Free Mad as Helen by Susan McBride Page B

was rinsing her hands when she heard a gentle knock on her porch door, raps that fast turned more insistent.
    “Mrs. Evans? Mrs. Evans, it’s me, Frank Biddle.”
    Helen rolled her eyes heavenward or, in this case, attic-ward, wondering if the noise had awakened a still slumbering Nancy.
    “Mrs. Evans?”
    “Coming!” she called, muttering to herself as she wiped her hands on a dish towel.
    She sidestepped Amber, who suddenly stopped gorging. He sniffed disdainfully and stared up at her as if to say, “You know, I’m just not in the mood for salmon in aspic. Would you pop the top on something else?”
    “Not a chance,” she told him in passing.
    By the time Helen reached the porch, the sheriff had the screen door half open and was poking his head in.
    “May I come in, ma’am?” he asked. Before she answered, he entered, allowing the screen door to shut with a gentle slap.
    “Oh, please, do come in,” she said wryly and, arms crossed, looked him over.
    As always, Frank Biddle wore a slightly rumpled tan uniform, the belt of his pants hanging on for its life beneath a well-fed belly. He had his hat in one hand and smoothed down thinning hair with the other.
    Helen didn’t invite him to sit, but that didn’t stop him from doing so. With a tense smile aimed her way, he ambled over to where a cluster of cushioned wicker congregated. He kicked out his dusty boots before him then cocked his head and said, “I figured that if the mountain wouldn’t come to Mohammad, Mohammad had better head on over to the mountain.”
    Helen sighed. “I told you that I’d bring Nancy back down to your office as soon as she was fit. She’s still sleeping, and I’m not about to wake her up.”
    Biddle shifted in his seat. “You don’t seem to realize, Mrs. Evans, that this is a murder investigation, not a sewing bee.”
    Helen bristled. “I’m as aware of that as Nancy. But that doesn’t give you the right to harass the poor girl when she’s in a state of shock.”
    “Point taken,” Biddle said, and he blushed. “But the first forty-eight hours are the most vital in a case like this, ma’am, and I don’t want to waste ’em.”
    “Sheriff, I—”
    “It’s okay, Grandma,” a soft voice interrupted. “I can talk now. Honest.”
    Helen turned.
    Nancy stood inside the opened French doors leading out to the porch. Though her face was still pale and her eyes were underlined with gray, she did seem calmer somehow.
    She came forward in rumpled socks, with a white terry robe covering her from knee to neck. Her hands disappeared in the deep pockets. She smiled weakly at her grandmother before taking a seat across from Biddle and drawing up her legs beneath her.
    “All right, Sheriff,” she said and sucked in a deep breath. “Fire away.”
    Helen stood beside the chair and set her hand on Nancy’s shoulder, just to remind her granddaughter that she was there should she need her.
    Biddle cleared his throat and gave his hat a final twist before he set it aside. “A witness heard you remark last night that you were mad enough to kill Grace.”
    “Bertha Beaner,” Helen said and shook her head. “For goodness’ sake, Sheriff, Nancy was upset! And if I remember correctly, Bertha said she wanted to kill Grace, too—that Nancy would have to get in line.”
    “Ma’am,” Biddle warned.
    Helen shut her mouth, but it took some effort to keep it closed.
    “Of course I didn’t mean it, not really,” Nancy replied, balling her hands into fists in her lap. “I was so frustrated with Grace. I’d worked my tail off typing up all her notes for her book, and then she fired me because of one mistake.”
    “Did you go to her house and argue with her?” Biddle asked.
    “No, she was dead when I got there.”
    “I’m sure you didn’t go there intending to harm her,” Biddle pressed, “but sometimes emotions escalate and things get out of hand.”
    Helen was ready to shout in denial, but Nancy beat her to it.
    “No!” The