Helen Hath No Fury by Gillian Roberts Page B

the bridge. It’s the past; it’s forgotten.” She puffed out a hard exhale, then nodded. I turned the machine back on.
    “I meant she had guts, like I said. In the best way. The courage of her convictions. Standing up for what she believed. Trust me, business partnerships that go sour aren’t the best way to stay friends, but because of who she was and how she was, we did. I admired her, and I learned from her.”
    When it was my turn, I realized that I’d known Helen less than anyone else, having been with her only a dozen times, a year’s worth of book club meetings. I said how smart I thought she was, and how thoughtful. “Maybe everybody else takes that for granted, because they knew her better than I did, but that’s what stood out for me. I always wanted to hear what she had to say because it was always thoughtful and heartfelt and that’s a pretty fine combination.” Something like that.
    Then, as if we’d primed the pump, people started remembering more, funny or moving anecdotes, and the tape went on until suddenly Louisa, who’d been silent the entire time, leaned forward and in a tense, flat voice, said, “Your mother was civic minded. That sounds … I know how that sounds, but everybody else has said all the other things, anyway. But I mean she cared about a lot of things that weren’t just about her. The, ah, community. And—and I’m sure that she always did what she thought was best, no matter how it looked.”
    For a second, I thought she was offering consolationfor the suicide, but then I regained my senses. This was Louisa, and Louisa’s only topic was Louisa. She meant Helen’s possible role in not admitting Louisa’s child to the nursery school. This was Louisa being generous of spirit.
    Roxanne piped in again. “I liked the way she was always looking forward. A kind of innate optimism. And she was interesting. We had an appointment we never got to keep, for a story she wanted me to sell. Something about her business, but—and this is a confession—Gretchen, generally I don’t find business, her business, all that interesting—but I knew she’d make the story interesting. She had that kind of a personality.”
    We took a break so that everybody could think about whether there was more to add.
    “When were you supposed to meet with Helen?” I asked Roxanne.
    “Yesterday. Five o’clock.” Roxanne shrugged.
    “She made an appointment.” Susan spoke softly. “Isn’t that odd?”
    Roxanne looked confused by the comment. “Not really. We had the appointment for a few days. We were both at a party, and she asked me. I thought it was probably about her new program, which, to tell you the truth, was going to be next to impossible to get any space for in the paper. It’s not that unique, but of course, we all think our stories are earth-shattering. She was wired about it. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”
    “What was it about?” I asked.
    “I think it was the internship program they’re starting. She said, ‘An announcement,’ so it had to be something new. Look, I don’t want to say anything bad about Helen, but the truth was, she acted like she was going to announce World War III. I like helping friends, but really… she didn’t need that kind of PR. She was a wholesaler, butshe didn’t get it. She had that manic energy sometimes. Said this ‘scoop’—I swear, she used that word—would help my career, but even though I knew it wouldn’t, what are you going to do? Anyway, it’s moot now.”
    “It makes it more confusing.” Susan looked woeful. She searched each of our faces in turn, looking for something I don’t think she found. “Listen,” she said, “except for that note, there’s nothing that indicates depression or suicide.”
    “Do you think it was really an accident?” I had shelved my suspicions as inappropriate. They had no solid base, and especially now, after hearing more about her, the idea of someone intentionally going after Helen