To Helen Back (3 page)

Chapter 4

E
ARNEST
F
ISTER SAT
at his desk in the small office at the rear of the chapel, staring down at the blank sheet of paper before him. He held his pen poised but was unable to write anything at all.

That wasn’t like him.

Earnest had always loved the written word. It had drawn him to the ministry in the first place. The Bible, as he saw it, was a book that overflowed with stories so well-composed, so well-told, they could do no less than convince their readership of the truths woven within.

Earnest usually took great pleasure in creating the script for his services, drawing on pertinent passages to underscore the points he was to make.

This day, though, he found putting pen to paper less a joy than a form of torture.

He needed something for Milton Grone’s funeral service, being held the following day. Yet every pithy expression that came to mind at times like this, every hopeful and inspiring sentence about the dearly departed as a loving father or doting husband, as a devote churchgoer and town citizen, all rang false. For him to portray Milton Grone in such a way was akin to deceit. And should he utter those flowery phrases tomorrow, every soul in River Bend would know it as well as he.

So how might he describe the person Milton Grone was in life without speaking ill of the dead?

Fister sighed loudly and dropped the pen to the stark white page. Scratching his beard, he rose from his chair and padded across the floor to the sole window to grace the study behind the apse. Made of two divided panes of stained glass, the window was the room’s centerpiece. A simple bronze plaque beneath read:
DONA
TED BY GERALD AND EDA GRONE.
Milton’s father and mother, or so he’d been told.

Earnest unhooked the latch that united the colorful scene of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus, and he pushed the window open so the afternoon breeze could stir his thoughts.

The whir of a lawn mower hummed through the air, and he imagined he could smell the fresh-cut grass. Children’s voices rang out from a nearby playground: happy sounds of laughter, strains of “Ring Around the Rosie,” and the faint squeal of the swings as tiny legs pumped them to and fro.

A smile tugged at his lips, the childish noises striking a near-forgotten chord somewhere inside him. He remembered when his own daughter Maddy was that young. He’d take her to the park, catch her at the bottom of the slide and swing her around in his arms before her feet touched ground again.

His mouth tightened suddenly, becoming a thin line that he wore often now.

Had he done all he could for her? Had he done his best? It had been so difficult being both father and mother to the girl ever since his Margaret had died, when Maddy was barely eleven. He’d wanted to do what was right for her always; perhaps he’d been too strict, and not because of his profession, but because he’d been afraid. He’d had to counsel so many adolescents at his old church in St. Louis, children barely into their teens who were hooked on drugs or drink; girls younger than Madeline who’d found themselves pregnant.

He’d never wanted those things for Maddy. He’d tried to keep her safe. He’d hoped it would be different for them here in this quiet town of River Bend, set so snugly between the bluffs of the Mississippi. He’d prayed it would bring them closer again somehow. Instead, his being so overprotective had only pushed her away.

“Please, Maddy, talk to me,” he’d begged her in recent days. “Tell me what you’re thinking . . . what you want from me. Tell me how to make things right?”

“I’m seventeen, Daddy,” she’d told him, looking a decade past in her tight miniskirt and breast-hugging sweater. The dainty features within the oval face seemed hidden beneath excessive makeup in too-bright hues. She’d given a toss to her shiny dark hair as she finished, “It’s too late for you to start fixing things.”

Fixing things?

When, Earnest wondered, had they been broken? And who had done the breaking?

He pulled the pair of panes closed, latching them tightly together and shutting out the carefree noises of the playground, which had suddenly turned so unfriendly.

He turned away from the stained glass, his gaze settling on his unwritten eulogy for Milton Grone. He had to come up with something, he knew, but what was there to say? God help him, but he felt no remorse at the man’s death. It was his duty to look for something good—anything—in everyone he met. But after being Milton’s neighbor this past year, he’d come up empty-handed. The truth was that Mr. Grone had not been a kind man, nor had he been generous in any way, though Fister had not given up on him completely, not at first.

Earnest had tried to encourage him to attend the Sunday services, to join their Bible study, to simply search deep inside for whatever gift God had dealt him. But Milton wanted no part of any of it.

“Why should I?” he’d asked. “What’s God ever done for me, or the church, for that matter? I don’t need salvation, if that’s what you’re hintin’ at. All those fancy speeches you make . . . they’re just a lot of gobbledygook to me. Real pretty, maybe, but they don’t amount to much of anything. Besides, your pretty words haven’t seemed to help the God-fearing people of this town much. If anyone needs saving, it’s them. Biggest bunch of hypocrites I’ve ever seen.”

Milton had shown an interest in one aspect of Fister’s life, however: teenage Maddy.

“She’s a good-lookin’ thing and ripe as a tomato. Better keep your eye on her, Preacher, or someone’s gonna pluck her right from under your nose,” Grone had said, getting a look in his eyes that couldn’t be mistaken.

Earnest tightened his hands into fists at the memory.

No. He couldn’t say he’d miss Milton Grone. In fact, he forced himself to admit, what he felt, if not gladness, was a sense of relief.

Though the truth in this instance was something he had to work his way around gently, or he’d have nothing to say at the funeral tomorrow. Nothing, save for “Amen.”

Chapter 5

H
ELEN
E
VANS STOOD
behind the screen door of her porch, refusing to open it to the twenty pound yellow tomcat who sat just outside, the remains of a field mouse dangling from his jaws.

“I’m sorry, Amber,” she said, “but you’re not coming in with that thing in your mouth. Go on then. Shoo. Have your snack somewhere else and come back when you’ve finished.”

The cat stared at her for the longest time, as if debating whether to go or stay. Then with an irritated swish of his tail, he popped onto his large paws and descended the stoop, the dead mouse swinging like a rubber toy.

Helen shook her head as she watched him go, thinking that having a cat was much like coexisting with a very independent child: in the end, like the child, the cat often seemed to get his way. Except when there was a rodent involved, she decided, shuddering.

She checked her wristwatch.

Twenty to noon.

She’d better get a move on if she wanted to make it to Lola Mueller’s on time for her luncheon date with the girls. “The girls” being about a dozen other ladies of River Bend who were members of their weekly Stitch and Sew, more commonly referred to as “Stitch and Bitch” since there was, admittedly, a good deal more gossip that went on than actual needlework.

In fifteen minutes she was out of her sweatsuit and properly attired in blouse and skirt. She even managed to tame her wiry gray hair into an acceptable style. She added a touch of pink lipstick to her mouth before she snatched up her quilting bag and headed out the door.

Clara Foley lumbered by just then, heading in the same direction. After breezy “hellos,” Helen fell into step with her. A few minutes later they reached Lola’s place. The porch buzzed with vociferous chatter, and Helen was reminded of the noisy banter of caged birds in the pet store.

“Helen! Clara! Come right on in,” Lola’s mellifluous voice called out from behind the porch screens. “You’re the very ones we’ve been waiting for.”

Clara went inside first, her pink muumuu billowing with a gust of wind. Helen entered next, acknowledging greetings sent her way by those already gathered on their wicker perches.

Ida Bell and Dorothy Feeny sat side by side on a wooden swing bolted to the beamed ceiling. The two looked uncomfortable as always, out of place anywhere, Helen imagined, but their Save the Animal meetings. They attended Stitch and Sew under duress from their friends and, Helen decided, doubtless with hopes that one day their remarks about the demise of this species or that would send the less political women into action.

Clara positioned herself on the cushioned divan, squeezing in between Gladys Potter, wife of Henry of waste disposal fame, and Sarah Biddle, the better half of their local sheriff.

Doc Melville’s wife, Fanny, nodded up from a rocking chair. Her knitting lay neatly in her lap, the needles madly clicking.

Felicity Timmons sat primly in a wicker chair, her cotton shirt polka-dotted with watermarks. Her green sneakers had faint slashes of dirt on the toes.

The poor dear looked tired, Helen thought. There were shadows beneath the pale blue of her eyes, and the lines on her face looked deeper. Rouge reddened cheeks that were normally pale as snow, since her skin saw more shade than sun. The hat she’d donned this morning was a familiar white straw tied with a vivid green bow. Beneath its wide brim, Felicity’s face tipped downward, nearly hidden. Her hands, sturdy and spotted, trembled visibly as she raised her coffee cup and sipped.

The events of the previous night had certainly shaken the woman, and understandably so. Milton Grone might have been a real thorn in Felicity’s side, but he
had
been her neighbor. Seeing him lying dead just beyond the fence could not have been easy to stomach, not for one as sensitive as Felicity.

“Hello,” Helen said to her friend, smiling as she took the empty chair beside her. “How are you holding up?”

Coffee slopped over the sides of the cup as Felicity returned it to its saucer. “Fine,” she got out. “And why shouldn’t I be?”

“What with Milton’s death . . .” Helen began, before pausing, detecting a flicker of fear in Felicity’s eyes at the mention and a tightening of her frown. She let the words hang.

Though the subject took but seconds for another to broach.

“Can you believe it, girls?” Clara Foley said, patting her widespread knees. “Can you truly believe that old Grinch has finally breathed his last? I, for one, thought we’d never live to see the day. You know how they say that only the good die young. The mean ones last forever!”

A few clucked and shook their heads, but twice as many giggled.

Helen didn’t join in their laughter. Her gaze was on Felicity, who seemed to shrink beneath her hat’s brim.

“Let’s talk about something else, shall we?” she suggested, and brightly turned to the others. “Like the upcoming Founder’s Day picnic?”

“The picnic? Pah!” Gladys Potter harrumphed. Framed by white curls, her long face frowned at Helen, as if Helen were a spoilsport trying to ruin all their fun. “Not when we’ve got Milton Grone to discuss. Why, it’s the buzz of the town.”

“She’s right, it is,” Sarah Biddle said, her overbite giving her a horsey appearance. “I was at the post office this morning, and everyone there was blathering on about it. I mean, wasn’t it such a shock?”

“What does Amos say, Fanny?” Clara asked. “I heard he’s got Milton’s body under a microscope. Has he found something fishy?”

The click-clack of knitting needles swiftly ceased, and Doc Melville’s wife looked up, spectacles hooked low on her bulbous nose. “I’m sure the doctor will let everyone know in due time if his exam turns up anything. But, for now, it seems Mr. Grone passed from a heart attack. I can’t imagine why you all find it so darned interesting.”

“Goodness, Fanny, but you’re a killjoy,” Lola Mueller chided as she walked around with a pot of coffee, freshening empty cups. “We’re just curious.”

Fanny sighed and resumed her knitting. “All Amos told me was that he wanted to check out that gash on Grone’s head. He can only do so much on his own, though. If there’s any more to it, he’ll have to send the body over to his friend at the medical examiner’s office.”

“I’m sure it won’t come to that, since it was surely a heart attack,” Ida said dully, adding her two cents. She and Dotty moved the swing gently to and fro with their toes. “So if we could get off this silly topic and onto one that matters, like the impending extinction of the red-spotted blue bills . . .”

“What the devil are those?” Clara asked, rolling her eyes. “Some kind of bug?”

Ida’s face flushed, and she set the heels of her boots flat on the floor, bringing the swing to a sudden stop. Dot’s squat form, lower in gravity, pitched forward so that she would have fallen off if not for Ida’s outstretched arm.

“They are not insects!” Ida announced, puffing out her thin chest. “They are a most rare duck, sent over from China during the Ming Dynasty by the Emperor himself!”

Clara opened wide her generous mouth and patted it with her palm.

Ida crossed her arms snugly and glared.

“Girls, girls, please,” Lola said with a clap of her hands. Her small eyes squinted as she frowned. “Let’s not waste our hour together by arguing about ducks.”

“No, let’s get back to Milton Grone kicking the bucket,” Sarah Biddle insisted. “My Frank said Grone’s wife—I mean, his widow—threw herself on the body and cried hysterically.”

“Well, wouldn’t you be hysterical if something happened to the sheriff?” Gladys Potter asked.

Sarah’s rabbit teeth caught her bottom lip as she smiled. “Goodness, Gladys, can’t I have a minute to think about it?”

Clara burst into loud guffaws, slapping her thighs with relish. The others laughed politely, save for Felicity, who’d not made a sound.

“I think I need some air,” she murmured, setting down cup and saucer with a clatter. She quickly rose to her feet and, with a terse good-bye to their hostess, went through the door and out. Her green-shod feet crunched on the gravel road as she hurried off, the ribbon from her hat trailing behind her like a streamer.

Helen thought about packing up the quilt square she’d been halfheartedly working on and pursuing her friend. But Felicity’s quick stride assured her that the old girl didn’t want company; indeed, she needed time to herself.

“Tsk, tsk.” From across the porch, Gladys Potter clicked tongue against teeth, causing Helen to look over. “I think this whole episode with Milton Grone has affected dear Felicity more deeply than the rest of us.”

“Well, she does—or rather, she did—live next door to the man,” Ida remarked, her thin neck arched like an underfed swan’s. “If you’d had to put up with that bear in such close proximity, you’d probably feel as guilty as she does.”

“Guilty?” Helen scoffed, pricked by the insinuation. “Why in heaven should she? Felicity didn’t kill him.”

“Perhaps not,” Ida responded. “But I’ll bet she’s wished him dead at least a thousand times. I know I did, and I’m sure I’m not alone. I doubt there’s a citizen in this town who didn’t have a run-in with Milton that left them wishing he’d go away for good. And if they denied it, they’d be lying.”

The declaration brought down an uncomfortable silence. Even the garrulous Clara was temporarily without rebuttal.

“Cake, anyone?” Lola offered, finally breaking up the unfamiliar hush.

This time Clara was not so slow to reply. “Wonderful idea,” she said. “I’ll help you cut.”

No more was spoken about Milton Grone at the gathering.

Still, Helen left Lola’s thinking about what Ida had said, that Milton Grone had made his share of enemies in River Bend. As she let herself into her own house, Amber on her heels—this time without the mouse—she found herself counting all those who’d despised Milton Grone enough to kill him, and felt a rush of relief that he’d died of cardiac arrest.

Otherwise, one of River Bend’s own might end up in handcuffs.