Not a Chance in Helen by Susan McBride

“Whatever’s the matter with you? You’re acting as if I’ve done something wrong.”
    “You did hear about Eleanora?”
    Jean’s sunny face clouded. “I told you last night that I don’t want to have a thing to do with her anymore. So if you’ve got some sob story about her falling and breaking a hip, I don’t want to hear it, not even after Zelma’s histrionics in the diner last night.”
    “Oh, I think you might,” Helen insisted.
    “You make it sound serious. Should I sit down for this?”
    “That’s not a bad idea.”
    Jean nodded and went over to the steps, settling on the stoop. “Okay, shoot,” she said once she was off her feet.
    Helen went to sit beside her. “All right, here goes,” she said and dove right in. “Eleanora’s dead.” There was no easy way to put it. “She was having convulsions then stopped breathing. That’s why Zelma came after the sheriff. By the time help arrived, it was too late. I’m sorry.”
    Jean set her arms across her knees and looked away. “Well, she was nearly eighty-one. She had to go sometime.”
    Helen stared at her, speechless for once in her life. Such a coldhearted reply wasn’t like the Jean Duncan she knew at all. But then, Eleanora had hardly been a loving mother-in-law to the woman. Still, she’d expected shock or sympathy, something more than this. Instead, she heard only indifference.
    She studied Jean’s profile and saw no softness; just the hard set of her jaw and the frown on her mouth. “Aren’t you even the least bit curious as to how she died?” Helen quietly asked.
    Jean replied with a cool “No, I can’t say that I am.”
    “It so happens they took her body to the morgue for . . . “
    “Helen, stop,” Jean said and got to her feet. “I don’t want to talk about Eleanora, not now or ever.” She offered Helen her hand. “Now, do you want to come inside and have some coffee so I can fill you in on my first official job as a caterer?”
    Helen realized that pursuing the subject of Eleanora Duncan was fighting a losing battle. “All right, you win.” She got up and brushed off the back of her sweatpants.
    Jean pulled the screen door wide, waving an arm. “After you,” she said, and her eyes lit up again. She smiled brightly, as though Helen had never even made mention of Eleanora’s death.
    Helen stepped into the kitchen and sat at a table cluttered with cookbooks and handwritten recipe cards.
    Jean poured them each a mug of coffee smelling deliciously of cinnamon. She passed Helen’s over then pulled out the chair beside Helen’s.
    “Hmm, were should I start?” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Okay, last night after you left me stranded at the diner, I had Erma pack me up a meat loaf sandwich and brought it home. The phone was ringing just as I walked in. Turns out it was a friend of mine from college who’d moved to St. Louis about a week before and looked me up. Seems she’s with a public relations firm that’s putting on a fancy brouhaha for some clients, and their caterer bailed at the last minute. She said the company was in a panic, and did I know any good people, since she was new to the city and all. When I mentioned I’d started up a catering business myself, she asked if I’d consider working their party. Only thing was, they had to hire someone by this morning. So I hightailed it over to her place and spent most of the night working on menus and bouncing ideas off her until I had something really good put together.”
    “Does that mean you got the job?” Helen asked while Jean drew in a much needed breath.
    “Yes!” Her scarf-tied ponytail swayed as she announced with a squeal, “I got it, Helen! I went into work with her this morning, showed them my stuff, and they told me the job was mine. Can you even believe it? I’m still on cloud nine.”
    Helen hardly knew what to say.
    “Well? Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
    “Of course I am. Congratulations,” Helen said and reached