Not a Chance in Helen by Susan McBride Page B

liver. Suddenly she didn’t feel at all well.
    Oh, boy.
    She wet her lips and forced herself to ask, “This goose liver that had poison, was it something that . . .”
    That Jean had delivered earlier that same day, she left unfinished.
    “It was in a plastic deli-type dish with a lid that had The Catery printed on it,” the sheriff answered. “It had Mrs. Duncan’s phone number and website, too. This Mrs. Duncan,” he added, nodding at Jean. “As I explained to her a moment ago, that’s the reason I’m here. I need to ask her some questions.”
    “But, Sheriff, I had nothing to do with it.” Jean eyes were as wide as a child’s. “I-I didn’t put p-poison in the pâté,” she stammered and gestured helplessly. “You can’t believe it was me? But you must, or you wouldn’t have shown up on my doorstep.”
    “Ma’am, I just . . . “
    “Really, Sheriff, you can’t honestly think Jean killed her own mother-in-law,” Helen butted in, still digesting the fact that Eleanora had been murdered and it was Jean’s goose liver that had done her in. She stared at Frank Biddle in his tan uniform, his brown tie stained with ketchup. Through the open door beyond his shoulder, she saw his black-and-white parked at the curb. “For heaven’s sake, you haven’t come to arrest her?” she asked, the severity of the whole situation sinking in.
    “Oh, no,” Jean murmured again, and Helen felt her sway.
    The sheriff tucked his hat under his arm and shifted on his feet. “Look, I didn’t come to arrest anyone. I just need to ask Mrs. Duncan some questions. So if you don’t mind, Mrs. Evans, I’d like to talk to Jean,” he said.
    “Of course,” Helen said and tightened her arm around Jean. “Come on, dear,” she said, leading her out of the foyer.
    “Um, where do you think you’re going?” Biddle called after her.
    Without missing a step, Helen tossed over her shoulder, “To the den, Sheriff. Are you coming or not?”
    She heard the door as he closed—or, rather, slammed—it and the clomp of his boots as he crossed the tiled floor.
    Helen had Jean settled beside her on the chintz-covered sofa by the time he walked into the den and dropped his hat onto the glass-topped coffee table. He plunked down with a grunt into a nearby overstuffed chair.
    “Would you like a glass of water?” Helen asked Jean, but her friend shook her head, telling Helen in a voice so soft that Helen had to strain to hear, “Don’t leave me alone with him, please.”
    Helen patted her arm. “As long as you need me, I’ll be here.”
    The sheriff loudly cleared his throat. “Do you mind, ma’am?” he said, and Helen glanced up to find his eyes on her. He pulled a small notepad from his shirt pocket, slipped a pencil from its spine, and flipped the cover back to reveal a blank page. “Okay if I start?”
    Helen turned to Jean. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”
    Her friend answered with a quick jerk of her chin. She clasped her hands in her lap and held her jaw square. She seemed over the shock of hearing about Eleanora and more pulled together than Helen would have been.
    “All right, Sheriff,” Jean said, her voice remarkably steady. “What is it you want to know? Did I get along with my mother-in-law?” she started in before Biddle could speak up. “Well, the answer is no, though I’m sure I don’t have to convince you. The whole town knows how Eleanora treated me since the accident.” She hesitated, drawing in a sharp breath, though she didn’t drop her guard, not an inch. “She was horrible to me, really horrible. But did I hate her enough to kill her?” Her chin fell, as did her voice. “Maybe I thought about it, maybe I wished her dead a few times, but”—she raised her eyes—“I didn’t do it. I pitied her more than anything. She had lost all that was dear to her. I couldn’t blame her for hardening her heart.”
    “The goose liver,” Biddle said after scribbling furiously on his notepad,