Mad as Helen by Susan McBride Page B

kept that thing?”
    “You don’t have the manuscript, Sheriff?” At his silence, Nancy let out a tsk-tsk . “Grace had the only hard copy with her. She had me save it to a flash drive, which I gave back to her yesterday morning. If you find it, you should read it”—she paused and stuck her hands in the pockets of the bathrobe—“unless you’re as afraid as everyone else that your deep, dark secrets are on those pages.”
    With that, Nancy padded away in her stocking feet, going back into the house. Helen heard her footsteps creaking on the stairs until all was quiet again.
    Biddle started walking toward the door.
    “Did you get the answers you wanted, Sheriff?” Helen asked. “Or did you end up with more questions?”
    “Good day, Mrs. Evans,” he said and nodded in a manner that was little more than cursory.
    Helen watched through the screens as he got into his muddy black-and-white, the car spitting out gravel beneath the tires as he took off, leaving Helen to stare after him, a worried frown on her lips.
    S HERIFF B IDDLE ’ S VISIT left Nancy visibly shaken.
    Helen found her upstairs, sitting on a corner of the bed. She had her knees pulled to her chest, and she was gently rocking herself. She looked up as Helen stopped at the top of the stairs before crossing the room to sit beside her.
    “He thinks I’m guilty,” Nancy said, and Helen could see she was fighting to keep the tears from her eyes. “He thinks I did it.”
    Helen settled an arm around the girl and squeezed. “Well, he’s wrong then, isn’t he?” she replied. “Someone else must have been at Grace’s house between the time she left LaVyrle’s and eight o’clock, when she missed her dinner meeting. Despite what evidence Biddle seems to think he has, there’s more to this than meets the eye.” She forced a smile and patted Nancy’s leg. “Don’t fret, sweetheart. The truth will come out. It always does.”
    Even if I have to drag it out myself, Helen left unsaid.
    “I wonder . . . ,” Nancy murmured.
    “What?”
    “I wonder who really killed her.” Nancy squinted in the dim. “Do you suppose it might be someone we know?”
    Helen sighed. “It’s an awful thought, isn’t it? But highly likely, I’m afraid.”
    “What makes you say that?”
    Helen shrugged. “There were plenty of people in River Bend who were upset about Grace’s book, wouldn’t you agree? I’d be hard-pressed to come up with a good reason why a total stranger would have wanted her dead. Unless—” Helen paused as another thought came to mind.
    Nancy watched her. “What is it, Grandma?”
    “Unless,” Helen went on, “Grace’s killer was a thief.”
    “A thief?”
    “Someone broke into Mattie’s just next door not a week ago, didn’t they?” Helen said, finding that the theory didn’t sound so crazy once she’d voiced it.
    “Yes, but—”
    “Bear with me.” Helen sat on the bed and faced her granddaughter. “Did you happen to notice anything out of the ordinary when you went inside Grace’s house? You’d been there enough before to be familiar with the place.”
    “I’ll say,” Nancy breathed.
    “Well, was anything out of sorts?”
    “I don’t know.” Nancy shut her eyes for a moment. “It’s hard for me to picture much else except finding her like . . . like that .”
    “Try, honey, please.”
    Nancy tucked her chin atop her knees and stared off into the rafters. “What I remember is that no one answered the door, no matter how much I yelled and pounded. I used the key to get in, and the house was dark. There were no lights on, and it was quiet. When I went into the living room, I saw that Grace’s writing desk was open. She always locked it, because it’s where she kept important paperwork. Then I went up the stairs and into her bedroom.” Nancy swallowed hard. “That’s when I tripped over the bat. I picked it up without looking at it. Grace’s clothes were a mess all over her bed, as though she’d