Mad as Helen by Susan McBride Page A

guess they probably didn’t get along very well. Are you really through with me for now?” the young woman asked impatiently. “I’d like to take a long, hot shower and try to forget this morning altogether.”
    “Just one more thing,” Biddle said and passed her the second piece of paper, which he’d smoothed out on his thigh. “Did you write this?”
    “Oh,” Nancy whispered, shoulders slumping, and Helen squinted to see. “How did you get that?”
    The sheriff stared, unblinking. “I found it in the wastebasket by your desk.”
    This time, Nancy held the note for a long while, staring at it wordlessly before she turned her wide eyes up at Helen and then back at the sheriff. “I didn’t write it for anyone to see. I was just letting off steam.”
    “Sure you were,” Biddle murmured.
    Over Nancy’s shoulder, Helen read the message which began, “Grace, I despise you!” Oh, dear, she thought and swallowed, tightening her grasp on Nancy’s shoulder.
    “Surely, Sheriff, you don’t think . . . ,” Helen started to say, but Biddle raised a hand, stopping her.
    “I’d like Miss Sweet to explain, if you don’t mind, ma’am.”
    “I-I was angry,” Nancy stammered. “I know it was a silly thing to do, but it doesn’t mean anything.”
    “Under other circumstances, no, it wouldn’t,” Biddle agreed and reached out to take the paper back, though Nancy seemed reluctant to release it. He folded it and tucked it back into his pocket.
    Helen had had enough. She let go of Nancy and came around the chair, her gaze narrowed on the sheriff. “Really, Frank Biddle, you can’t actually think that silly note means she intended to kill Grace Simpson!”
    “Your granddaughter was found at the scene.”
    “A mere coincidence,” Helen said dismissively.
    “Her fingerprints are on the murder weapon.”
    “Of course they were! She told you she picked up the bat.”
    The sheriff stood. “Grace Simpson’s neighbor, Mattie Oldbridge, said Nancy was the only one she saw entering Grace’s residence.”
    “Please!” Helen snorted. “Since she was robbed, Mattie’s inside by dusk with her doors locked and all her shades drawn.”
    “She says your granddaughter looked fit to kill . . .”
    Helen felt her cheeks heat up. “You know as well as I do that someone else could have been there before her. Grace could have been murdered hours earlier. For heaven’s sake, Sheriff, she was probably dead since the previous evening. She must have been, or else she would have gone to her dinner meeting in St. Louis.”
    Biddle tugged his hat back on his head. “So maybe your granddaughter stopped by Grace’s last night, argued with her, hit her with the bat, and left her on the floor in a panic. Maybe going by the next morning was an attempt to cover her—”
    “Stop it!” Nancy sprang out of her seat. “Just stop it, the both of you!” She held her hands out in front of her, pleading. “I didn’t do it, Sheriff, and that’s the truth, whether you believe it or not. Everything happened just the way I told you it did. I don’t have anything to gain by Grace’s death, nothing.” She dropped her arms to her sides then drew in a deep breath. She lifted her chin, but her quiet voice shook as she said, “Look, if you want to find out who killed Grace, why don’t you go after someone who might have benefitted. Like those clients of hers who’ve been making threats on the phone, afraid their dirty linen’s going to be aired in Grace’s book. Why don’t you start with the people who were gathered in front of LaVyrle’s.” Nancy met Biddle stare for stare. “Like your own wife, for instance.”
    “My wife,” Biddle repeated.
    “Yes, she was there,” Nancy snapped. “So was Bertha Beaner, not to mention a couple dozen others. People who’d had enough sessions with Grace to fear their cases might end up in print.”
    “The book,” Biddle said, changing the subject. “Do you happen to know where she