Free Mad as Helen by Susan McBride

“kitchen” was too fancy a word. It was more like a small cabinet on which sat a coffee machine, a tray full of creams and sugars, and a dozen floral mugs.
    He opened the cabinet doors above to find office supplies, reams of paper, boxes of folders, and plastic-wrapped memo pads.
    He walked ahead up the hallway, leaning into the opened door of a cramped-looking office. Was that where Grace had tucked Nancy Sweet? The space was hardly big enough for him to go inside and turn around without sucking in his gut. He decided to save that room for last.
    Hitching up his belt, he continued past a framed poster of a staring Sigmund Freud to where a closed door blocked his path.
    He opened it and stood inside the jamb, peering in.
    So this was where Grace Simpson played headshrinker, he mused and let his gaze roam about. Sarah had told him it was nice, really fancy. I think she must’ve had a real interior decorator from the city, she’d remarked, her eyes wide as pennies. So you’ve satisfied your curiosity, now you don’t have to go back, Frank remembered telling her afterward. But Sarah hadn’t listened to him then any more than she ever did. Why his own wife couldn’t have talked to him instead of coming here, Frank hadn’t a clue. Maybe it was just one of those things women did that men never understood.
    While her assistant’s office was little more than a closet crammed with file cabinets and desk, Grace’s domain was more the chamber of the queen.
    The walls had been painted a rich cranberry, and the planked floor beamed with polish around the fringe of a plush, patterned rug. Behind slanted blinds, a wide window allowed an abundance of natural light in. The sunbeams glinted off gold frames mounted on the wall, the documents behind the glass stamped with seals and printed with graceful calligraphy.
    Frank rubbed a hand over his head, ruffling the sparse hair that remained. Squinting, he took a look at each framed certificate, his lips moving as he read.
    Bachelor of Liberal Arts in Psychology . . . Master of Social Work . . . Fully Accredited Member of the Psychotherapy Society of America.
    There were half a dozen in all, enough to make Frank peg Grace Simpson as a bit of an overachiever.
    There were shelves filled from end to end with texts, yearbooks, registers, and journals. He wondered if all the books were for looks or if Grace had read any of them. How much education did a person need to listen to people’s problems and give them advice? Frank usually found the wisest minds weren’t always the best educated but folks who had lived a hard life and learned from it.
    A plush couch was positioned against one wall and above it hung a large unframed canvas that, to Frank’s untrained eyes, looked like someone had accidentally splattered with paint.
    Was that supposed to be art?
    He harrumphed and hooked his thumbs into his belt on either side of his belly. He wondered how folks made money off pieces like that when he had a drop cloth in his garage speckled with just as much paint though he doubted anyone would be dumb enough to pay him cold hard cash to hang it on their wall.
    A coffee table in front of the sofa contained a host of brochures that had been carefully fanned out. Biddle picked up a few and noted they dealt with all kinds of topics like codependency, aging, stress, and addictions of various sorts.
    A pair of armchairs had been situated on the table’s other side, the cushions comfortably worn.
    But the sheriff didn’t share his wife’s interest in the décor. What interested him most was Grace Simpson’s desk, which faced him from its cockeyed position in the corner. The piece looked heavy, with carved legs and ball-and-claw feet. A leather chair sat directly behind it. Biddle went around and plunked down onto soft leather. He tugged futilely at each desk drawer but only managed to work up a light sweat. They were locked, and, at the moment anyway, he had no keys for them.
    He took out his pad