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 dangerously 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.
She found herself hoping Eleanora had left the obnoxious man little, if anything, in her will. Unfortunately, she realized, he was the only Duncan left, the only surviving family.
Poor Eleanora, she thought. What else had the woman had to put up with that Helen hadn’t known about? Who else besides Stanley Duncan had wanted something from the old girl?
Stop it, she told herself. Eleanora wouldn’t want your pity.
Still, Helen suddenly wasn’t in the mood to do any more of her crossword. She set down the paper and pen alongside her spectacles then cleared her dishes from the porch. After putting her dirty plate and glass in the sink, she gathered up her purse and headed off for the corner market.
Just as Helen was approaching the doors leading into the store, she ran smack into Jemima Winthrop, who rushed out like the place was on fire.
“My, but you’re in a hurry,” Helen said, rubbing her arm where Jemima had bumped it.
Jemima mumbled an apology but didn’t pause. She tightly clutched the small brown sack in her hands and dashed off.
Helen watched her go, striding away up the sidewalk in her khaki pants and pale sweater, shoulders stiff and back ramrod straight. Jemima was much like her father had been, feisty and determined, quick to speak and as quick to act. The family had once held a fortune nearly as big as the Duncans’ before there had been some sort of trouble, and Reginald Winthrop had ended up practically giving away his granary to Marvin Duncan in some type of bankruptcy auction. Old Mr. Winthrop had taken to drinking and had died not long after, leaving behind his wife and unmarried daughter. Jemima, headstrong girl that she was, had plunged into volunteer work, taking over the reins of the local library, doing her damnedest to make it something to be proud of.
Maybe she had urgent library business that had sent her scurrying off. Certainly Jemima hadn’t meant to give her the brush-off? Helen shrugged. No matter, she thought and shoved open the glass door to the market.
Half an hour later, she pushed her cart up to the counter, unloading her goodies one by one so the ponytailed checkout girl could ring her up.
A display of Splat near the register reminded Helen she was out of the stuff, and she quickly added a bottle to the rest.
“Ants must be bad this year,” the teenager said, noting the purchase. “ ’Cause I’ve sold, like, a hundred bottles of the stuff this week alone. Miss Winthrop just bought her second batch in two days, would you believe.”
“All I know is I’ve got an army of ants in my kitchen,” Helen told her, writing a check for the total as the girl packed the groceries into two recyclable bags.
“Good luck with the Splat,” the checker said, waving as Helen left.
By the time she’d walked home, Helen’s arms were dead tired. She’d barely set the bags down on the kitchen counter when the phone shrilly rang. She hurried to catch it. Whatever happened to that nice jingly-ring landlines used to have? she wondered as she scooped up the receiver and uttered a brisk “Hello?”
“Helen, it’s Jean,” said the excited voice on the other end.
“Jean? For goodness’ sake, where’ve you been?” Helen started in. “I’ve been trying to reach you since last evening. I’ve left several messages on your voice mail. I even went by your place this morning after the LCIL meeting, but you weren’t around.” She paused to take a breath, which allowed Jean to jump in and explain.
“Did you leave a message? I haven’t checked them yet. I had to go into St. Louis late last night and ended up staying with a friend. You won’t believe what’s happened . . . “
“No, dear, I think it’s you who’ll be surprised to hear what’s been going on.”
“Listen, Helen . . . “
“No, you listen, my friend . . . “
Jean burst in before Helen could finish. “If you come over right now, I’ll explain everything. Will you do it?”
“Of course,” Helen told her. How could she refuse, when her curiosity was on overload? “Give me about half an hour,” she said then hung up.
She got the groceries unpacked in record time. After a quick pit stop, she was off, heading back toward Bluff Street, thinking that all of this walking would no doubt mean going to sleep tonight with her nose filled with the smell of Bengay.
Jean came out of the house as soon as Helen turned into the driveway.
“I’ve got wonderful news,” Jean said as she took Helen’s arm and walked with her up to the house. Jean’s eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed. She looked every bit as excited as she’d sounded on the phone. “Something good has finally happened to me, and it’s about time, don’t you think?”
“Jean, wait.” Helen stopped walking.
Jean let go of her arm and stared at her, puzzled. “Whatever’s the matter with you? You’re acting as if I’ve done something wrong.”
“You did hear about Eleanora?”
Jean’s sunny face clouded. “I told you last night that I don’t want to have a thing to do with her anymore. So if you’ve got some sob story about her falling and breaking a hip, I don’t want to hear it, not even after Zelma’s histrionics in the diner last night.”
“Oh, I think you might,” Helen insisted.
“You make it sound serious. Should I sit down for this?”
“That’s not a bad idea.”
Jean nodded and went over to the steps, settling on the stoop. “Okay, shoot,” she said once she was off her feet.
Helen went to sit beside her. “All right, here goes,” she said and dove right in. “Eleanora’s dead.” There was no easy way to put it. “She was having convulsions then stopped breathing. That’s why Zelma came after the sheriff. By the time help arrived, it was too late. I’m sorry.”
Jean set her arms across her knees and looked away. “Well, she was nearly eighty-one. She had to go sometime.”
Helen stared at her, speechless for once in her life. Such a coldhearted reply wasn’t like the Jean Duncan she knew at all. But then, Eleanora had hardly been a loving mother-in-law to the woman. Still, she’d expected shock or sympathy, something more than this. Instead, she heard only indifference.
She studied Jean’s profile and saw no softness; just the hard set of her jaw and the frown on her mouth. “Aren’t you even the least bit curious as to how she died?” Helen quietly asked.
Jean replied with a cool “No, I can’t say that I am.”
“It so happens they took her body to the morgue for . . . “
“Helen, stop,” Jean said and got to her feet. “I don’t want to talk about Eleanora, not now or ever.” She offered Helen her hand. “Now, do you want to come inside and have some coffee so I can fill you in on my first official job as a caterer?”
Helen realized that pursuing the subject of Eleanora Duncan was fighting a losing battle. “All right, you win.” She got up and brushed off the back of her sweatpants.
Jean pulled the screen door wide, waving an arm. “After you,” she said, and her eyes lit up again. She smiled brightly, as though Helen had never even made mention of Eleanora’s death.
Helen stepped into the kitchen and sat at a table cluttered with cookbooks and handwritten recipe cards.
Jean poured them each a mug of coffee smelling deliciously of cinnamon. She passed Helen’s over then pulled out the chair beside Helen’s.
“Hmm, were should I start?” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Okay, last night after you left me stranded at the diner, I had Erma pack me up a meat loaf sandwich and brought it home. The phone was ringing just as I walked in. Turns out it was a friend of mine from college who’d moved to St. Louis about a week before and looked me up. Seems she’s with a public relations firm that’s putting on a fancy brouhaha for some clients, and their caterer bailed at the last minute. She said the company was in a panic, and did I know any good people, since she was new to the city and all. When I mentioned I’d started up a catering business myself, she asked if I’d consider working their party. Only thing was, they had to hire someone by this morning. So I hightailed it over to her place and spent most of the night working on menus and bouncing ideas off her until I had something really good put together.”
“Does that mean you got the job?” Helen asked while Jean drew in a much needed breath.
“Yes!” Her scarf-tied ponytail swayed as she announced with a squeal, “I got it, Helen! I went into work with her this morning, showed them my stuff, and they told me the job was mine. Can you even believe it? I’m still on cloud nine.”
Helen hardly knew what to say.
“Well? Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
“Of course I am. Congratulations,” Helen said and reached for her hand, squeezing it warmly. She summoned up a smile, genuinely glad for her friend. “I’m thrilled,” she said. “And you do deserve it. This past year’s been so hard.”
“I’m determined to put it behind me.”
“When’s this party? I only hope it won’t interfere with the LCIL luncheon.”
“Oh, my God, the luncheon,” Jean repeated, and she raised her eyebrows. “Oh, Helen, don’t tell me that I got the gig?” Her hands went to her heart. “Is it possible?”
“The gig is yours,” Helen said, grinning, tickled by the look of surprise on Jean’s face. “Well, it’s yours if you want it.”
Jean breathed a soft “Oh, my.”
Helen took a sip of coffee, glad she set the cup down when she did, or it would’ve splattered across her sweatshirt when Jean hopped out of her chair and caught her in a hug.
“You did it, didn’t you? Probably forced me down their throats,” she was saying. “I can’t thank you enough.”
Helen laughed. “For heaven’s sake, I was doing myself a favor. I couldn’t bear the thought of having the Catfish Barn cater again this year. My intestines would never forgive me.”
The doorbell rang, and Jean let Helen go. Jean straightened up, tucking her blouse tighter inside her blue jeans.
“Are you expecting someone?” Helen asked.
Jean shrugged. “Not that I’m aware of.”
The bell chimed again.
“I’m coming!” Jean shouted. Assuring Helen she’d be back in a flash, she left the kitchen, the tap of her flat-soled shoes audible even after she was out of sight.
Helen listened as the front door opened and she heard a man’s voice, one she recognized well.
She got out of her chair and retraced Jean’s steps, walking into the foyer to see Frank Biddle standing in the doorway, his hat in his hands.
Jean turned to her with cheeks pale as chalk. “Oh, God, Helen,” she said, a warble in her voice. “Why didn’t you tell me the whole story? Eleanora didn’t just die, she was murdered.”