Not a Chance in Helen Read online

  Helen looked at Zelma and then at the man who ignored her still. She clenched her hands into fists and picked her way across the littered rug, stopping on the other side of the desk. When he didn’t look up, she pushed aside a jumble of papers to find the telephone. She lifted the receiver. “If you don’t get out on the count of three,” she told him, “I’ll have no choice but to call Sheriff Biddle.”

  He glanced up at her and grunted, then went back to his rummaging.

  “One,” Helen said.

  He didn’t even look up.

  “Two.”

  No reaction then either.

  “Three,” Helen said and started to dial.

  The phone was snatched from her hand before she’d finished, the receiver clamped down with a clatter.

  The man glared at her. “Good Lord, woman, you can’t really call the police. I have a perfect right to be here. I’m a relative.”

  Helen turned to Zelma, who nodded rather unhappily.

  “He’s Mr. Duncan’s brother,” she explained, hands still kneading her apron.

  “His baby brother,” the man spoke up, rubbing his palms on the front of linen pants that looked rather threadbare. The faded blue polo shirt he wore had also seen better days. He had the air about him of someone who demanded more of life than he gave; there were lines about his eyes and mouth that she’d wager had more to do with age and less to do with hard work. He might have been about sixty-­five, but it was difficult to tell. He certainly kept himself in good shape.

  “Stanley Duncan,” he said and extended his hand, which Helen made no move to take. He drew it back with a frown. “So now you’re one up on me, aren’t you? You know who I am, but I’ve no idea who you are. Perhaps,” he intoned, “I’m the one who should be phoning the sheriff. You did just walk into the house uninvited, after all. I think that’s called breaking and entering.”

  Why, the nerve of him! Helen fumed, when he’d torn up the library so that it looked like a tornado had weaved a path through it. She opened her mouth to sputter a retort but pressed it shut again.

  Ah, yes, Stanley Duncan, Marvin’s little brother. The name suddenly rang a bell. She’d heard Eleanora speak of him once or twice in no great detail. All Helen did recall were phrases like “deadbeat,” “parasite,” and “sponge.” He’d left River Bend years and years ago, not long after Helen and Joe had moved into the house at Jersey and Springfield. Though he might have dropped into town sporadically since, she’d never met him face-­to-­face until now.

  Helen went to Zelma’s side and put an arm around her. The housekeeper sagged against her shoulder. “I’ve come to see Zelma,” she said, “although why you’re here is a different story. What are you looking for, Mr. Duncan?” she pressed.

  “As if that’s any of your business,” he snapped, returning his attention to the near-­empty drawer.

  Zelma was less cryptic. “He says he wants what belongs to him. He’s after her money, I’m sure of it. He was always calling Miss Nora, demanding cash, ever since he spent whatever Mr. Marvin left him. Miss Nora helped him out at first. She’d send him a check so he’d leave her in peace. But she was through,” Zelma stated and lifted her chin. “ ‘The bank’s closed,’ that’s what she told me to tell him when he came by yesterday afternoon.”

  “Shut up, you old bat!” Stanley tossed the drawer to the floor with a clunk, the noise enough to make Zelma cower.

  The hair at Helen’s nape bristled. “If you’re expecting some money from Eleanora, Mr. Duncan, I’d suggest you wait until her will’s read, though it may be a few days. Her cause of death has to be determined before the certificate can be signed, so everything’s all neat and legal.”

  “I don’t care how she died or even that she’s dead!” he shouted, his clean-­shaven face turning ruddy. Helen might have found him handsome if she hadn’t glimpsed the ugliness of his character. “All I want is what’s mine, you got that? And I won’t leave until I find it!”

  “Heaven help me,” Zelma breathed.

  Helen had heard enough. She let go of the housekeeper and stomped toward Stanley, this time disregarding the papers that crackled under her feet. “All right, Mr. Duncan, you’ve had your fun. But now it’s over. Either you take yourself out of the house right this moment, or I will most certainly call the sheriff, no matter if I have to use another phone to do it!”

  Take that, buddy!

  She crossed her arms and planted herself, standing as tall as her five feet and five inches would allow. Though she barely reached Stanley’s chin, he seemed to get the message that she meant business, and she strongly doubted that he’d relish tangling with the law.

  He raised his hands. “Okay, you win. I’ll go.” He looked past her at Zelma and shook a finger. “But I’ll be back. I’m not leaving town till I get what’s mine, you understand?” His eyes settled on Helen again. “As far as the will goes, I guess I’ll be hearing from her lawyers sometime soon enough. I’m the only surviving Duncan, so maybe I’ll finally get back everything that should’ve been mine when Marv died. He meant for me to have more than the few bucks I got, I know he did. It was that old battle-­axe he married who made sure I was cut out.”

  With that said, he spun on a heel and left.

  Helen followed to make sure he was really gone; she didn’t feel satisfied until she stood on the porch and watched his dusty Lincoln drive away.

  Zelma came up behind her. “Miss Nora always said Mr. Stanley was spoiled something awful when he was a baby, being that he was so much younger. She said he never did get over it.”

  “Eleanora was right.”

  Zelma sighed. “Miss Nora knew how to take care of him. She wasn’t afraid of him in the least.”

  Helen looked into the tired face. “And you are, aren’t you, dear?”

  Zelma didn’t answer. Instead, she brushed her trembling hands against her apron, hung her head, and shuffled inside.

  Chapter Eight

  THE SCREEN DOOR squealed open then slapped shut again.

  Frank Biddle looked up from the Alton Telegraph spread on his desk. When he saw Amos Melville, he quickly folded the paper and stuffed it away in his top drawer.

  “How do, Sheriff.”

  “Something up, Doc?” Frank checked his watch. “You on your lunch break already?”

  “Just between appointments,” Amos told him, and Frank nodded.

  The sheriff knew that many folks in River Bend, like Amos Melville, still worked nine to five despite being past the usual retirement age. It heartened a middle-­aged man like Frank to see all the gray hairs that kept things humming on Main Street, like Erma serving food at the diner, Hilary Dell running the stationery store, and Agnes March selling antiques just next door. ­People didn’t stop doing in this town just because they passed sixty-­five. There were no big corporate bullies to tell them when they should retire, so it seemed to Frank that few did. Though he didn’t wager he’d be sheriff too far into his sunset years, it gave him a good feeling to know that no one around here would even blink if he wore his badge for another decade or more.

  With an overloud sigh, Doc settled into the chair opposite his desk.

  Uh-­oh, Frank thought and cleared his throat. He had a feeling this wasn’t just a friendly visit. “You’ve heard from your friend at the medical examiner’s office,” he said as much as asked.

  Amos ran a hand over his fluff of white hair, pushing back the strands that had fallen over his brow. He stuck his bifocals onto his crown and rubbed his eyes as he spoke. “Some of the tests have been run, and it doesn’t look good.”

  “I see.” Biddle couldn’t think of any other comment. So he listened.

  “There’s evidence of hemorrhagic gastroenteritis, which is inflammation and bleeding of the stomach and intestines,” Doc clarified, propping his specs back on his nose. “Ed found signs of cerebral edema a
nd central nervous system depression, enough to have caused complete respiratory failure.”

  Biddle cleared his throat. “Which in plain English means what?”

  “It looks like Eleanora was poisoned.”

  Biddle leaned forward. “Any sign of what did it?” he asked.

  Doc’s pale eyes met his. “The tests of her organs and tissue aren’t all in yet. But from what’s been done so far and from the symptoms of tremor and convulsion Zelma described, I’d wager it was some kind of acid or acid compound, though I’d hate to trap myself into a guess just yet. The lab will narrow down an answer soon enough.”

  “Poisoned.” Biddle breathed the word, dropping his hands to his knees and slumping back in his chair. “So someone did kill old Mrs. Duncan.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Ingested?”

  Doc nodded.

  “Think it was in the food she was snacking on while Zelma fixed her dinner?”

  “Ed said he’d have all the answers later on this afternoon.”

  “Holy cow,” Biddle murmured, his chair squealing as he rocked forward again and got to his feet. He hiked up his pants, though his belly kept them from budging much higher. “I can’t believe someone really did her in.” He shook his head and turned on his heel so he was looking down at Doc. “You’re sure about this, now?”

  “I’m dead certain.”

  Frank raised his brows.

  Doc tacked on, “So to speak.”

  “She was murdered,” Frank said, simply because it floored him each time something like that happened in this tiny town. For the most part, major crimes involved fishing rods stolen from boats in the harbor or skinny-­dipping in the community pool on hot summer nights. “Murdered,” he repeated, more softly this time, thinking of the car that had tried to run down Eleanora Duncan the previous morning. Were the two incidents connected? He had suggested as much last night, but it had been a comment made on the spur of the moment. Now he wasn’t so certain he hadn’t been right.

  Doc came out of his chair. “I’d better run. Fanny’s got a kid coming in with chicken pox in half an hour. Think I’ll pick up a sandwich at the diner and take it back to my desk.”

  “Holler when you know something more,” Frank called as Doc left his office.

  The sheriff got up and walked over to the screen door. He looked through the mesh, watching as Amos Melville crossed Main Street and headed straight for the diner. Every now and again, a car would creep its way up the street or down. Voices cropped up and faded as ­people passed his office at a leisurely pace. No one in River Bend ever seemed in much of a hurry. Frank figured that was part of why he liked it here.

  He’d left the police force in St. Charles a number of years ago, settling into this tiny river-­side community with Sarah and running for sheriff unopposed. He’d gotten tired of the crime that had seemed to spread like a fungus beyond the St. Louis metroplex, creeping into St. Charles. He’d wanted something better for himself and Sarah. He’d figured River Bend was the answer, particularly since he didn’t like using a gun. Most of the time he could get through a week without anything more urgent than calls about cats up in trees or a fender bender on the graveled roads. Once in a while, some kid would pocket a candy bar or a magazine from the drugstore or steal a pickup and go joyriding up to Cemetery Hill.

  But murder?

  That wasn’t something he saw much of in River Bend. With so many older folks in town, death wasn’t uncommon. But dying in your sleep wasn’t criminal. Eleanora Duncan hadn’t gone willingly. Someone had given her a shove.

  Biddle sighed again.

  Now all he had to do was figure out who did it.

  His stomach grumbled, and he realized he was hungry.

  He couldn’t do much on the Duncan case until the medical examiner had finished the autopsy, so he figured he might as well have lunch.

  He pushed open the screen door and went out. He let the door slap shut behind him. Hiking up his pants, he started across the street as Doc Melville had a minute before, making a beeline toward the diner just as the carillon in the chapel began to play a noontime tune.

  Chapter Nine

  THE PLUCKY CHIMES of the carillon filled the air as Helen walked home from the Duncan house.

  Without so much as a glance at her wristwatch, she knew it was noon. Her stomach growled on cue, and she wondered if somehow her body hadn’t over the years learned to react to the carillon’s chimes at midday and dusk like Pavlov’s dog.

  As she approached her cottage, she noticed that the screen door had been pushed open about six inches. Helen figured that Amber had made his way inside, ready for lunch. That was all well and good so long as the old tom hadn’t brought her anything from the creek bed or the bluffs, like a frog or the little gray field mice he was so fond of.

  She entered the house and surveyed the porch. Carefully, she inspected the floral cushions atop the white wicker. She even stooped to check beneath the sofa and chairs, but she didn’t see anything more startling than dust bunnies.

  Entering the interior through open French doors, Helen crossed the dining room and went into the kitchen.

  There he was, as expected.

  Amber sat on the floor with his tail vaguely twitching. His ears pricked up at her footsteps, but otherwise he gave no indication that he was happy to see her.

  He stared sadly down at his food bowl, which Helen had filled with Salmon ‘n’ Cod just that morning and which now appeared nearly empty. Whatever did he find so engrossing about his leftover breakfast?

  “You’re not old enough to be senile,” she murmured, taking a few steps closer. Despite how her knees protested, she crouched low behind him and squinted down at the linoleum. Within seconds, she saw what caught his interest.

  A thin trail of black ants marched from a crack in the floorboard below the dishwasher across to Amber’s saucer and back again.

  “Ugh,” she muttered and slowly straightened, putting her hands on her hips. She looked down at Amber, who turned his yellow eyes in her direction. “Well,” she told him, “do something, would you? Earn your rent.”

  He blinked at her, and his pink-­gummed mouth seemed to be grinning, as though he was enjoying the whole scene immensely.

  Helen sighed, realizing she was going to have to take care of the ant trail herself. She lifted a sneakered foot and brought it down, squashing as many of the little buggers as she could. With a grimace, she scratched their carcasses off the sole of her Ked with a paper towel.

  Amber mewed gruffly, like she’d spoiled his fun. Then he sauntered off with his tail in the air.

  “Sorry, pal,” Helen said as he disappeared around the corner. Gathering up her courage, she pulled open the dishwasher but didn’t see a sign of ants inside. Well, that was something good, anyway.

  Though she scrounged beneath the sink, pushing aside cans of air freshener, floor cleaner, spot remover, brass and silver polish, and assorted other sparklers and shiners she didn’t use near as much as she should, all Helen could find was a bottle of ant killer with just about a drop left. Definitely not enough to do the job at hand. Splat, it was called, and it was great stuff. Made by a little company in St. Louis, it got rid of the pests better than any big-­name brand she’d ever tried. She’d heard talk it was about to be banned—­but then Helen heard lots of talk around here—­and besides, the corner market still stocked it. Helen knew she wasn’t the only one who’d raise a stink if she couldn’t buy some. It was the one thing that truly worked against modern-­day bugs with their cast-­iron stomachs.

  She dusted off her hands and dropped the empty bottle of Splat into the trash can.

  Hmm, she thought as she peered into her near-­empty refrigerator; if she didn’t get to the grocer’s pretty soon, even the ants wouldn’t have much to snack on. She knew her stash of cat food for Amber was getting dangero
usly low. All right, all right. After she put something in her stomach, she’d take a trip to the store and fill up.

  That settled, she gathered up the few slices of American cheese, butter, and bread that remained and fixed herself a grilled cheese sandwich. It was exactly what she’d meant to eat for supper the night before but had forsaken when Jean had called and asked to meet her at the diner. What with dogging Frank Biddle to Eleanora’s and finding her dead, Helen had ended up coming home to a bowl of Raisin Bran at close to nine o’clock.

  She took the sandwich and a glass of ice water out onto the porch. Within five minutes, she’d devoured the grilled cheese, even licking the greasy residue off her fingertips when she was done.

  It took her twice as long to locate her glasses. When she found them buried behind seat cushions on the wicker couch, she propped them on her nose and retrieved that morning’s Alton Telegraph. She neatly folded the paper to the section that featured the crossword puzzle. The purple pen she used to fill in the squares sat right beside it. She picked both up and settled down.

  Ten across. Five letters.

  A river in German wine country (Ger. sp.).

  Helen paused for a moment, but only that, then said aloud, “Mosel,” writing down the answer in deep lavender print.

  She backtracked to three down.

  A seven-­letter word for insolent.

  “Stanley,” she uttered without thinking, laughing at herself when she realized what she’d said. Well, it fit, didn’t it? And Stanley Duncan certainly was insolent if nothing else.

  It was too bad, she mused, as she filled in the squares with “abusive,” that Eleanora couldn’t have used a little Splat to rid herself of her awful brother-­in-­law.

  What gall he had, tearing through Eleanora’s things like a madman, frightening Zelma half to death, and with Eleanora not even buried.