HELEN HAD WANTED to call off the weekly bridge game already pushed from Tuesday night to Wednesday, but her friends wouldn’t hear of it.
“My word, Helen,” Clara Foley had protested. “The world hasn’t come to a standstill. I don’t mean to sound callous, but don’t you imagine Eleanora Duncan would’ve gone on about her life if one of us had been poisoned? I doubt she’d have even noticed, to tell you the truth, way over there on Harbor Drive in that ivory tower of hers.”
Maybe so, but Helen still didn’t feel like it was in good taste to play cards with Eleanora not even buried, Jean on the hook, and the real murderer running loose.
Clara had laughed when she’d said as much. “Well, it’s not like her killer’s going to show up and cut the deck.”
Or maybe her killer would do exactly that, Helen thought as she looked over the hand she’d been dealt, staring past Clara Foley’s topknot to the next table, where Jemima Winthrop sat opposite Bertha Beaner. Bertha hadn’t told her the name of the sub she’d found for Sarah Biddle, and Helen knew why.
Jemima glanced up from her hand, and Helen quickly ducked her chin.
“I bid a heart,” Clara Foley announced, the flesh of her cheeks dimpling several times over. The bright yellow of her caftan lent her the appearance of an overfed canary.
Fanny Melville sighed. “Well, I’m beginning to wonder if the deck’s not stacked, the way the cards are turning in your favor. You got ’em marked or something, Helen?”
“What?” She heard her name but missed the question. “Sorry, dear, I wasn’t listening.”
Fanny gazed at her over the rims of her spectacles. “It’s amazing how you manage to keep winning, what with your mind a million miles away. You must be on automatic pilot.”
Helen smiled, feeling a little sheepish for not paying better attention to the game.
“I hate to do it.” Doc’s wife sighed and slapped her cards facedown on the table. “But I’ll have to pass.”
Clara giggled and started to hum the Michigan fight song under her breath.
Helen ignored her, studying her hand. Fanny was right. The tide did seem to have turned in their favor. “I bid a spade,” she said.
Verna Mabry, in a lime green sheath with a cloche hat to match, sniffed loudly. “Good God, I almost think we should quit now and cut our losses, eh, Fanny?”
Her partner chuckled. “Well, we each did throw a quarter in the pot tonight, didn’t we?” She put a finger to her chin and rolled up her eyes as if in deep thought. Then she waved a hand in the air. “Aw, go on, Verna. Fifty cents won’t break us.”
The LCIL president’s taut face frowned. “Pass,” she said.
And around again they went.
The murmur of voices from the two tables filled the screened-in porch, though the noise they made was a shade less than when there were three tables. But they were five players short tonight, what with Sarah Biddle still out of town, Bebe Horn sick with the flu, Lola Mueller babysitting her grandson, and Agnes March at an antiques auction in the city.
And Jean was missing, too, Helen mused, scrunching up her brow as she remembered how shaken the poor dear had been after Frank Biddle had hauled her downtown this morning. Why, Jean had imagined she was about to be tossed behind bars, and it was no wonder she wasn’t in the mood for a few hands of bridge.
“It’s too bad about Jean, isn’t it?”
She looked up at the mention, hearing Verna’s voice, feeling as if she’d been thinking too loudly.
“What’s that?” she asked, fixing her eyes on her friend.
Verna waved manicured fingers. “It’s just that I can’t believe it was Jean’s pâté that was poisoned. I hardly think that’ll do much for her fledgling catering business, do you? Everyone’s heard about it, and now they’re all squawking at me to find someone else to do the food for the luncheon.” The tendons at her neck tightened. “I suppose I should wait to see if she’s actually charged with the murder before finding another caterer. But I’d hate to put it off too long and get stuck without anyone. Then I’d have to break down and call the Catfish Barn.”
“Oh, God,” Clara groaned. “Talk about poison!”
Helen couldn’t listen to another word. “Stop acting like the worst is going to happen,” she said more snippily than she’d meant to. “Jean’s not going to be charged with murder. She didn’t kill Eleanora.”
Verna tipped her lime-topped head. “I know you’re great friends with her and all, and I’ve nothing against her myself. But really, Helen, how can you be so sure?”
“I hate to say it,” Fanny Melville added, “but sometimes even people we think we know the best turn out to be strangers. Everyone has their breaking point.”
“Especially considering how Eleanora treated her,” Clara Foley chimed in. “The woman acted like Jean murdered Jim, as if she’d run her car off the road on purpose.”
“Enough!” Helen smacked down her cards, earning her a trio of surprised stares. She felt embarrassed suddenly, knowing they hadn’t meant any harm with their gossip; they were just rattling on as they always did. She drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Then she smiled weakly and picked up her hand. “Let’s get back to the game and save the chitchat for later?”
“Okey dokey,” Clara murmured.
“Sure,” Fanny and Verna said, exchanging looks.
Helen nodded at them.
Fanny peered over her bifocals and asked, “Where were we?”
“It’s my turn, so look out.” Clara squirmed, and the wicker chair crackled beneath her. “Two hearts,” she said in a rush.
“Pass,” Fanny muttered.
Helen didn’t hesitate. “Four hearts,” she said.
Verna groaned. “Well, Fanny, I think you were right. Maybe we should just throw in the towel before they completely embarrass us.”
“You’re almost making me feel sorry for you,” Clara said with a chuckle. “What’re you angling for, a sympathy card?” She laughed at her own joke.
But Verna shushed her and leaned in. “That reminds me, girls. Mildred Masters, a friend of mine whose husband works at Hartford, Martin, Dervish, and Lynch in St. Louis, told me something interesting.” Her ever-wide eyes darted from one face to another. “Anyone who subscribes to the River Bend Bulletin online will be getting an email in the morning about it, but I’ll give you a heads-up. It concerns Eleanora—”
“Didn’t you just agree not to talk about the murder?” Helen cut her off, not wanting to hear another word about whether or not Jean poisoned her mother-in-law.
“But, Helen, it’s not bad news, and it has nothing to do with Jean,” Verna promised. “It’s about a party for Eleanora.”
Clara let out a guffaw. “You sure you didn’t have your brain tucked with that last face-lift, sweetie? Eleanora’s dead, remember?”
“My brain is fine,” Verna replied with a sniff and absently patted her cheeks. “The party is part of Eleanora’s will. She left instructions that there be some kind of celebration when she kicked the bucket. I don’t know all the details, but it sounds like Lady Godiva is the hostess.”
“The dead woman’s cat,” Fanny murmured, echoing Helen’s very thoughts. “That’s quite unusual, to say the least.”
“It’s wacky is what it is,” Clara insisted.
“Where will this party be held?” Helen asked.
“Girls, please, I don’t know all the details,” Verna said with a roll of her eyes. “We’ll just have to check our email boxes in the morning. All Mildred knew was that Eleanora’s will stated in black and white that she wanted a party, not a funeral. And there’s no sense waiting on a party, since they don’t need the sheriff or the medical examiner’s permission to throw a shindig.”
“Particularly one hosted by a cat,” Helen murmured, finding it very strange indeed.
She couldn’t help but glance at Jemima Winthrop and wonder if Eleanora’s killer would be attending.