To Helen Back (16 page)

“You know a name?” Biddle asked.

“Sorry.”

“Can you give us a description?”

Velma screwed up her face. “Let’s see, middle-aged, faded but kind of pretty.”

“Pretty,” Helen echoed, and pushed away her coffee cup. “So it was a woman?”

“A blonde.” Velma nodded. “Reminded me of Shirley Temple with a bad case of the frizzies.”

Helen met Biddle’s eyes.

“Velma! Pick up!”

Velma smiled limply. “Off I go again.”

“That’s quite all right.” Biddle hopped down from the stool and fished into his pocket.

“Oh, no, it’s on me, Sheriff,” Velma said, but Biddle shook his head.

He dropped enough bills on the counter to cover the coffee and doughnuts as well as Velma’s tip. “You’ve been a great help, Ms. Simms. Thanks again for your time.” He plunked on his hat before taking Helen’s arm and rushing her out of the place like it was on fire.

Helen sat quietly in the car as he drove away from the rest stop and onto the highway toward Alton. When finally she could bear the silence no more, she asked, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Uh-huh,” Biddle said, though he didn’t take his gaze off the road.

“My, oh my,” Helen murmured, and sank into her seat with a sigh, wondering what the devil was really going on between the two Mrs. Grones.

Chapter 30

O
NCE BACK IN
River Bend, Biddle pulled the car in front of the dented mailbox that said
GR
ONE
in faded white letters.

He shut off the ignition but didn’t get out. Instead, he stared through the windshield at the broken-down house, a frown on his mouth. “So what do you think of this whole setup?” he asked Helen.

She fixed her eyes on the patched screen door in the center of the rickety porch. “I haven’t a clue,” she confessed. “I had the impression that Delilah and Shotsie despised one another. If that’s not the case, then they certainly put on quite a show.”

The sheriff absently patted the sheering wheel. “I’ve got dozens of townsfolk who’ll testify to seeing Shotsie Grone at the town meeting the night Milton was killed.”

“I saw her there myself,” Helen said, though something about that night, something someone had mentioned recently, nagged at her brain. What was it? she wondered. She even closed her eyes, trying to jog her memory, but only drew a blank. She sighed. It would come to her eventually. It always did. She just had to be patient.

“From what Ms. Simms said, it looks like Delilah might have made it to River Bend earlier than she’d like us to believe,” the sheriff said. “That makes her alibi awful shaky.” He scratched at his chin. “If only Milton could talk.”

“You know a good medium, Sheriff?”

He smiled thinly at her teasing. “It’s time I got a straight answer from Mrs. Grone. The
both
of them,” he hastily added.

“So now they’re suspects?”

Biddle reached for the door handle, then paused. “Hell, Mrs. Evans, I’ve got too many suspects to count on one hand.” He glanced at her. “What does your spidey-sense tell you about Milt’s women?”

Helen had been pondering that all the way back from the truck stop. “What if they were meeting behind Milton’s back to try to work things out?”

Biddle raised his eyebrows.

“Maybe Shotsie was tired of Delilah haranguing Milt about the money he owed her,” she suggested. “Shotsie confided in me yesterday that she and Milton had been fighting a lot lately. She could have promised Delilah she’d pay her off once the land deal went through, just to get her off their backs.”

“Okay,” the sheriff said, “I’ll admit that’s plausible enough. But if their getting together was so innocent, why did they keep it a secret once Milton was dead? Why did they continue to act like they hated each other’s guts?”

“Perhaps,” Helen told him as she opened the passenger door, “because they do.”

“You’ve got a point.”

Helen followed him up the cracked walkway to the front door. As he knocked, she glanced to the graveled drive on the right, noting the presence of a beat-up pickup.

Biddle banged some more before Shotsie appeared on the other side of the screen door, looking disheveled and notably perturbed.

“Good Lord, Sheriff,” she said through the mesh. “And Mrs. Evans, too?” She made no move to invite them in. “What do y’all want
this
time?”

Biddle doffed his hat, turning it around in his hands. “I’ve got some new information in your husband’s case that I need to discuss.”

“Is she gonna eavesdrop?” Shotsie asked, jerking a thumb at Helen.

“If I make you uneasy, I can go,” Helen said.

“You can stay,” Shotsie said, but her frown remained. “I’ve got nothing to hide. Cripes, the whole town can listen as far as I’m concerned.” She pushed the screen door wide and gestured impatiently. “Let’s get this over with.”

Helen sat beside Sheriff Biddle on a lumpy sofa upholstered in a green and brown plaid. Shotsie perched with crossed arms and legs on a lime-colored club chair, her posture decidedly unfriendly. “So what’s this new information you’ve got?” she asked. “I hope it’s that you’ve arrested Felicity Timmons, the old bag.”

Helen bristled but stayed mum.

The sheriff cleared his throat, setting down his hat on the scratched coffee table at his knees. He plucked the black notebook from his breast pocket and rifled through a few pages, finding a clean one. Then he retrieved his pen and clicked on the point. “Before I tell you what I know, I’d appreciate if you’d explain the extent of your relationship with the first Mrs. Grone.”

“The extent of my what?” Shotsie snapped.

“How close are you and Delilah?” Helen asked, putting it as simply as possible. “Do you see her often?”

“Do I see Milt’s first wife?” she repeated, her back stiffening. She stared for a moment unblinking, then threw back her head and snorted. “If I had my way, I’d send Delilah to the moon, okay? She makes me sick from the top of her bottle-dyed red head to the toes of her ridiculous stilettos.”

“Do you deny going to see her at her workplace?” Biddle inquired.

“What, you think I dropped by the truck stop to chat and have lunch?” Shotsie said, not answering the question.

“I’ll ask again, Mrs. Grone,” Biddle said, sounding tense. “Did you or did you not go to Delilah’s workplace and sit at her station the week before Milton was killed?”

Shotsie pressed her plump mouth closed, toying with a yellow curl and staring off into space. Finally, she shook her head. “Nope,” she told them, “not that I can remember.”

Helen caught Biddle’s eyes. He didn’t look as though he believed the woman any more than she did. They had caught her in a bald-faced lie.

“That’s funny,” the sheriff said, and licked the pad of his finger to flip to a specific page in his notebook. “Because I spoke to Delilah’s coworker this morning, and she swears she saw a woman who looks exactly like you sitting in Delilah’s station mere days before Milton’s death.”

Shotsie paled. “That’s not true,” she said, her voice sounding smaller than usual. “Someone’s making up stories. Maybe it’s Delilah. She always had it in for me, the witch.”

“Stop playing games, Mrs. Grone.” Biddle shut the black notebook and slapped it on his thigh. “I know you met with Milton’s ex-wife behind his back, and if you won’t explain why, I’ll have to assume you were planning his murder.”

“What? No!” Shotsie uncrossed her arms, waving them at Biddle. “It wasn’t like that at all! Delilah wouldn’t leave us alone. She kept calling and nagging. Miltie was ready to explode! Once Delilah knew about Wet ’n’ Woolly, it only got worse.” Shotsie fidgeted like a restless child. “She was on him like a tick. She refused to let go. Then she told him she’d tie up that land deal in court for ages if he didn’t pay up. She claimed half of it was rightly hers ’cause they were married when he inherited.”

Now they were getting somewhere, Helen thought. That certainly fit with what Velma had told them this morning.

Shotsie chewed on a fingernail. “Milt acted like he didn’t take Delilah seriously—heck, he was too busy screwing around with the pastor’s daughter to care—but I was worried enough for the both of us.” Shotsie’s expression turned hard. “Then Miltie got himself killed and that was all there was to it.” She blinked guilelessly at Biddle. “Are you gonna throw me in jail for that, Sheriff? Is it against the law in River Bend to try to help your own husband?”

Oh, boy, Helen thought as Biddle looked at her with a lift of his shoulders.

Helen wondered if he found Shotsie’s story plausible. Thank goodness it wasn’t her call. She had no idea what to believe.

The sheriff tucked away his notebook and pen. He put his hands firmly on his knees and lifted his chin. “Did you see Delilah Grone last Thursday night?” he asked point-blank.

“Me?” Shotsie’s eyes widened. “I told you, Sheriff, I went to the town meeting at seven o’clock. Miltie was cleaning his shotgun when I left. I walked alone to town hall. If Delilah was around, I didn’t run into her.”

“She came to River Bend to talk to Milton,” Biddle said. “She claims he was dead when she got here, but there’s a slight problem with the timeline.”

“Well, isn’t that something.” A deep pink tinged Shotsie’s cheeks. “So she was here that night. Maybe she’s the one who hit him. She probably figured she had a better chance of getting his money if he was dead.”

“But she’s not even in his will,” Helen said, repeating the gossip she’d heard from Milton’s lawyer’s wife.

“I guess she just hated him that much,” Shotsie declared. “She could have shown up here after I left for town hall. Maybe she and Miltie fought, and she grabbed Mrs. Timmons’s shovel, whacking him in the head and taking off.”

“Slow down there, Mrs. Grone.” Biddle scratched his brow. “I thought you were convinced that Felicity Timmons was the killer?”

Shotsie nibbled on a fingernail. “They could’ve been in it together. Maybe the old bat left that shovel out so it’d be handy for Delilah to grab.”

“Oh, heavens,” Helen said, and rolled her eyes. This was getting downright silly. If Shotsie had her way, Biddle would be locking up Felicity, Earnest Fister, and Milton’s ex-wife together.

“We might be getting just a little off-track, ma’am,” Biddle said, looking flustered

As far as Helen was concerned, they were done. She nudged his shin with the toe of her sneaker, hoping he’d get the message.

“Right,” he said, and rose, picking up his hat. “I think that about does it. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Grone. I’ll be in touch.”

Shotsie nipped at their heels as Biddle and Helen made a beeline for the door. “What about Delilah? Aren’t you going to do something?”

“She’s on my list,” the sheriff said. “I aim to talk to her today.”

They’d nearly reached the car when Shotsie yelled from the stoop, “Hey, if you need me again, you’d better call first! This isn’t Amtrak station!”

Biddle waved in reply then got into the car in a hurry.

Helen hadn’t even clicked shut her seat belt when he started the engine and jerked the black-and-white into gear. They rolled past Felicity’s Victorian, the gravel crunching beneath the tires, and Helen sat in silence.

“You’ve got something on your mind, ma’am, something you’re not telling me?” Biddle asked.

“Do I?” she murmured.

“I wish you’d share it with me, Mrs. Evans.”

Helen didn’t have anything to tell him, not yet, nothing concrete. “I’ve always liked crossword puzzles,” she said, not meaning to sound cryptic. “Once you find a few key words here and there, the others just fall into place.”

“Crossword puzzles?” He chortled. “What’s that got to do with Milton Grone?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” she murmured, the murky answer becoming clearer in her own mind. She only wondered why she hadn’t seen it sooner.

Chapter 31

S
PRAWLED OUT ON
the sofa in her father’s house, stocking feet propped up, Madeline Fister pointed the remote like a well-aimed gun, flipping channels constantly, one after the other.

Game show.

Zap.

Soap opera.

Zap
.

Talk show.

Click.

She switched the set off altogether. Tossing aside the remote, she got up. She was bored out of her skull.

Stay inside, Maddy. Take it easy, Maddy. Relax until you’re better, Maddy.

Her father’s voice played over and over in her head like an MP3 song set on endless repeat. When would he ever stop treating her like a child? When would he realize she could take care of herself without him butting in and ruining everything?

Her eyes blurred and she roughly wiped away the tears.

If only your mother were here. If only Mom could talk to you now. If only she could see what you’ve done.

Stop it!

Maddy pressed her hands to her ears and shook her head. She didn’t want her mother to see how she’d turned out. She’d disappoint her. She’d make her anything but proud.

Why had she done it? Had she needed attention so much? Had she felt so unloved?

She pictured her father standing at the pulpit in his robes, that thick church Bible in hand, frowning at her with blatant disapproval. In his eyes she was never good enough. It didn’t matter what she did. She always failed.

Don’t you understand, Daddy
, she wanted to ask him?
Don’t you see why I did it?

Her father loved the church more than her. He held that Bible closer than he’d ever held her. Milton Grone had been just the opposite. He couldn’t stop looking at her. She’d walked right up to him one day and asked why he stared. “How can I not?” he replied. “When you’re the prettiest damned thing I ever saw.” She didn’t care that he was older. He looked like George Clooney, she thought, gray but cute. When Milton flirted with her, she hadn’t discouraged him; in fact, just the opposite.

Then her father found out and stepped right in between them. He couldn’t let her live her own life or make her own choices.

And now look what he’d done! Look at the mess he’d made of it all!

Maddy struggled into her high-top sneakers, roughly tugging at the laces, tying them so tight the canvas cut through her flimsy socks and into the skin at her ankles.

She had to get out for a bit. She needed to escape this stuffy house crammed with her father’s things: the crosses and pictures of Jesus that hung on the walls; the religious magazines and books; and, most especially, that stupid Bible perched imperiously atop a cloth-covered set of drawers. Her father had found it in the chapel when he took over last year, and it was never far from him. He cradled it in his arms like it was his baby.

Her gaze lingered there, and she swallowed.

Her father kept crisp twenties tucked in an envelope between the pages. She’d found them when she was goofing around one day. On occasion, she helped herself to a few bills, especially when her allowance fell short. If her dad had noticed, he’d never said a word. Maddy figured he didn’t pay enough attention to anything besides his ministry to realize what she did and how often she did it.

Except when it came to Milton Grone.

She pressed her lips together and crossed the room in several quick steps. She pushed the book open, smelling the must of old age as she flipped through the pages, ignoring the prick of her conscience that told her what she was doing was wrong.

But she didn’t care. When her father had stolen Milton away from her, he’d been in the wrong, too.

The last time Maddy had taken money, the envelope had been stashed away in the Psalms. She found it lodged in the Corinthians now. She plucked it out, her eyes falling upon a highlighted passage: “Love is patient and kind: love is not arrogant or boastful.”

Fingers trembling, Maddy stuffed the envelope in her pocket and closed the book.

She left the house without writing a note, something her dad was always after her to do. Let him wonder where she went. She always knew where
he
was: at the chapel.

He was probably working on next Sunday’s sermon. He might be there for hours, scribbling away, oblivious to time and to
her
until it was so late that he’d missed dinner. Maddy ate alone lots of times and didn’t see her dad until after dark.

Hastening her stride, she hurried down the sidewalk, figuring she should cut through the woods to avoid bumping into her father, just in case he decided to come home for lunch.

She’d barely walked a block when something made her hesitate, and she looked up.

Across the unpaved road stood a forlorn-looking house, the yard choked with weeds, the windows drawn and dark.

A horrible sadness filled her chest.

She closed her eyes and saw Milton.

She had gone there the day before he died. No, she corrected herself, the day before he was murdered. She’d waited until she saw Shotsie drive off and then banged on the door. He hadn’t been happy at all to see her, even less so when she told him she was pregnant. Maddy had lost it, crying and begging him to leave his wife, but he said it was too late, that it was over. He said her daddy knew and it had to stop. She’d been so caught up in bawling and begging that she never heard the truck come back. She never heard the footsteps on the porch or the slap of the screened door.

If it hadn’t been for Milt, she would have still been standing there in the bedroom when Shotsie walked in.

He’d pushed open the window and shoved her out, calling to his wife all the while, “That you, Shots? Did you forget somethin’?”

“Hello, Madeline.”

Maddy jumped, her eyes flying wide-open.

Heart pounding, Maddy blinked at the woman in the straw hat who stood behind the nearby picket fence.

“My dear, are you all right?”

Maddy stammered, “I—I’m fine,” but her mouth was so dry, her tongue so thick, the words sounded unintelligible even to herself.

Before Felicity Timmons could say more, Maddy took off running past houses and trees, not stopping to catch her breath until she reached Main Street.

Head hanging, she ducked into a shop with a pink awning, setting the bell to jingling as she entered.
FRANCINE’S FASHIONS,
read a sign just inside the place.
Shoplifters will be prosecuted. Have a nice day.

“Oh, it’s you, Miss Fister,” the store’s owner, Francine—who happened to be the mayor’s daughter—said from behind the sales counter. “Take your time and look around.”

Madeline glanced over and saw the way the woman stared at her, probably thinking to herself, Oh, dear, it’s the minister’s wild child. I hope I don’t have to pat her down on her way out.

She circumvented racks of polyester pantsuits and cotton knits with button-up collars, ending up in the rear of the shop, where teenage fashions shared space with maternity wear.

“Can I help you find anything in particular?” Francine’s thin voice chirped from over Madeline’s shoulder.

“No.”

“Well, if you should need me, I’ll be right over here.”

Fine!
She wanted to scream.
Just leave me alone!

She ignored the woman, who finally went away.

Maddy plowed through the meager selection, feeling calmer by the moment. Shopping always cheered her up. She got a little thrill when she bought a new miniskirt, knowing how her father hated them; or a string bikini in the summer, another item he despised. Using the Bible money made it even more fun.

Though today, for some reason, she just felt guilty. Maybe she wasn’t trying hard enough.

She pulled a pair of purple skintight jeans off the rack, not caring about the size or color. Marching up to the front counter, she plunked down the pants, digging into her back pocket for the envelope.

“Don’t you want to try them on?” Francine asked, checking the price tag.

“No.” Maddy avoided her eyes.

“Well, if you’re sure.” Francine pushed several buttons on the register. “That’ll be nineteen ninety-five.”

Maddy nodded, peeling back the flap on the envelope. She snatched out what she thought was a bill and gave it to Francine.

“Um, I can hardly take that in payment, Miss Fister. Francine’s Fashions doesn’t deal in used stationery.”

Confused, Madeline looked down at her hand and saw what she was holding. It certainly wasn’t a crisp, green Benjamin. It was a letter folded to the size of a dollar bill, its surface covered with cramped writing that appeared unreadable at first glance.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry.” Maddy’s cheeks burned. Ashamed, she pushed her way out of the shop, the paper clutched in her fist, tears clouding her vision.

She rounded the corner of the building and pressed her back against the brick. Wiping tears on her sleeve, she took a deep breath, all the while wondering what she had taken from the Bible. Had her father stashed away a letter from her mother? She knew at the end of her mom’s life she could hardly speak, much less write in a way that was legible.

That was all the motivation Maddy needed.

She unfolded the letter and saw a date from a decade before. She realized instantly that it wasn’t her mother’s hand or even her father’s. In another second she knew why.

I, Gerald Grone, being of sound mind and body, here and now admit this document, witnessed by the honorable Reverend Jeremiah Jones and his wife Winifred, as a legal codicil to my will.

Oh, my God.

Maddy swallowed.

She pushed away from the building, hurrying up the sidewalk. Holding the letter up to her eyes, she read as she walked.

In accordance with the laws of the state, I do so designate that the fifty acres of land situated in the River Bend Valley shall be bequeathed to the town of River Bend upon my death, to do with as they please.

Maddy’s brain raced as swiftly as her feet.

So this is how her father did it, she realized. It wasn’t the threats of calling the sheriff that had kept Milt away! No wonder he’d told her it was over and refused to leave his wife!

Fury shot through her veins, and her eyes so filled with tears that she didn’t see what was ahead of her until it was too late. She ran into him head first and he grunted loudly. Knocked off-balance, she would have fallen had he not caught her by the arms.

“Maddy!” his familiar voice barked. “What are you doing? Why in heaven are you out? Didn’t I tell you stay at home?”

She gazed into his bearded face, into the furrowed brow and dark eyes that bore into her soul. Then she pushed away, shoved as hard as she could, until he let her go.

Backing up a step, she stared at him. “How could you?” she asked, her voice rising. Her pulse throbbed in her temples. “How could you do it?” she said again, thrusting out her hand, shaking the letter at him.

He looked puzzled and, she thought, frightened as well. He silently took the page she pressed at him. He glanced at it and shook his head. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“Doesn’t it?” she cried.

“He would never have married you anyway, don’t you see that?”

“No, you’re wrong,” Maddy said, even if the tiny voice inside her wondered if he was right.

“I never wanted you to know.”

She hugged her arms around herself, shivering uncontrollably. “Well, I do now, Daddy. I figured it out. You blackmailed him to make him back off.”

He held his palms out in surrender. “I did it for you, Madeline,” he told her in a whisper she could hardly hear. “I’d do it again, if I had to.”

“Did you kill him?” she asked, speaking aloud what she’d only imagined before, what she’d feared most of all. “Did you do it to keep him away from me for good?”

He flinched, and she saw how much she’d hurt him by her question. Still, when he didn’t answer, she said once more.
“Did you?”

He shook his head, eyes downcast. “No,” he told her. “But if it had come to it, if there had been no other way”—he lifted his chin—“I can’t honestly tell you I wouldn’t have. I thought of it enough.”

She bit down on her lip, stunned by his words, unsure what she’d expected to hear.

“I love you, Maddy,” he said, sounding so afraid, so unlike the confident pastor who took to the pulpit every Sunday morning with such control in his actions, in his voice. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect you.”

“You have to tell them. You can’t keep this a secret forever.”

“I know.” He stared at the paper. His hands shook.

“It was wrong what you did.”

“Will you never let me make it right?”

She looked at him closely, at the gray in his beard, the lines around his mouth and eyes, and she was suddenly a little girl again, wanting his affection so desperately, needing his attention; always trying to come up with something to take him away from his work, from his parishioners who stole so much of his time.

She must have made it as difficult for him as she did for herself. How hard he had tried.

“Oh, Daddy!”

He put his arms around her, and she allowed him to hold her.

“It’ll be all right,” he was saying, as he had again and again ever since her mom died. “It’ll be all right.”

Only this time she believed him.