Free Not a Chance in Helen by Susan McBride Page A

her courage, she pulled open the dishwasher but didn’t see a sign of ants inside. Well, that was something good, anyway.
    Though she scrounged beneath the sink, pushing aside cans of air freshener, floor cleaner, spot remover, brass and silver polish, and assorted other sparklers and shiners she didn’t use near as much as she should, all Helen could find was a bottle of ant killer with just about a drop left. Definitely not enough to do the job at hand. Splat, it was called, and it was great stuff. Made by a little company in St. Louis, it got rid of the pests better than any big-name brand she’d ever tried. She’d heard talk it was about to be banned—but then Helen heard lots of talk around here—and besides, the corner market still stocked it. Helen knew she wasn’t the only one who’d raise a stink if she couldn’t buy some. It was the one thing that truly worked against modern-day bugs with their cast-iron stomachs.
    She dusted off her hands and dropped the empty bottle of Splat into the trash can.
    Hmm, she thought as she peered into her near-empty refrigerator; if she didn’t get to the grocer’s pretty soon, even the ants wouldn’t have much to snack on. She knew her stash of cat food for Amber was getting dangerously low. All right, all right. After she put something in her stomach, she’d take a trip to the store and fill up.
    That settled, she gathered up the few slices of American cheese, butter, and bread that remained and fixed herself a grilled cheese sandwich. It was exactly what she’d meant to eat for supper the night before but had forsaken when Jean had called and asked to meet her at the diner. What with dogging Frank Biddle to Eleanora’s and finding her dead, Helen had ended up coming home to a bowl of Raisin Bran at close to nine o’clock.
    She took the sandwich and a glass of ice water out onto the porch. Within five minutes, she’d devoured the grilled cheese, even licking the greasy residue off her fingertips when she was done.
    It took her twice as long to locate her glasses. When she found them buried behind seat cushions on the wicker couch, she propped them on her nose and retrieved that morning’s Alton Telegraph . She neatly folded the paper to the section that featured the crossword puzzle. The purple pen she used to fill in the squares sat right beside it. She picked both up and settled down.
    Ten across. Five letters.
    A river in German wine country (Ger. sp.).
    Helen paused for a moment, but only that, then said aloud, “Mosel,” writing down the answer in deep lavender print.
    She backtracked to three down.
    A seven-letter word for insolent.
    “Stanley,” she uttered without thinking, laughing at herself when she realized what she’d said. Well, it fit, didn’t it? And Stanley Duncan certainly was insolent if nothing else.
    It was too bad, she mused, as she filled in the squares with “abusive,” that Eleanora couldn’t have used a little Splat to rid herself of her awful brother-in-law.
    What gall he had, tearing through Eleanora’s things like a madman, frightening Zelma half to death, and with Eleanora not even buried.
    She found herself hoping Eleanora had left the obnoxious man little, if anything, in her will. Unfortunately, she realized, he was the only Duncan left, the only surviving family.
    Poor Eleanora, she thought. What else had the woman had to put up with that Helen hadn’t known about? Who else besides Stanley Duncan had wanted something from the old girl?
    Stop it, she told herself. Eleanora wouldn’t want your pity.
    Still, Helen suddenly wasn’t in the mood to do any more of her crossword. She set down the paper and pen alongside her spectacles then cleared her dishes from the porch. After putting her dirty plate and glass in the sink, she gathered up her purse and headed off for the corner market.
    Just as Helen was approaching the doors leading into the store, she ran smack into Jemima Winthrop, who rushed out like the place was on