Authors: Susan McBride
Mad as Helen (6 page)
F
R
ANK
B
IDDLE
HIKED
up his belted pants and started after them. He got as far as the door before he stopped himself with a shake of his head.
Helen Evans might be an occasional thorn in his side, sticking her nose where it didn’t belong, but she was right about one thing: Nancy Sweet was in no condition to answer the questions he needed to ask her.
He went back to his desk and picked up the file on Grace Simpson. The facts in the case seemed simple enough. The psychotherapist had apparently been murdered in her own home, killed by a blow to the head. The time of death was likely before eight o’clock last evening, when she was supposed to have met her publisher in St. Louis. Doc’s cursory exam at the scene showed rigor mortis had fully set in. The autopsy should help clear up any unanswered questions about the condition of the body.
But those results would take time, Frank knew. So, for now, what did he have?
Motives.
He tapped a pencil against the legal pad on his desk.
First and foremost was the book that Grace was to have delivered to Harold Faulkner. The whole town was up in arms about it. Anyone and everyone who’d been a client of Grace’s seemed afraid they’d be turning up inside its pages, and that included Frank’s own wife, Sarah. He’d seen how upset folks had been when they’d confronted Ms. Simpson at LaVyrle’s last night. Frank couldn’t help wondering if any had been furious enough about the impending publication to actually want Grace dead.
He chewed on the pencil.
What if one of those folks had gone to Grace’s house and gotten into a hellacious argument with her? Then, in a moment of fury, had picked up the bat and slugged her hard enough to cause her death?
It was possible, he decided, and jotted down the thought. When he stopped scribbling, he let out a slow breath, his focus shifting back to Nancy Sweet. He knew little about the young woman except for the fact that she was Helen Evans’s granddaughter. Nancy seemed a decent enough sort, but you could never tell how a person would react until push came to shove.
Take Lizzie Borden, he thought and pictured her friends’ and neighbors’ comments after the “forty whacks” she gave her mother and the “forty-one” her father.
She was such a nice girl,
he could imagine them saying and shaking their heads.
Who would have guessed she had it in her to do that?
It happened all the time, Biddle mused with a sigh: a seemingly average person goes berserk and commits a most heinous crime.
Not that Frank was an expert on murder. This case involving Grace Simpson was only the second in River Bend, an occasional dead dog or deer notwithstanding.
But Frank knew enough about crime from his days on a city police force to realize that felons came in all shapes, sizes, and colors.
If Nancy Sweet had murdered Grace Simpson out of revenge for a job lost, she surely wouldn’t be the first.
“
T
HANKS
FOR
STICKING
around, Mr. Faulkner.”
“You’re finished with the young woman, then?”
“For now.” Frank sighed. “They take care of you over at the diner?”
“Good coffee, yes. I had half a pot, I think.”
Frank flushed at the intimation he had kept the man waiting that long. “Take a seat, please, and we’ll get on with the interview.”
Grace’s publisher took a gander at his phone before shoving it into his coat pocket. “I’m not sure where you want me to start,” he said as he lowered himself into the chair Nancy Sweet had vacated not ten minutes before.
“Wherever you want to begin is fine with me.”
Faulkner nodded, pausing as he laced his fingers in his lap. “Grace didn’t arrive for our dinner last night, as you already know. While I waited for her, I had a couple of drinks at the bar and then at our table. I started to get angry, and I guess I got a little drunk as well. I’m a busy man, you understand, Sheriff. I don’t have time to wait on writers who can’t read the clock.”
“I understand, Mr. Faulkner,” Frank told him.
The man smiled. “Please, call me Harold.”
Biddle studied the gray-haired fellow who fidgeted in the chair across his desk. He had lines about his mouth and eyes and creases in his brow that revealed a life well-lived. His suit looked nicely cut but was likely off the rack. The shoulders were a bit too wide, the cuffs an inch too long. Frank had looked up the scholarly press Faulkner ran, which was associated with a small-time university in the city. The titles they produced seemed too obscure to sell widely. No wonder the fellow was so anxious to get Grace Simpson’s book. If it made readers outside River Bend as curious as the ones inside it, it might be the kind of hit that would push Faulkner’s press well into the black.
“Every time I’d dealt with Grace by phone, Skype, or email, she was always prompt,” Faulkner said, crossing his legs, then uncrossing them. “So it seemed out of character for her to be late, though I didn’t have any cause to expect she’d met with such, er, grave misfortune,” he went on.
Misfortune?
Frank had to bite his cheek to keep from snorting. Was that how academics thought of murder?
“I waited a full hour before I gave up on her.” Faulkner set his palms on his knees and fixed narrowed eyes on Biddle. “Grace Simpson might have been a lot of things, Sheriff, ill-tempered, impatient, pig-headed, but she’d never missed any kind of appointment, at least not with me. Never.”
“So Ms. Simpson was punctual but a pain in the butt,” the sheriff said, which is how he translated the publisher’s statement. “The two of you didn’t get along?”
Faulkner’s eyes widened, and his fingers began to fiddle with the buttons on his jacket. “I wouldn’t say that, Sheriff.”
“So you
did
get along?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that either.” Faulkner turned his graying head this way and that, as if examining the walls of Biddle’s office. He seemed particularly interested in a couple of notices about an upcoming farm auction in Jerseyville, Saturday’s Grafton flea market at the old boatyard, and next week’s River Bend town meeting.
Biddle cleared his throat and tried again. “You were saying that Ms. Simpson was tricky to deal with?”
“Ah, yes, Grace was quite her own woman,” Faulkner replied, finally facing Biddle again, though now he played with the knot of his necktie. “She did things the way she wanted, and there was no room for argument. But she was innovative, too,” he added, nodding to himself. “Her proposal for a nonfiction book about psychotherapy practiced in a county full of small towns caught my editor’s attention and mine as well.”
Biddle didn’t interrupt. He jotted down notes as Faulkner spoke.
“We saw the potential for commercial appeal in Grace’s premise. You can imagine that we don’t hit the
New York Times
list often with academic tomes. We usually concentrate on titles by experts in various fields of education and science. Their work is often very dry.” He tapped his fingers on the arms of the chair. “The subject matter doesn’t make for a huge profit, of course, but we get by through sales to libraries and universities for the most part. Still,” he paused, and his eyes visibly brightened, “I must admit I’ve always dreamed someday of publishing a bona fide best seller.”
Faulkner let out a nervous laugh. “But then who in my field doesn’t? I honestly believe Grace Simpson’s manuscript has that potential. It contains elements of society’s dark side, for want of a better description, which seem to engage the public. I’m saying this based on her proposal, as she refused to let my editor or me take a look during the writing process.” His gray brows knitted. “Grace apparently wrote by hand and had her secretary transcribe. From what I understand, the manuscript wasn’t even ready until sometime yesterday afternoon.”
“So was this a deadline specified in her contract or just an arbitrary date?” Biddle asked, not sure of how things worked.
“Everything with Grace seemed a bit arbitrary,” Faulkner replied with a snort. “As I said before, she was a tough woman to deal with, very temperamental.” He tapped a polished oxford on the floor. “She believed this book would be her big break, and I think she sensed I felt the same for Faulkner Press.”
“So did she cause trouble?” Biddle was finding this all very interesting. “Did she threaten not to deliver if she didn’t get her way?”
“Oh, she threatened a variety of things,” the man told him, nodding. “We argued quite a bit over her contract initially. She wanted a larger advance and cover approval, but all authors do.” He waved a hand dismissively. “She didn’t like the idea that we had the first right of refusal on her next nonfiction book.”
Biddle rubbed his pencil against the side of his nose. “So, she got under your skin, huh?”
Faulkner grimaced. “Grace was hardly a favorite of mine, but I knew she wouldn’t let me down.”
“Until last night,” Biddle said and ceased taking notes. “So you never got the manuscript?”
“No.” Faulkner scooted forward in the chair, peering anxiously at the sheriff. “Would you happen to know where it is? If you wouldn’t mind, Sheriff, I’d like to get a hold of it as soon as possible. There’s such a hot market for nonfiction right now that the prime window for publication is sooner rather than later.”
Not to mention the press that publishing a book by a murdered author might get, Biddle thought but kept to himself.
“No, I don’t have the manuscript in my possession,” the sheriff admitted. “But I imagine it’ll turn up shortly.”
“If the physical copy is missing, could you let me know if you uncover an electronic file?” Faulkner said. “Grace was afraid of being hacked, so it probably isn’t on a hard drive. If it’s been saved to a portable drive, I’ll be happy to take that off your hands. With digital publishing, we could get the thing out next month if we worked fast.”
“And I’ll bet it’ll go a lot faster without Grace around to get in your hair, won’t it?” Biddle asked.
Faulkner flashed an anxious smile. “Harold, please.”
“Won’t it, Harold?”
Faulkner wiped his palms on his trousers. “Well, I don’t think I’d put it as crudely as that, Sheriff, no.” He glanced at his clunky wristwatch and grimaced. “Are you done with me, then? I need to get moving.”
Frank set down his pencil. “You can go, Mr. Faulk—Harold,” he said. “But I may need to get in touch with you again.”
“No problem.” Faulkner reached inside his jacket and withdrew a business card. “I’d like to help in any way I can. What a shock this all is. Grace being killed on the cusp of her big break.” He sighed and pressed his fingers to his brow. “No doubt I’ll have to issue some kind of press release about the matter.”
“No doubt,” Frank said, not hiding his sarcasm.
“Good-bye, Sheriff.” Faulkner rose and extended a hand. Biddle rolled to his feet and reached across the desk. The man’s palm was damp, the handshake blissfully brief.
Frank nodded. “Drive safe.”
When Faulkner was gone, the sheriff leaned back in his old leather chair, wondering just how much publicity the little known Faulkner Press would gain by using Grace’s murder to promote her forthcoming book.
H
ELEN
TIPTOED
UP
the stairs, wincing as each step released a protesting creak. She paused at the top of the banister and let her eyes adjust to the dim. She’d given Nancy a cup of Sleepytime tea and had tucked her into the double bed set under the eaves in the converted attic. When Joe had retired, he’d done most of the work up there himself, while Helen had polished the old wood floors, sewn curtains for the windows, and made the patchwork quilt for the bed.
When Joe had passed three years before, she’d been grateful for the extra room. In the weeks that had followed, Helen had found it helpful having others in the house. She’d been so used to hearing another voice, a pair of footsteps besides her own, or water running. But she’d gradually grown accustomed to being on her own, and she enjoyed the time to herself. She could do whatever she wanted to do, watch the TV shows she wanted to watch, eat whatever she wanted to eat. There was something to be said for not having to run on someone else’s itinerary.
And she wasn’t actually ever alone, not with Amber in the house. Though he might have four furry feet instead of two human ones, he held up his end of a conversation better than some townsfolk.
Helen heard a gentle moan come from the bed.
“Nancy?” she whispered.
But the lump beneath the bedclothes didn’t stir.
It was nearly noon. Nancy had been asleep for hours already.
How exhausted she must be, Helen thought, though she could hardly blame her. After the trying events of the past twenty-four hours, the girl needed rest. Helen had insisted that Nancy stay at her house rather than go back to her apartment, and she planned to keep her there for as long as it took Biddle to solve Grace Simpson’s murder.
Helen shook her head, sure the sheriff’s barrage of questions had hardly helped matters any. As if stumbling upon a murder scene wasn’t frightening enough.
I didn’t mean for it to happen,
she recalled Nancy telling Frank Biddle.
No, of course she didn’t.
It’s so unfair,
Nancy had remarked after Grace had publicly humiliated her
. I’ve worked day and night to make her happy, and it was never enough. I hate her, Grandma, I do. I’m so mad, I could choke her.
Helen frowned, knowing how hurt Nancy felt, how frustrated. But Nancy was a quiet girl who’d always worked hard and kept to herself. Even if she’d fought with Grace, she would never have picked up a baseball bat and beat her to death with it.
“Stop it,” she told herself.
Nancy wouldn’t hurt a fly, and Helen well knew it.
Unfortunately, Sheriff Biddle seemed to have his doubts.
The phone rang downstairs, twittering like a deranged bird, and Helen jumped.
She hurried back down the steps as quietly as she could, reaching the phone just as it twittered again.
Snatching it up, she asked breathlessly, “Yes? Who is it?”
“It’s me, ma’am. Frank Biddle.”
Helen gritted her teeth. “Sheriff, please, I told you I’d bring Nancy down when she was up and about. She’s still in bed, sleeping.”
“It’s noon,” he said.
“Thank you for that information,” Helen replied, telling him, “good-bye.” She was about to hang up when she heard him saying, “Ma’am, wait, ma’am!”
Helen returned the receiver to her ear. “Yes, Sheriff?”
“I just heard from Doc Melville, and it appears the murder was committed where the body was found, meaning Ms. Simpson’s bedroom. There’s no evidence the body was moved, so it looks like she died where she fell. Oh, and forensics confirms the murder weapon was the baseball bat that Miss Sweet was holding when she ran out of the house.”
“So?” Helen said stiffly.
“So your granddaughter’s fingerprints were on the bat, ma’am. In fact, they’re the only clear prints found on it other than Grace’s. There are a couple of smudged prints that we’re checking out—”
“Anything else?” Helen interrupted.
“Not yet, although Doc said the ME’s about through with his examination. I’m heading over to Ms. Simpson’s office now to see what I can find out there.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, ma’am, except that I’ll want to talk to Miss Sweet again.”
“Good-bye, Sheriff.”
“Ma’am, wait—”
But this time, Helen hung up.