To Helen Back (17 page)

Chapter 32

H
ELEN WAVED AS
Biddle’s dusty black-and-white pulled away from her front walk. She waited until it turned the corner and disappeared from her sight. Then, she did an about-face, heading back in the direction from whence they came.

She followed her instincts and the sidewalk which led her to Felicity’s house barely ten minutes later.

Noting the absence of her friend’s brown sedan in the carport, Helen cut across the perfectly groomed yard to the back patio. There, in the shade of overhanging elms and oaks, she settled onto a cushioned wrought-iron chair and waited.

When twenty minutes passed, she feared her intuition might have failed her.

After another five she sighed and got up.

Stepping over the monkey grass that bordered the patio, she heard the noise of a car approaching and froze.

She peered through the leaves of a rhododendron as a green automobile lurched up to the intersection and turned right, spewing gravel as it raced around the corner at a speed surpassed only, Helen thought, by the morning paperboy.

With a sputter and succession of loud backfires, the car pulled up behind the pickup parked in the driveway next door.

Helen smiled, though not from amusement, but rather from simply knowing that her instincts had been right.

She watched the driver get out and clatter up the porch steps, banging on the frame of the screen door with both fists. Without waiting for an answer, she let herself in.

Helen hurried across Felicity’s lawn and squatted through the split-rail fence, creeping up to the side of the house, wincing at the groan of the stairs as she ascended the dilapidated stoop.

She paused at the screen door, listening to the clash of voices coming from within. Some of it was too garbled to make out, though most she heard loud and clear.

“You’re trying to pin this on me now, are you, Shots? How dare you tell that stupid sheriff that I’m guilty when you’re the one who got me into this mess in the first place!” the first Mrs. Grone ranted, obviously learning of Sheriff Biddle’s visit from Milton’s widow herself. She sounded mad enough to choke a horse.

Shotsie’s reply was no less vehement. “What else was I supposed t’ do, huh? He knew I’d gone down to the rest stop to talk to you before Miltie kicked the bucket. Your brainless coworker spilled those beans! Did you want me to tell him the truth?”

Rapid-fire curses followed suit, the words flying back and forth so fast Helen couldn’t make out which woman said what. Before Helen had a chance to scoot, the door flew open and Delilah burst out. Helen grabbed for the handrail to keep from falling off the porch.

“What the—” Delilah caught herself and did a double-take. “Mrs. Evans?” she said, her cheeks flushed beneath the heavy powder that coated her skin. Her eyes went round with surprise. “What’re you doing here?”

Helen tried to think of some quick and believable pretense. But she changed her mind, deciding it was time someone told the truth around here. “I figured Shotsie might phone you after the sheriff and I left,” she admitted, “and that you’d drive up from Alton as soon as you heard.”

“What’s going on?” The screen door flapped wide and Shotsie emerged. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, spying Helen. “So how much did you hear, you old busybody?”

“Shut your fat mouth for a minute and maybe she’ll tell us,” Delilah spat over her shoulder. “Maybe we should go inside.”

“I’m comfortable out here,” Helen said, though Shotsie scowled.

“That’s too bad,” Delilah replied, and grabbed her arm, holding tight. “Because I think we’d be more comfortable inside.”

Helen thought about screaming for help, but she hadn’t seen anyone else around. Besides, she didn’t believe the women would hurt her. They were in enough trouble as it was, and Frank Biddle would figure it out sooner or later; sooner, if they tossed another dead body into the mix.

“Sit down,” Delilah told her, dragging Helen into the living room and pushing her toward the ugly plaid couch, the very place where she and the sheriff had sat only half an hour before.

Delilah settled in the green club chair, while Shotsie stood with her hands on her hips, glowering. “Say what’s on your mind, you nosy Nellie,” she grumbled, her face a puffy mask of indignation. “I swear, I’ve had enough of you and the sheriff, enough of everyone in this stupid town. I should sue you all for harassment!”

“Would you close your freakin’ pie hole and let the lady speak?” Delilah countered.

“Are you talkin’ to me?”

“Who else has a pie hole that won’t shut?”

“Why, you—”

“Shut up!”

Helen listened to them throw insults back and forth and shook her head, as certain as she’d ever been that the animosity she’d seen between them during Milton’s funeral service wasn’t an act at all. They deeply and sincerely hated each other’s guts.

She shifted in her seat, suddenly doubting herself. What if her theory wasn’t right? What if she’d jumped to conclusions?

No. She didn’t see how it could have happened any other way.

“I know what happened,” she said loud enough to be heard over their shouting match. “I know what happened the night you killed Milton.”

Abruptly, the argument ceased.

Shotsie turned narrowed eyes on Helen. “This should be good,” she said, and began twisting a yellow curl around her finger. “I like made-up stories.”

“Quiet,” Delilah hissed at her before turning to Helen. “Go on, Mrs. Evans. For once I agree with the Black Widow.”

“It took me a while to put all the pieces together,” Helen murmured, setting her hands in her lap and keeping her eyes on both women. “The clues were right there in front of me the whole time, though I didn’t see them at first. Then little by little I figured out how they fit together. It began with a slip of the tongue here, an off-the-cuff remark there, an observation that made no sense until now.”

The women stared at her, silent for once.

Helen wet her lips. “No, I haven’t lost my marbles, not yet anyway. I must say that it was clever enough, this plan of yours. You might have gotten away with it, too, if you hadn’t left so many telltale crumbs in your wake.”

“What plan?” Shotsie sniffed. “I think you’ve had one too many bad prunes, if you don’t mind my sayin’.”

Delilah flipped brassy hair over her shoulder, feigning nonchalance. But Helen saw the worry in her eyes and the creases in her brow, which were deeper than a moment before. “What exactly is your point?” she asked.

“You lied to me, Mrs. Grone,” Helen said to the redhead. “You claimed not to have arrived in town until after Milton was dead, right before the crowd from town hall descended upon this house. But Velma Simms said you ducked out before your shift ended at seven.” She paused, remembering something the sheriff had mentioned in passing while they’d driven to the truck stop. It had to do with his questioning Maddy Fister. “The backfire from your car,” she remarked, “it sounds like fireworks.”

“So?”

“The pastor’s daughter heard three or four blasts some minutes before the chapel bell tolled at eight. She assumed it had come from the cop show she’d been watching when she dozed off.” Helen clasped her hands together. “But the pops didn’t come from the TV. They came from your car.”

If Delilah registered shock at the revelation, she hid it well. She didn’t even twitch. Instead, she settled back in the club chair and crossed her legs. “That doesn’t prove anything, Mrs. Evans. It just means that I was in River Bend that night, like I said, and that I saw Milton dead before anyone else.”

“Velma Simms saw Shotsie at the truck stop during your shift only days before Milton was murdered,” Helen went on.

“You’re reaching, grandma.” Shotsie shook her head. “There’s no law against two ex-wives meeting up for a chat. Don’t make it sound like we plotted together to do in Miltie.”

“You said it, Mrs. Grone,” Helen murmured, “not I.”

Delilah chuckled, then her chuckles became gales of laughter. “My God,” she said, fighting to catch her breath, brushing tears from her eyes. “That’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard. The two of us kill Milt? Why? I’m not even in his will so why do I care?”

“Yes, you did mention it to me, didn’t you?” Helen nodded. “Just as the current Mrs. Grone made a point of attending the meeting in town hall and convincing the lot of us she knew next to nothing about Milton’s take from his Wet ’n’ Woolly deal.”

“She’s the one who had everything to gain,” Delilah said, hooking a thumb at Shotsie. “I had nothing to gain by killing Milton. Nothing.”

“Oh, but you did.” Helen pressed forward. “You must’ve realized that as long as Milt lived, you’d never get that money he owed you. With his windfall from the water park, he could’ve tied you up in court for years. It was a good bet you wouldn’t see any of that back alimony or child support, not as long as he was around to fight.”

“But by murdering him I would?” Delilah said dryly.

“There was always a chance your children would inherit something or that his estate might pay up what you were owed in the end.” Her eyes went from the former Mrs. Grone to his widow and back again. “It surely couldn’t hurt that his likely beneficiary was a woman you were in cahoots with and who probably promised you some type of compensation once Milton was dead.”

“Horse hockey!” Shotsie’s face turned bright red. “If I’d wanted Miltie gone, why didn’t I just divorce him, huh? I’ll tell you why! Because I loved him. You hear me? I loved him in spite of everything he’d done!”

“That may have been true once,” Helen acknowledged, not doubting Shotsie’s declaration. “But learning that he’d cheated on you with Madeline Fister was the straw that broke the camel’s back, was it not? You admitted that you knew. In fact, you told me more than you should have,” she said, watching Shotsie’s red face turn bloodless. “I figure you had to overhear Milton talking to Madeline. That’s the only way you could have known she was pregnant unless he told you himself. Until just recently, no one besides the pastor and his daughter knew for certain who the father was except you,” she said, “and Milton.”

“You’re crazy,” Shotsie whispered.

“You were afraid that if Milt left you for Maddy, you’d end up in the same fix as Delilah,” Helen went on, unable to turn back once she’d gone this far. “You feared Milton might abandon you for the girl, like he abandoned his own children. If he did, you’d be left with nothing, just like Delilah. And with all that money he’d be coming into because of the land he sold—”

“You’re a liar!” Shotsie shouted, shaking a finger at Helen. “It’s lies, every word. No one’s gonna believe you. You’re old and batty. You might even have dementia.”

Helen took a deep breath and looked at Delilah, who’d pulled a cigarette out of her purse. But her fingers shook too much to light it. “You had plenty of help from Milton’s first wife. She knew about his bad heart, something he never intended for his younger second bride to find out.”

Delilah tossed the unlit cig to the floor. “Lots of folks around here knew about Milt’s heart condition. His dad died of heart failure, too. It wasn’t a secret.”

“No, it wasn’t a secret to most,” Helen agreed. “But it was to Shotsie. You encouraged her to attend the town meeting that night,” she said, looking at Milt’s second wife. “You lived here for years. You realized it would give her the perfect alibi.”

“Well, I
was
at the meeting,” Shotsie said, and her shoulders relaxed. She tipped up her chin, looking suddenly confident. “Everybody saw me. I’ve got dozens of witnesses, at least. No one’s got a tighter alibi than me.”

That’s what had puzzled Helen the most. She’d seen Shotsie in town hall last Thursday night with her own eyes. She thought of Harry Houdini and Blackstone and their genius with slight of hand. Magicians knew how easily the eyes could deceive the senses. A remark of Bebe Horn’s over cards last night had made her realize just how much that was true. Even though so many townsfolk had seen Shotsie in attendance, Helen knew of none who’d actually watched her enter.

Helen exhaled slowly, cocking her head as she looked at Grone’s widow. “As best I can figure, you must’ve slipped in late, like Delilah at the funeral service, only you didn’t want to make as loud an entrance. Once Art Beaner banged his gavel and Clara started reading the minutes, no one noticed anything else. But I’ll wager if the sheriff checked with any latecomers, they’ll realize they didn’t see you until you stood up and started arguing with Ida.” Her voice shook a bit but she didn’t stop. “I’ll admit it was a smart move, Shotsie, drawing attention to yourself as you did.” She smiled. “Even I believed you didn’t know the money involved in Milton’s land deal.”

“What a bunch of malarkey!” Shotsie’s eyes darted to Delilah then back to Helen. “I think you’ve lost your mind, Mrs. Evans. Just like that batty Felicity Timmons.”

“Ah, yes, Felicity,” Helen said, tackling another issue that bothered her. “You mentioned more than once watching Felicity plant from dawn to dusk, so you knew she kept gardening tools outdoors. Did you get the idea to use her shovel when you saw her argue with your husband that morning?”

“Maybe you should just stop talkin’ now,” Shotsie snapped.

But Helen didn’t. “You were very quick to suggest to the sheriff that Felicity was guilty and that her missing shovel might be the weapon. But then you had to make sure he’d
find
it. So you kept badgering him about Felicity until he poked around—”

“Stop!” Shotsie stood right in front of Helen and raised her clenched fists. “Just stop it before I—”

“What?” Helen said, trying to stay calm despite the prickle of fear at the back of her neck. “Are you going to kill me, too? If that’s the case, I hope you have a better plan than the one you two concocted for Milton. You don’t think I’m the only one who’s added it all up?” she told them, hoping she wasn’t bluffing. “The sheriff’s on to you, too.”

“It wasn’t me! I didn’t hit him!” Shotsie shouted. “It was Delilah! She snuck up on him, and
bam
!” The woman shuddered and covered her face with her hands.

Delilah shot out of the chair, grabbing Shotsie by the arms. “Just what the hell are you trying to do here? Throw me under the bus?”