Helen watched the vehicle park in the watery street. Danielson got out and slogged to the sidewalk, his Dockers tucked into the tops of black rain boots. He had a small duffel bag slung over his shoulder, probably containing a pair of dress shoes. Helen wondered how he’d felt when he’d gotten to the Missouri History Museum only to find out his appointment there was a ruse. No wonder he was frowning.
Lord, give me strength, she thought and geared up for her helpless-old-lady routine.
“Why, there you are, Mr. Danielson!” she said, all aflutter. “I’ve been hoping I’d catch you when you weren’t slashing through the jungle with your machete to save a lost citizen.”
Instead of smiling at her flattery, he approached her with a scowl.
“Mrs. Evans . . .”
“Oh, goodness,” she trilled. “I’m surprised you remember my name when you’ve probably met so many folks in River Bend that we all look alike.”
She let out a little laugh that sounded fake even to her own ears, but it didn’t matter. John Danielson didn’t seem amused in the least.
“I thought I told you that I’d suspended volunteer work until the floodwaters receded. I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Well, yes, you did, but I was wondering if . . . if I might treat you to a late lunch at the diner and discuss some, er, fund-raising projects I had in mind for this year,” she said, clutching hands at her chest, as much an act of prayer as nerves.
“Fund-raising projects?” he repeated and glanced toward the Historical Society door, barely ten feet away from him. Only Helen and a large puddle stood between them. “I’m sorry, ma’am, maybe another day. I really want to get back to work. I’ve just wasted a lot of time running into St. Louis on a fool’s errand.” He sighed with disgust, looking downright pissed. “I’m kind of worn out. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going inside . . .”
“Perfect!” she piped up. “I’ll go in with you. I seem to have lost something, and I think I left it there in the room where Clara and I were last working on the photographs.”
“What was it you lost exactly?”
What, what, what? C’mon, Helen, think!
“It was my . . . um, glasses,” she finally got out. Her cheeks felt hot with embarrassment. “Yes, my favorite pair.”
John Danielson squinted at her. “You’ve got your glasses on, ma’am.”
Helen laughed nervously. “Oh, these?” she said and touched the bifocals perched on her nose. “They’re my old standbys. I must have left my new ones here the last time Clara and I sorted photographs. I’d hate to lose them.”
“I think you’re mistaken,” he said, “because I don’t recall seeing any glasses on the table when I cleared everything out. Trust me, I’m very meticulous.”
No doubt, Helen thought, considering how well he’d covered his tracks.
“I’m sure that’s true, but it wouldn’t hurt to check again, would it?” she said, adding, “Sometimes even careful folks make mistakes.”
He gave her a funny look. “All right,” he replied before he glanced around, the crow’s-feet around his eyes deepening.
Was he making sure there were no witnesses?
Helen was relieved to see a few diehards heading into the diner across the way. But otherwise the downtown was deserted. Most of the shops were closed and signs in the watery road reminded folks that the off-ramp to the River Road was still inaccessible.
If she went inside the Historical Society and screamed, would anyone even hear?
“Come on in,” the director said, “but let’s make it quick.”
Helen couldn’t do much except move out of his way.
He had his key ready when he got to the door, but as he jabbed it in, the knob instantly turned. “What the . . . ?” he started to say. “I know I locked up.”
“I do that sometimes,” Helen nattered on from behind him. “I think I’ve locked the door, and it’s open. Or I’m sure I turned off the TV, but it’s still on. Sometimes I tell myself that Amber did it.” She laughed nervously. “But of course, he can’t, right? He’s a cat.”
Danielson didn’t wait for Helen to enter before him. He clomped inside, not seeming to care that he trailed river water in with him. He barely paused to stomp on the interior mat before he swung his duffel aside, dumping it on the floor.
“Why are all the lights on?” he remarked as he walked through the hallway.
If he kept going, he’d see that Sarah had removed the padlock from the basement door, and the jig would be up.
C’mon, Sheriff, Helen thought. Hurry!
If only she could get her phone out and warn Sarah that they were inside. Although Helen imagined Sarah could probably hear their footsteps on the creaky old floors regardless. Surely that was warning enough.
“Maybe we should look upstairs on the second floor,” Helen suggested, trying to divert him. “My glasses might be in the big room where Clara and I used to work . . .”
“No!” Danielson said, so brusquely Helen took a step back, bumping into the fire extinguisher on the wall behind her. “I would have noticed them, ma’am, when I organized the room. They’re not there, I assure you.”
“Okay, let’s not go upstairs, then.”
A heavy thump resonated from below and then Sarah hollered, “Helen! She’s here! If that’s you up there, please help!”
Oh, Lord.
Helen cringed.
“What the hell’s going on?” Danielson’s narrowed gaze went straight to the basement door. Not only was it ajar, but the padlock hung freely from the ring of the hasp bar screwed into the jamb. “I won’t let you do this,” he snarled, and reached out to grab Helen’s arm.
Before he got her, Helen swiveled, pulling the fire extinguisher from the wall.
Her mind felt like mud as she tried to remember how to operate the danged thing. PASS, wasn’t it? Pull pin, aim, squeeze, and sweep. But her fingers shook so badly she couldn’t get the pin to come out.
Danielson caught her elbow as he threw the door open. “Get down there!” he told her, jerking her forward.
With her free hand, Helen swung the extinguisher at him as hard as she could. With a clang it connected with his head.
Danielson cursed her, letting her go as he stumbled backward. There was blood at his brow, which only seemed to enrage him. “You old bit—” he started to say.
But Helen took a few steps forward and hit him again.
This time he lost his footing. He cried out as he tumbled down the wooden staircase, thudding down the steps.
Her first thought: Oh, God, have I killed him? Is he dead?
Her second: Screw that!
Breathing hard, Helen dropped the extinguisher, reaching for the manual fire alarm on the wall. She grabbed the lever and pushed it down with all her might.
The alarm blasted noise through her head, and Helen sank to the floor, pressing her palms to her ears, feeling like her skull would explode.
Within a minute, she felt the vibration of feet and suddenly bodies were all around her. She looked up to see several men she didn’t know and then Erma from the diner, holding hands over her ears, as well. Helen wanted to cry with relief when she spotted the sheriff, hovering above her like a big beige hound dog.
“Where’s the fire?” Erma yelled through the din.
The sheriff shut off the alarm, extending his hand to Helen and helping her rise from the floor.
“I think Mrs. Evans must’ve already put it out,” he said.