Mad as Helen (4 page)

Chapter 6

H
ELEN
HATED
THAT
Nancy couldn’t even relax and enjoy her dinner. The girl only ordered soup and barely ate more than a few spoonfuls. She mostly spent her time looking worried and fiddling with the saltines until they’d dissolved into crumbs.

At 6:35, the door to the diner jingled open and Bertha Beaner burst in, her cheeks red and eyes blazing fire.

Helen lifted her hand to wave, but Bertha didn’t notice. She made a beeline for a table where Sarah Biddle sat with Clara Foley.

“What’s wrong, Grandma?” Nancy asked the same question Helen had been posing to her for the past half hour.

“I’m not sure,” Helen told her, watching the women bend their heads together, chattering furiously, before they all got up and went to another table filled with women Helen knew from Stitch and Sew and bridge club. “But something is definitely up.”

It was then that Bertha looked across the diner and saw Helen and Nancy.

She didn’t smile or wave. Instead, she scowled. The rest of the ladies stopped talking and glanced over as well.

“They look downright pissed,” Nancy whispered.

Helen thought that was an understatement, and she braced herself as the group of women—now half a dozen strong—stopped at the end of the booth she shared with Nancy.

Bertha set her palms on the table and leaned forward, directing her anger at Helen’s granddaughter. “I don’t know how you can work for Grace Simpson and hold your head up!”

Nancy visibly flinched.

“Don’t bully her, Bertha Beaner,” Helen said in her granddaughter’s defense. “She’s Gracie’s assistant, not her keeper.”

“Well, I read the filthy notes you dropped,” Bertha shouted at Nancy. She slammed down her fist. “And I won’t stand for that book getting published. Someone needs to put that awful woman in her place, and that’s what we aim to do right now! Come on, girls, Grace Simpson’s at LaVyrle’s!” she called out like a rallying cry and led her cohorts out the door.

“So that’s where it went,” Nancy muttered and grabbed her leather bag. She scooted out of the booth, rushing off before Helen could grab a twenty from her purse to toss on the table.

“Nancy, wait!” Helen called as her granddaughter set the bells to jangling on the diner’s front door.

Helen didn’t have far to go to catch up. Barely a block down Main Street, the crowd had gathered beneath the purple sign for LaVyrle’s Cut ’n’ Curl.

Nancy had stopped on the outskirts, and Helen did the same.

“Oh, no, this is my fault,” Nancy murmured. “Grace is going to kill me for losing those notes.”

“How is it your fault?” Helen asked, standing shoulder to shoulder. “You didn’t write the damn book. Grace brought this on herself.”

Bertha Beaner tried to push through LaVyrle’s front door, but a ponytailed Mary stood in the doorway, blocking her path. “Please, just go, or I’ll get the sheriff,” the girl said, trying her best to keep the agitated throng from pushing its way inside.

The sheriff’s office was right next door, Helen mused; she was surprised Frank Biddle hadn’t heard the noise and ambled over.

“Bring out Grace Simpson!” someone yelled.

“She used us!”

Helen remembered Nancy saying that Grace had a hair appointment before her dinner engagement in St. Louis. It certainly appeared that she wasn’t going to leave LaVyrle’s without plowing through an angry mob.

“Please, don’t shout!” The squeaky voice belonged to Mary. “Can’t we be civil to each other?”

“Grace Simpson doesn’t know the meaning of the word
civil
!” Sarah Biddle shouted back and started chanting, “Stop the press! Stop the press!”

Nancy tugged at Helen’s sleeve. “Maybe we should go. If Grace sees me here”—she swallowed—“she’s not going to fire me. She’s going to kill me.”

Before Helen could even respond, Grace appeared in the doorway. Pushing Mary aside, she stepped onto the stoop, draped in one of LaVyrle’s lavender capes. Her hair still had butterfly clips holding up chunks that had yet to be dried.

She stuck her hands on her hips. “Shame on you all for behaving like a pack of unruly children! All this shouting is giving me a headache.” Grace waved them away. “Just go on home, why don’t you. Go on home, you bunch of overaged crybabies.”

Bertha was the first to step forward. “You’re the lowest, Grace Simpson, lower than a cockroach, if you ask me!”

Grace stared her down. “I don’t recall that I did.”

“You’re a liar, that’s what you are.” Sarah Biddle reared her head next. “Taking what we told you in confidence and putting it in your sordid book for the world to read!”

“I didn’t betray you.” Grace shook her head. “No real names were used. Your identities will remain anonymous.”

“Horse hockey!” Bertha countered. “We won’t remain anonymous. Real names don’t matter in a town as small as this. Everyone will know regardless. I read those notes of yours, and I saw right through your silly pseudonyms.”

“Well, that’s your sour grapes,” Grace said and touched a hand to her head, poking at the clips. “You’ve no say in the matter. It’s all said and done, and perfectly legal.”

“You’re evil, Grace Simpson. Pure evil!” one of the women called out. “You’re the devil himself!”

Helen glanced around and realized more townsfolk had gathered. It looked like the diner had emptied out. Bodies jostled her on either side, and she noticed Nancy had been pushed forward, closer to where Bertha stood.

“Take this, you witch!” a voice bellowed from down the sidewalk, and a pair of tomatoes zipped through the air toward an unsuspecting Grace. One missed its mark and splattered harmlessly against the plate glass. The other struck Grace full in the chest, splashing red down the lavender bib and leaving a bloody stain.

“Damn you crazy bumpkins!” Grace wailed. “Look what you’ve done!” Her cheeks flushed. Eyes wild, she scanned the vociferous crowd. “You’ll be sorry for this, all of you will! You can’t treat me this way after all I’ve done—”

Abruptly, she stopped.

Helen followed the direction of her stare, which seemed to fix directly upon Nancy.

“You,” Grace said, pointing her finger and shaking it. “You’re responsible for this! You left my notes lying around for anyone to see!”

“I-I didn’t m-mean to,” Nancy stammered as Helen tried to wiggle her way forward. “You didn’t give me time to shred everything! You had me running your errands and waiting on repairmen instead of doing my job.”

“Doing your job?” Grace let out a sour laugh. “As of this moment, you don’t have a job, my dear. You’re fired!” Then Grace turned on her heel with a flap of lavender cape, disappearing into the shop.

Helen got to her granddaughter and grabbed her hand. It felt ice-cold. Nancy trembled, tears in her eyes, humiliation written all over her face.

“What in tarnation is going on here?” Sheriff Biddle said, wading into the throng.

Helen wondered what the heck had taken him so long.

“Why, Frankie, we were just expressing our First Amendment right to free speech,” Sarah Biddle piped up as Helen tugged Nancy away by the hand.

The crowd grumbled and flung several last epithets after Grace’s departed figure before the contingent began to slowly disperse.

“I didn’t mean to lose those pages,” Nancy was saying. “She didn’t even listen.”

“I know,” Helen told her as they stopped walking. She set her hands on Nancy’s shoulders. “Grace should have understood that it was a mistake.”

“It’s so unfair,” Nancy muttered. “After all I’ve done for her. I’ve worked day and night to make her happy, and it was never enough.” A shudder passed through her slim frame. “I hate her, Grandma, I do,” she said, sniffling and wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “I’m so mad, I could choke her.”

“Get in line,” a familiar voice said, and, as she walked passed them, Bertha Beaner added, “you’re hardly the only one who’d like nothing better than to see that woman dead.”

Chapter 7

G
RACE
SQUINTED
AT
her reflection in her bathroom mirror, scrutinizing her makeup. She decided the pale brown on her eyelids and pale pink on her lips looked just about right, giving her a sparkle of youth despite the ever-present grooves and wrinkles.

She patted her newly done hair, hoping it would settle down a little. The fat brush LaVyrle had used to dry and style her short cut made it poof out more than she was used to, but Grace liked it well enough.

Her dress was a taupe color, nothing fancy. A simple sheath with long sleeves, shoes to match. It was tasteful and elegant, the perfect attire for a soon-to-be best-selling author.

“You’re on your way up, Grace Simpson,” she said aloud as she admired herself, giving in to a smile.

She was but a pinch away, all right. Tonight she would hand over the only copy of her manuscript to her publisher. So what if that pretentious Harold Faulkner wasn’t thrilled that she wouldn’t just email him the file? He’d whined about having to scan the thing before he could even begin to edit, but Grace figured that wasn’t her problem. “Do you want the book or not?” she’d asked him, and he’d given in after muttering something about “eccentric authors.”

But Grace didn’t care.

Stepping over to her dressing table, she picked up the purple bottle of Christian Dior’s Poison that she’d bought herself last Christmas and had hardly used, finding no occasion special enough to merit smelling that good.

But this evening was different.

She gently eased out the stopper and rolled it once beneath her nose. “Delicious,” she whispered. Lifting her left arm, she shook back her silk sleeve then touched the scent to her wrist. It was then, when she’d turned her wrist slightly around, that she caught sight of her watch. Its hands pointed precisely to 7:35.

“Good God!” she exhaled, realizing then she’d never make it into St. Louis and to her meeting on time if she didn’t leave pronto and drive like a bat out of hell. Grace had always been a prompt woman, had always expected others to be likewise, and she wasn’t about to screw up tonight of all nights.

With a clatter, she set the perfume bottle down and ran about the bedroom, prodding piles of discarded clothing in search of her matching taupe handbag. When she finally retrieved it from beneath a rumpled blouse, she went in hot pursuit of her keys, finding them downstairs on the kitchen counter.

She locked the front door in haste. Her heels clacked upon the whitewashed steps as she rushed down from the porch to her car. She was off in a shot, ignoring the stare of her neighbor, Mattie Oldbridge, who was sitting on her front stoop with a beer in her hand, dressed like a bag lady to boot.

“Despite all her money,” Grace murmured.

As she pulled away from the curb in a squeal of tires, Grace suddenly remembered that Mattie had been robbed the weekend before, though she found it hard to summon much sympathy. Why should she? She was amply paid for her sympathy by her clients, and Mattie Oldbridge wasn’t one of them.

“The old fool probably didn’t lock her doors,” Grace spoke aloud as she drove out of town and onto the River Road that would take her toward Alton and then across the Mississippi to St. Louis.

What had been stolen, anyhow? She tried to recall what she’d heard. Some money, wasn’t it, and pieces of jewelry, plus a few silly candlesticks? Nothing, Grace decided, worth getting one’s panties in a wad.

Hugging the wheel, Grace sped along the highway. She looked straight ahead as she went, glancing neither to the right at the brown of the river, nor to her left at the green of the bluffs that hovered protectively over the road.

Twenty minutes from Chautauqua, she came into downtown Alton. She was only vaguely aware of the places she passed: the old buildings, many still standing after a century or more, most closed up and neglected; others turned into a row of antique stores, fronted by flower-filled barrels.

Dress.

Hose.

Shoes.

Perfume.

Grace went through a mental list of her preparations for dinner, wishing she didn’t have a sudden niggling sense that she’d forgotten something vital.

Had she brought her purse? It wasn’t on the front seat.

She stopped at the light just before the intersection for the bridge. Her foot on the brake, she turned her head to look behind her. Yes. She sighed. There it was on the backseat.

The light went green above her.

She shifted her foot to the gas just as a thought struck her.

“Damn it all!”

She jerked to a stop, earning herself a loud honk from the car right behind her.

Veering away from the right turn lane, she surged ahead. At the corner, she turned the car and went around the block, heading back to the river road.

“You absentminded dolt!” she bellowed, her cheeks warming to red. “How could you have forgotten the manuscript?”

She slapped her palm against the steering wheel and pressed her foot harder on the gas pedal. “Birdbrain,” she grumbled, her heartbeat climbing with the rise of her speedometer. She fumed as she realized she’d be late to her meeting. Very late.

She was still furious when she reached River Bend and pulled into her driveway, parking in back by the kitchen door instead of out front, as was her custom. She raced around the car’s hood in the dim of twilight. Keys in hand, she climbed the back stoop and reached for the brass knob.

The door came open at her touch.

“Did I forget to lock up?” she mumbled and blamed the stress she was under. She had more than her share, what with Max and the book and that whining Nancy.

With a snort, she pushed her way into the house. She headed through the darkened kitchen, up the hallway, and into the living room, walking right up to the English writing desk in which she’d locked her manuscript.

She retrieved the skeleton key from atop the secretary and opened up the desk. She was reaching for the cardboard file when she heard a sound.

She lifted her head.

There it was again!

Above her head, the floorboards creaked.

Good God, were those footsteps?

Had the thieves who’d gotten into Mattie’s house come to prey upon her as well? Grace wondered. Her pulse pumped in her ears as anxiety attacked. Were the culprits just kids from Green Valley, as the sheriff seemed to surmise, or were they hardened criminals who delighted in burgling the homes of single females?

Grace thought of calling Frank Biddle, but her cell was in her purse in the car. Holding the manuscript against her like a shield, she moved quietly toward the stairs, tiptoeing upward.

Pull yourself together, she ordered, heart thumping in her breast. River Bend was hardly a hotbed of crime. Gangs didn’t roam about with guns or knives. If it was just some wild-eyed teenager wanting money for drugs, well, she’d give him a twenty to appease him until she could get the sheriff on the phone.

More likely, she realized, it was Bertha Beaner or the sheriff’s wife, breaking in while they assumed she was away, searching the house for the manuscript so they could burn it and celebrate.

“Who’s there?” she called out, softly at first, and then with more command. “Who’s there, I said? If you don’t leave right away, I’ll have the sheriff here in a minute flat.”

A drawer slapped shut.

Was the thief in her bedroom?

Grace felt suddenly spitting mad. “Come out this instant! Make yourself known, you coward.” When silence answered, she added, “All right then, I’m coming in!”

At that, she swept into her room, still gripping her manuscript. Two steps inside, she hesitated. In the bureau mirror dead ahead, she caught the reflection of the intruder hiding in the shadow of the half-opened door through which Grace had just entered.

“You?” she got out, staring into the mirror. “What in the world do you think you’re do—”

She never had the chance to turn around as something heavy came crashing down on her head, knocking her to the floor, permanently out of breath.