Mad as Helen (9 page)

Chapter 17

H
ELEN
WALKED
HOME
from Doc Melville’s, trying to keep her chin up.

Could Frank Biddle honestly believe Nancy had clobbered Grace in the head with the bat last night and returned to the scene in the morning?

What the approximate time of death confirmed to Helen was that Nancy
didn’t
do it. Helen was sure more than ever that someone else had been in Grace’s house the night she died. But had it been someone she’d known or a stranger?

The sheriff had said there was no sign of a struggle, and Nancy had confirmed as much, remarking that the only thing out of place in Grace’s home seemed to be the clothes strewn about the bed and the opened top on the living room secretary.

What troubled Helen most was the question of who had gone to Grace’s unnoticed, and why.

The whole town seemed to know about Grace’s appointment with her publisher. Did someone break into the house to lie in wait? But hadn’t the sheriff said there was no sign of forced entry?

Helen stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk, caught herself, and glanced around, glad that no one seemed to be around to have seen.

She needed to watch where she was going, only she couldn’t stop thinking about the case. One thing in particular kept sticking in her head: if Grace had left for St. Louis on schedule, as Mattie Oldbridge confirmed, why had she turned around and headed back?

What could she have forgotten that would make her return? It had to have been very important, Helen realized, and something Nancy had said fluttered into her consciousness.

She wouldn’t let me email the book, can you believe? She wants to hand over the sole hard copy to Harold Faulkner in person.

What if Grace had forgotten the manuscript? That certainly would be worth her doubling back.

Tap, tap tap.

Helen started at the noise of fingers rapping on glass. She stopped where she was and turned to find herself standing on the sidewalk in front of LaVyrle’s Cut ’n’ Curl. Clara Foley stood behind the large window, smiling and beckoning Helen to come in.

Helen braced herself then pushed open the door and entered.

“Whatever are you doing wandering around with your head in the clouds?” Clara asked, expelling the words in a quick rush of air. She sat in the waiting area, wearing one of LaVyrle’s purple capes. Dozens of tiny plastic rollers seemed to spring out of her head. “I was just chatting with Mary”—she wiggled her fingers at the girl behind the counter, who, Helen would bet, had done little actual chatting at all—“letting my permanent set, when I happened to look out and see you sleepwalking past.”

As Clara spoke, Helen wondered how she could get so much out without taking a breath.

“Everyone’s been talking up a storm about Grace Simpson and how the sheriff’s pinned the whole thing on poor Nancy.” Clara finally stopped yakking and pressed a finger to her double chins. “I don’t buy it myself,” she remarked, “though Mattie Oldbridge mentioned that Nancy looked pretty worked up when she showed up on Grace’s doorstep this morning.”

Helen knew the local grapevine worked fast, and normally she didn’t mind. But the gossip usually wasn’t about her granddaughter killing someone. “Nancy didn’t murder Grace Simpson, no matter what Mattie Oldbridge thinks,” she ground out.

Clara’s hands fluttered. “Well, sweetie, of course she didn’t.”

“She simply had the misfortune to be the one who discovered the body,” Helen went on, trying to explain, hoping Clara would circulate
that
information. “Sheriff Biddle doesn’t have anyone else on his radar, that’s why he’s focusing on Nancy. He’s had a lot of questions to ask her, as you can well imagine.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“Besides,” Helen let slip what Doc had confirmed, “Grace wasn’t murdered this morning. She’d been dead since last night.”

Clara’s penciled eyebrows rose. “Is that so?”

Helen nodded. “Nancy wasn’t anywhere near Grace’s house last evening around eight. She was at home.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, alone!” Helen snapped.

“I see,” Clara murmured, hardly looking like she believed that any more than Sheriff Biddle did. “So then Nancy’s in the clear?”

“She is as far as I’m concerned,” Helen said then muttered, “I just wish Frank Biddle felt the same.”

Clara frowned and touched a hand to her curlers, the solution from the permanent dripping down her temples and onto the towel caught between her neck and the plastic cape.

“I should probably get home to Nancy,” Helen said after a moment’s uncomfortable silence.

“Wait!” Clara called after her as Helen started for the door. “Is bridge still on for next Tuesday?”

Bridge?

Helen stifled the urge to scream. “Good heavens, Clara, I don’t know . . .”

“As if a little thing like death would stop the lot of you from playin’ cards,” LaVyrle said, high heels clicking on linoleum as she approached and stood with hands on hips, looking Helen over. “I must say, Mrs. E, you seem pretty frazzled.”

“Oh, LaVyrle, you don’t know the half of it,” Helen started to say, but the beautician waved her off.

“Honey, I’ve heard the whole of it,” the woman said, “about what happened to Mrs. S, I mean.” Her usually unflappable tone sounded solemn. “It’s awful, isn’t it? Mrs. S was in such a fine mood when she was in yesterday. She was excited about that meeting she had in St. Louis with her publisher.” LaVyrle shook her blond head and sighed. “It’s a tragedy she didn’t make it to dinner.”

“Yes, it is,” Helen agreed, ignoring the tiny snort that came from Clara Foley’s direction. “She was a regular customer of yours, wasn’t she?”

LaVyrle’s red lips pursed. “She was, and I liked her, too. She had spunk in spades.”

“Hey, LaVyrle,” Clara said, wiggling her fingers.

“Give me a minute here, Mrs. F,” LaVyrle said and turned back to Helen. “As I was sayin’, what with the sheriff arresting your granddaughter and all, you’re lookin’ pretty stressed out. If you want, I’ll have Mary give you a free conditioning.”

“LaVyrle, please,” Clara tried again.

“Another sec, Mrs. F, just hold your horses.” LaVyrle grabbed hold of Helen’s hands. She turned them up and down, bending over each as though studying each crack and crease. “Yep, it’s just as I figured. Nerves show up in your hands and in your face. It’s no wonder your nails are a mess. A good manicure would do the trick. I can have Mary fix you up real quick.”

“Really, you don’t have to,” Helen protested.

But LaVyrle kept at her. “It’s on me, Mrs. E. I’ll have Mary give you the works: cuticles, massage, even a paraffin wax. So what d’ya say?”

Helen thought of Nancy back at home and shook her head. “As much as I’d like to, I should really be going.”

“I insist.” LaVyrle winked then called to the girl behind the counter, “C’mon, Mare, get your skinny rear in gear. Mrs. E’s gonna have a manicure and paraffin wax on the house. You give her hands a good massage, too. She’s all tied up in knots, aren’t you, Mrs. E?” LaVyrle patted her with the gentleness of a bear. “Just relax and let Mary take care of you.”

“
LaVyrle,
” Clara whined.

“Yeah, Mrs. F?”

“I’m prickling,” Clara cried and pointed at the curlers on her head, moving her neck around as though it had a crick; all the while, the permanent solution continued to drip down the sides of her face. “You said to tell you when it prickled.”

“C’mon back, Mrs. F. I’ll grab some gloves and get you rinsed out.” LaVyrle guided Clara up the hallway toward the sinks, calling back over her shoulder, “Enjoy yourself, Mrs. E, you hear?”

Helen sighed as Mary came up beside her. “Does LaVyrle always get what she wants?” she asked.

“Always,” Mary replied with a rare smile. “Are you ready for your manicure?”

“See what I mean?” Helen murmured and followed Mary’s bobbing ponytail, taking a seat across from the helmet hair dryers. She settled onto the plastic-covered chair as Mary wheeled up a tray-table, plunking down on a stool on its other side.

For an hour, Helen allowed her hands to be massaged and rubbed with lotion, her cuticles to be clipped and cleaned. She even dipped her fingers into a bowl of heated paraffin, listening to Mary’s assurances that the hot wax did wonders to soften skin and thinking only that her mother had used the stuff to seal the jars she canned her vegetables in.

Helen had to admit that if she didn’t feel like a new woman when Mary was through with her, she at least felt like an old woman with new hands, which, she figured, was better than nothing.

Chapter 18

F
RANK
B
IDDLE
HAD
barely been back in his office for two minutes when the phone rang. His encounter with Helen Evans leaving him grumpy, he picked up the receiver and barked, “What?”

“Sheriff? Sheriff Frank Biddle?”

“That’s right,” he said, hoping it wasn’t a lost dog or a cat up a tree, anything that would take him away from his focus on the murder investigation.

“It’s about my wife.”

“Your wife,” Frank repeated and picked up his pencil. He poised himself to write down the information. “Is she missing?”

“Not exactly.”

“You have a fight?”

“Oh, we’ve had lots of them. Doozies,” the fellow said and laughed.

Biddle put his pencil down. He frowned into the phone. “What’s this all about? I don’t have time for pranks.”

“This is no prank,” the caller assured him. “Like I said, it’s about my wife. I’ve heard she died, you see, and I suppose I’m all that’s left of her family. She doesn’t have anyone else. She never did.”

Biddle sat up straight. “What’s her name?” he asked, though he had a feeling he knew the answer to that already.

“Grace,” the man told him, “Grace Simpson. She was killed last night, from what I understand.”

“And you’re her husband?”

“I’m Max,” the fellow said, “and, yes, by law, I’m still her husband. I guess Grace won’t get that divorce she wanted after all, will she now, Sheriff?”

A
N
HOUR
LATER
,
Frank Biddle stood face-to-face with Max Simpson.

Frank narrowed his eyes as he studied the man, and he straightened his spine self-consciously, although he realized it would take much more than that to make him equal Max’s height. Max appeared to be in his forties, at least, though the only telling signs of his age were the brushstrokes of gray at his temples and the laugh lines about his eyes. He looked lean and fit in chinos, and Frank could practically see the lines of his six-pack abs underneath his sky-blue polo shirt. But then the guy managed a sporting goods store, Frank reminded himself. He should at least
look
like he used the equipment.

“You’re a hard man to find, Mr. Simpson,” Frank said and hooked his thumbs into his belt on either side of where his belly spilled over.

Max shrugged. “Sometimes a man’s just got to take a vacation from life. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

“Right,” the sheriff said, all the while wondering what a guy like this had ever seen in a woman like Grace. Every time Frank had run into the therapist, she’d had her forehead bunched up and she’d been scowling. She hadn’t had the best figure either, shaped more like a rectangle than an hourglass. Call him a chauvinist, but Frank had never given her a second glance. Could be Max went for the intellectual type. Grace had certainly had enough gray matter for them both.

“So, what’s going on, Sheriff?” Max asked, and Frank ceased his scrutiny of the man, rounding his desk to take a seat behind it. “You told me over the phone that you wanted me to hightail it over here.” Max spread his arms. “So now you’ve got me at your mercy. Is there something I can do for you? I don’t want to get in the way of your investigation, if that’s what you’re thinking. No, sir, I’ll keep my distance and let you do your work.”

“Take a seat, please,” the sheriff suggested, gesturing at the pair of them opposite his desk. “I’ve got a few questions for you.”

It surprised Frank that Max didn’t have questions for
him
. How many men whose wives had been murdered acted so nonchalant? Yes, Frank realized everyone reacted differently to death. There wasn’t one set way to deal with grief. Only Max Simpson didn’t seem to be grieving at all. In fact, he seemed tickled pink.

“Does this have to do with funeral arrangements?” Instead of sitting down, Max approached Biddle’s desk and leaned forward. “Is there paperwork to be signed? Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it.”

“Let’s table the talk of funerals for now, all right?” Frank tapped his pencil against his chin. “She can’t be buried until the autopsy’s finished. So, please, take a seat,” he said again.

“Of course,” Max replied and finally parked his carcass in a chair. He stretched long legs out before him and settled his hands on his flat abdomen.

Frank noted that he glanced around just as Harold Faulkner had, eyeing the county auction announcements, town meeting reminders, and Most Wanted posters as though he’d never seen anything like them.

“I’m a city boy myself,” Max said, though Biddle hadn’t asked. “Grace grumbled about this place, but I think she really liked it. The whole ‘big fish in a little pond’ syndrome, I’m sure.”

“Is that why she came here?” Biddle said, because it was something he’d wondered about ever since Grace had started her practice in River Bend. “I’d imagine there were many more folks in the city who needed her help.”

“People need help everywhere these days,” Max said and shrugged broad shoulders. “She was lost in St. Louis, actually. It took her moving out of the city to get what she wanted from her career. Only who would have ever imagined she’d end up roadkill in a tiny town like this? Who hated her enough to snuff her, Sheriff?”

So maybe Max did care about Grace after all.

Frank assured him, “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

Max sat up straighter. “I heard you’ve pinned the thing on that pretty gal who was Grace’s assistant.”

Biddle raised his eyebrows. “For someone who’s just arrived in town, you seem to know an awful lot.”

Max grinned. “Five minutes in the diner, listening to folks talk, and I know all the news that’s fit to print.”

Sometimes Frank wished the town grapevine wasn’t quite so efficient. “Yes, Miss Sweet was brought in for questioning, but she’s not under arrest.”

“Is she the only suspect?”

“She’s one of them.” The sheriff frowned. “Let’s just say that your wife wasn’t real popular around here lately. I’m sure you know about her book.”

Max shook his head. “What book?”

Frank waved his pencil in the air. “The one she was getting published by Faulkner Press in St. Louis. It details her time spent counseling in River Bend.”

“Really?” Max looked incredulous. “She used to tell me that her clients were bumpkins and their troubles nearly put her to sleep. I’ll bet a fortune she did a generous job of embellishing and made everyone’s problems seem perverse instead of ordinary.” He rubbed his square jaw. “I’m thinking sex with farm animals and such.”

Frank tugged at his collar, discomfited by the turn of conversation. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Simpson, I’ve got a few questions for you.”

“Ah, Sheriff, my apologies,” Max said, hardly looking contrite. “Ask away,” he added with a sweep of his hand, and the toe of a suede oxford began to tap a relentless staccato on the floor.

Frank felt a headache coming on. “First things first. I need contact information where I can reliably reach you. I’m tired of talking to voice mail.”

Max’s mouth twitched. “Am I in trouble, Sheriff?”

“Only if you avoid taking my calls,” Frank told him and pushed a piece of paper and pen in his direction.

“I’ll be near,” Max said as he scribbled. “I need to stick around for the reading of the will. You don’t know when that’ll be, do you?”

“No, I don’t, but I’ll bet it won’t be any time soon,” the sheriff told him, looking at the number and email Max had written down. “Like her burial, everything’s on hold for a bit until we know something more.”

Max leaned back in the chair and shrugged. “I’m in no hurry,” he remarked. “It’s pretty much a no-brainer that everything Grace had is mine.”

The man sounded so sure. Frank cocked his head, saying dryly, “Unless you’re the one who murdered her.”

“Ah, a lawman
and
a comedian,” Max quipped. Then he crossed his arms, looking suddenly serious. “Back to that book of hers you mentioned. I imagine I’ll own the rights to it, too.”

“You’ll have to ask her publisher about that.”

Max picked himself off of the chair and patted his muscled thighs. “So am I free to go? Or is there anything else?”

“Please, sit down, Mr. Simpson.” Frank clenched his jaw. He was losing patience with the man. “We’re not done yet.”

“I’ll stand if you don’t mind,” Max said. “This won’t take much longer, I’m sure. I don’t have anything to hide.”

So Frank spit out the Mother of Questions: “Where were you between seven and nine o’clock last evening?”

He prepared himself for a blustery show of indignation, a sputtered,
How dare you, do you think I killed my wife?
but he was unprepared for laughter.

“Oh, God, where was I?” he remarked, guffawing and wiping tears from his eyes. “It’s incredibly ironic, considering the reason Grace dumped me in the first place.”

“Why don’t you spell it out,” Frank suggested, wishing he could slap handcuffs on Max Simpson and arrest him for being so cavalier about a murder.

“More fodder for the gossip mill,” Max remarked airily and cast his gaze downward, flicking lint off his perfectly immaculate shirt. “I was with a woman who was not my wife,” he said.

“Where?” Frank asked.

“Why, Sheriff”—a thin smile curled on Max’s lips—“I was in her bed.”

Frank’s face heated up, but it didn’t stop him from pushing the paper and pen across his desk again. “I want her name and number—”

“I’m sure you do,” Max cut him off. But he wasn’t smiling anymore.

“I’ll need to check out your alibi,” Frank said.

“All right, but she’s a married lady, Sheriff, so be discreet.” Reluctantly, Max came forward and picked up the pen, writing quickly and, Frank could tell from upside-down, almost illegibly.

“By the way,” the sheriff said before Max Simpson could bolt, “did you happen to leave a baseball bat at your wife’s house?”

Max squinted. “Yeah, yeah, I guess I did. Grace said she kept it for protection, but I wonder if she didn’t hold onto it just because it was a favorite of mine from my baseball days in college.” He put his hands on his hips, nodding thoughtfully. “A solid maple Louisville Slugger, dense and not prone to flaking,” he described as though reading ad copy from one of his sporting goods catalogues. “It’s known for delivering a satisfying
crack
on impact.”

“Is that so?” Frank murmured.

He suddenly got the strongest feeling that he knew the owner of the smudged prints on the bat that had fatally struck Grace Simpson. And he couldn’t help but wonder if any of them were recent.