Not a Chance in Helen Read Online Free PDF

hoping to clear things up quickly as Jean was looking decidedly uncomfortable. “Eleanora stepped off the curb and a car narrowly missed her, but no one was hurt.” Helen tapped her fingers on the table. “She was rather frightened though.”
    Biddle straightened up and scratched at his jaw. His wide brow wrinkled as though he’d contemplated her answer and found it lacking. “You see the driver, ma’am?” he asked. “Did you get the plate numbers? How about the make and model of the car?”
    Helen laughed. “Sheriff, it happened so fast, I didn’t have a chance to do much but pull Eleanora out of harm’s way.”
    “Did you notice the color, ma’am?”
    She exhaled slowly. “It was filthy, that’s all I do remember. What with the rains we’ve had, everything’s kind of muddy.”
    “And?” he prodded.
    “Well, it might have been blue,” she said.
    He nodded.
    “Or it could have been brown.”
    He raised his eyebrows.
    Helen felt as if she’d failed a test. His face seemed so filled with disappointment. She looked across the table at Jean, who’d paled considerably in the past minute or two. “Look, Sheriff, I don’t know any more except that maybe it was an older model sedan.”
    He crossed his arms above his belly, which hung low over his gun belt and strained the buttons on his tan uniform shirt. “That doesn’t narrow it down much, Mrs. Evans, since it probably describes most of the cars around town.”
    “Sorry.”
    He ducked his chin, muttering, “Ma’am,” which Helen knew was meant to encompass them both. Then he sauntered back to his stool, his hat marking his space on the counter. He settled back down and resumed his attack on the French fries.
    Helen turned to Jean and reached across the table. “Don’t let it get to you, all right? We’re here for supper, aren’t we?”
    Jean sighed. “I know I shouldn’t let anything about Eleanora bother me anymore, but still it’s . . . “
    The door flew open, pushed so wide it banged the wall. The bells above it jangled violently.
    “Sheriff!” a voice cried out. “Sheriff Biddle!”
    Helen glanced across the room to where Zelma Burdine stood with her hands at her breasts, panting, as if she’d run to the diner without stopping.
    “Sheriff!” she shouted again, her owlish eyes looking this way and that, as if unable to make out Frank Biddle at the counter.
    He hopped down abruptly, knocking over his glass and sending Erma darting in his direction with a towel. He shrugged away her ministrations and, thumbs hooked in his belt, strode over to the trembling Zelma.
    “What seems to be the trouble, ma’am?” he asked, and Helen noticed the silence that hung in the air, as she waited along with the rest of the diner to hear Zelma’s response.
    The woman hugged her arms around her middle and choked out between tears, “Something’s happened . . . oh, my . . . something awful.”
    “What’s that, ma’am?” the sheriff asked.
    “Miss Nora,” she cried, wringing her hands, “She isn’t moving. Please, you’ve got to help.”
    Helen turned to Jean, but her friend didn’t meet her gaze. She acted as if she hadn’t even heard Zelma’s pleas. Instead, she raised her cup of coffee to her mouth and took a long, slow sip.

 
    Chapter Four
    T HROUGH THE PLAT E glass window of the diner, Helen watched Biddle lead Zelma toward his squad car and help her into the front seat before he slipped in on the driver’s side. In another moment, the black-and-white was gone, tires spitting gravel in their wake.
    Though the rest of the diner seemed to settle down again, utensils clattering as everyone’s attention returned to their food, Helen found she’d lost her appetite.
    She pushed her glasses into her purse then tucked the handbag into the crook of her elbow. The vinyl of the bench squeaked as she slid out of the booth.
    Jean set down her mug with a clatter, and Helen paused as her friend spoke up. “We haven’t even ordered, and