d still had her clothes on, which was mostly a relief, and she hadn’t been robbed. She’d stopped at the front desk to ask if Mr. Maybe had gotten a room for himself, but he’d only paid for hers and left her a note: Take two aspirin and text me in the morning.

  Ha!

  She considered texting him now, but got caught up in a yawn.

  Don’t text him yet, she told herself.

  She didn’t want to seem too desperate.

  First she planned to follow his advice and take two aspirin. She’d chase them with a full glass of water and a few hours’ sleep. Screw the volunteers, she decided and turned toward the stairs that led up to her apartment. She reached for the banister but paused, detecting a whiff of something funky in the air.

  Had an animal died in her office?

  She headed toward the rear of the building, searching for a source of the malodor that made the timpani drums in her head turn even louder.

  The renovation notwithstanding, the Victorian structure could be a headache with its terribly creaky floors—which she’d insisted on saving—and basement so dark and moldy that the town council had moved the furnace and water heater into a room at the back of the building. After clearing out anything of value from the maze of rooms below, Luann had padlocked the basement door, refusing to descend the stairs again, even under threats of a tornado. But it wasn’t mildew that caused her to pinch her nose now.

  “Good Lord, what is that?” she asked herself.

  Usually the air bore the delicate scent of the lavender bubbles she bathed in—to disguise the mustiness of the historical texts she was always reading for research—but instead it reeked of muck and fish and nasty Mississippi River mud.

  Lu strode through the rooms that ran shotgun through the building. She bypassed framed nineteenth-century plats of River Bend, shelves holding precious donations of Native American pottery, and catalogued boxes filled with arrowheads from the tribes that had been the region’s first inhabitants.

  When she reached the rear of the building and entered the office, she instantly realized the source of the stink, and it wasn’t pretty. Brown water had seeped beneath the back door, creating a puddle on the pickled pine floor. Fleetingly, she thought, Oh, God, the creek is rising awfully fast. Better ask the mayor for sandbags.

  But what disturbed her more was the unlocked door and a vague trail of damp. Were those footprints?

  This was not good, she told herself. Not good at all.

  Had someone broken in while she was gone?

  For a split second Luann freaked out, until she reminded herself that she’d left what mattered most in good hands.

  Feeling calmer, she checked the lock, but there were no signs of tampering: no gouges from a screwdriver or broken pane of glass. Had she been so discombobulated when she’d left for her date that she’d forgotten to lock up? Hastily, she turned the dead bolt, her heart pounding in sync with the throb at her temples.

  She glanced around her office but could find nothing amiss. No drawers opened or files rifled through. She backtracked through the building, flipping on the lights in the rooms housing artifacts and texts. Though she squinted at every case full of arrowheads and stone tools, ran a finger along the weathered spines of shelved books, and inspected the pottery, everything looked as she’d left it.

  “Whew.” She let out a sigh of relief, feeling weak at the knees.

  If anyone had come inside—perhaps a nosy councilman with the spare keys checking up on her work—they certainly hadn’t stayed long. River Bend was not the kind of place where crime ran rampant, at least not beyond cars running stop signs and petty disagreements flaring up among neighbors.

  She took great care to turn the dead bolts before she clutched the banister, made her way upstairs to her apartment, and fumbled her way inside. The pale pink of the dawn sky filtered in through the blinds as she went to the galley kitchen and popped two aspirin, then chased the pills with a full glass of water.

  En route to her bedroom, she heard the crunch of tires on gravel and a familiar thud against the front door.

  Paperboy, she thought, though he wasn’t a boy, was he? He was a grown man with a full-size beard that brought to mind soldiers in Civil War–era photographs. Strange how that trend had come back after all these years, or maybe it was fitting considering the political climate.

  Luann still wasn’t sure if she was pro or con, considering how kissing a bewhiskered man meant inevitable beard burn.

  Absently, she touched her lips and smiled to herself. She passed beneath the arch leading into the bedroom, kicking off her shoes. As she began shrugging out of her sweater, the table light switched on, blinding her for an instant.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” a soft voice said from the far corner.

  Luann blinked away the floaters, eyes widening as a man rose from her bedside armchair.

  “Wh-What are you doing here?” she sputtered, noticing the opened drawers in her bureau and the suitcase on her bed. “Were you looking for something?”

  “No.” He smiled. “I was packing your things.”

  Packing her things?

  “How did you get in?” she asked, pressing a hand to her chest and hoping she didn’t have a heart attack.

  He didn’t answer her question. Instead he reached a hand out to her. “You told me you were ripe for a real adventure. So let’s do it, Luann. Let me take you away.”

  “Away?” she asked, her pulse scudding in her ears. “To where?”

  “Leave it to me,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  Luann froze for an instant, about to tell him he was a fool, that she wasn’t about to go anywhere with him. But she caught herself before she did.

  It’s never too late in life to have a genuine adventure.

  What if this was her last chance?

  What if he wasn’t just Mr. Maybe, but Mr. Right? How would she know if she didn’t take that leap of faith?

  Luann suddenly forgot how tired she was and how her head ached. She ignored all common sense, brushing aside any questions or doubts.

  “Let’s do it,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.

  Then she threw herself into his arms, and he held on to her so tightly she couldn’t breathe.

  Chapter 2

  Ellen Ashby stood in her kitchen, slicing red onions for a tossed salad. She was fifty-four but looked ten years younger in flip-flops and cropped jeans, rolled up at the cuffs. She was babbling nonstop about enrolling her twelve-year-old daughter in hip-hop dance class and how she wasn’t sure if the girl would survive because of her two left feet.

  “You know what a klutz Sawyer is,” she said with a laugh and used the back of her hand to brush aside a wisp of gray-streaked brown hair that had escaped her ponytail. “It was such a relief when she quit gymnastics. I thought for sure she’d break her neck on the balance beam.”

  Bernie Winston shifted in his seat.

  “Remember how I was at
that age, Dad?” she went on, making circles in the air with a paring knife. “I fancied myself a prima ballerina. I would twirl and twirl until I fell down, dizzy. You used to say I was a whirling dervish.”

  A whirling dervish?

  What the devil was that?

  Bernie wrinkled his forehead, befuddled. He tried hard to focus on what she was saying but his mind kept losing track midsentence. He looked around him, and his hands clenched to fists in his lap.

  “You want something to drink, Dad? It’s pretty warm out there for April,” the woman said. “I’ve got ice water, tea, and beer.” She laughed nervously. “Wait, nix the beer. Mom would have a fit if she saw you drinking liquor.” At his quizzical stare, she added, “You can’t have alcohol with your meds.”

  His meds?

  Bernie wanted to ask what she was talking about and rubbed his whiskered jaw, which got him to wondering how he’d forgotten to shave. He used to do it every morning without fail. Though he had gotten up extra early today so he could get on the road, hadn’t he? That was probably it.

  “Dad?”

  She stared at him, worry plain on her face. Her concern tugged at something inside him. Bernie wasn’t sure why he felt the need to apologize, but he gave it a shot anyway.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just so tired. I spent the day driving across the state,” he said, giving his neck a roll. He could feel the tension in his shoulders. “I was inspecting the Northern Illinois mines for Peabody. I hardly had time to stop for lunch.”

  “Inspecting the mines for Peabody?” Ellen repeated, scrunching up her face. She turned off the tap and wiped her hands on a dish towel. “But you haven’t worked for them for at least twenty . . .” She stopped herself, biting on her bottom lip. “Are you okay, Dad? You do look tired,” she said, coming near. “Sure I can’t get you some water?”

  “No, no water.” He waved her off, feeling a sudden sense of panic. “This isn’t my house, is it? I want to go home.”

  “It’s okay, Dad. You’re in my house,” the woman said calmly. “You and Mom came for dinner.”