Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep: A Helen Bradley Mystery (Helen Bradley Mysteries Book 2)

by Patricia H. Rushford

  Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

  A Helen Bradley Mystery

  By

  Patricia H. Rushford

  Copyright 2014 by Patricia H. Rushford

  Mysteriously Yours

  Cover design by Patricia H. Rushford

  License Notes

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. With the exception of recognized historical figures, the characters in this novel are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Original series published by Bethany House Publishers

  Second edition, Elm Hill Publishers, a Thomas Nelson subsidiary

  Cover Design: Patricia H. Rushford

  The Columbia River Gorge

  Photo from Dreamstine

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

  Books by Patricia H. Rushford

  Connect with Patricia

  Acknowledgements:

  Sandy Dengler, Margo Power, Harry Russell, Michael Curtis, Judy Frandsen, and the Vancouver Police for their sage advice and expertise.

  Dedication:

  To my ageless friends and fellow writers.

  Lauraine, Ruby, Birdie, Colleen, Sandy, Rev. Marcia, Elsie, Gail, Marion, Gloria, and Woodeene

  Chapter One

  The phone rang for the fifteenth time that morning. Helen Bradley was beginning to wish Alexander Graham Bell had pursued another vocation.

  Honeymoon Cruising in the Caribbean. She typed the title for her latest article on her laptop computer, determined to let the answering machine pick up the call. If her husband could ignore the phone, so could she.

  Helen gave in on the third ring and reached for the offending mechanism. After all, it might be an editor, or family, or Uncle Sam with another assignment. "Hello."

  "Mrs. Bradley?" The woman sounded as though she'd been running. "I need your help. My husband has been murdered."

  Helen jumped out of her chair. "Who is this?"

  "I-lene."

  "Irene?" Helen repeated, taking into account the Asian accent.

  "Yes. Please, you must help me."

  A dozen thoughts flittered through Helen's mind. The woman sounded sane enough, but... "Why are you calling me?"

  "I understand you are a good investigator and I might be able to hire you."

  Though Helen had once been a police officer and did take the occasional case, she didn't consider herself a private investigator, nor was she licensed as one. And she certainly didn't advertise. "Who gave you my name and number?"

  "I cannot speak now. Meet me tonight at midnight at the north end of Waterfront Park."

  "Midnight? I don't think…"

  "At the Japanese-American Historical Plaza. Do you know where that is?"

  "Yes, of course, but…"

  Helen's protest was met by a click, then a steady dial tone.

  She sank back into the chair and for several long minutes stared out the window at the clear Oregon sky. Logic told her to ignore the call. Curiosity wouldn’t let her. Her softer side intervened as well. Helen knew all too well how it felt to lose a husband. Even though she'd recently remarried, her heart still bore the wounds of her first husband's death.

  Eleven years ago the State Department had sent Ian McGrady to Lebanon on a top secret mission. Helen had never learned the details, only that he'd been killed in a terrorist bombing.

  Thoughts of Ian's death triggered an onslaught of feelings she'd been trying to suppress since the previous night when JB, her husband of six weeks, had gotten a phone call from the Pentagon pressing him into service. JB had taken a leave of absence from his post with the FBI. A ticket to Washington, D.C. awaited him at the Portland Airport.

  On one hand, Helen didn't want him to go. On the other, she wished she were going with him. Her concentration shattered, Helen turned off her laptop and padded into the bedroom to watch her husband pack.

  JB's sky-blue gaze met hers as she entered. It was a look she hadn't seen before, one filled with doubt, remorse, sadness. Though they'd only been married a short time, they'd been friends for over thirty years. She'd said good-bye to him a hundred times, but this time seemed different.

  "Couldn't you have said no?" Helen sank onto the down comforter on JB's queen-sized bed. Well, actually it was her bed too. She just hadn't gotten the his, mine, and ours thing down yet. Her home sat on a ledge overlooking the Oregon coast near Lincoln City. It would be their permanent home when JB retired from his post with the FBI. If he retired. JB lived in a townhouse on Portland's waterfront, which was where they'd been staying for the past three days.

  "You know better, luv." He stuffed his travel case alongside his briefs in the black leather carry-on. He would be going into one of the world's hot spots, that much Helen knew. Bosnia, the Middle East, Russia. Though the cold war was supposedly over, the fighting never ended.

  "Unfortunately, yes." Helen picked up a navy blue throw pillow from the floor and threw it against the pillow shams behind her. "But a man's got to do what a man's got to do. Right?"

  The pained expression on JB's face made her wish she'd kept the last part of her sarcastic statement to herself. She didn't even know why she'd reacted so strongly to his announcement. It certainly wasn't the first time the government had requested his help overseas, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Before they'd married, she'd taken his departures with a cavalier attitude.

  Marriage had changed a lot of things.

  "Aye, don't be giving me a difficult time of it now. You'd be going too if they'd asked." JB walked to the closet and retrieved a suit jacket and slacks, his large trim body nearly filling the doorway.

  Helen didn't bother to deny his retort. They were two of a kind, but that didn't mean she had to like his absence. "How long will you be gone?"

  JB transferred his suit to the carry-on's special hanger. "Two weeks, maybe three. At least that's what I'
ve been told. I'll try to let you know if it will be more." His loving gaze caught hers and began to thaw her anger.

  She didn't want it to and looked away. "And you still won't tell me what you'll be doing?" Helen swung her legs off the bed and paced to the window, warming herself in the wide swatch of morning sun.

  "Helen, you of all people should understand. I can't tell you anything at this point." His broad shoulders rose and fell. "At any rate, I don't have the details yet myself."

  She folded her arms across her chest and watched a couple board a yacht in the boat basin below, wishing she and JB were still sailing in the turquoise waters off Jamaica. "I do understand. I just don't like it."

  "Nor do I, luv." He wrapped his arms around her and drew her back against him. "I hate keeping things from you."

  I hate keeping things from you as well, Helen started to say but didn't. She wanted to tell him about the phone call she'd just received, but he'd only worry. And there was really nothing to be concerned about. She'd meet the mysterious caller, this Irene who insisted her husband had been murdered, hear what she had to say, then come home. Simple.

  Or was it?

  Helen had awakened that morning in an odd mood and might have blamed it on PMS if she hadn't had a hysterectomy a few years back. She knew better than to pass off her instincts as nothing. Something terrible was about to happen. She'd had a similar feeling before Ian's death. Helen thought for a moment about begging JB to stay, but only for a moment.

  "Shouldn't you be going?" she asked. "Your flight leaves in an hour."

  "The limo will be here soon, but I can't go knowing you're angry with me."

  Helen turned in his arms and placed her hands on each side of his handsome face, then wove them into his silver hair. "I'm not angry with you, darling. Not really. I'm angry with the government for taking you away from me so soon." Helen tipped her head back and closed her eyes as his lips met hers, his soft whisper reassuring, yet making no promises. They both knew the risks.

  The doorbell rang. "That would be my ride." JB gathered his bags and admitted the limo driver, then handed over his suitcases. "I'll be right out," he said. When JB turned back to Helen his eyes declared his love for her more than words ever could. He gathered her in his arms for a final good-bye. "I'll call you when I get to Washington. I'll be getting my final orders there."

  "I may drive to the beach in the morning." Helen reached up to straighten his blue-gray tie. "I can write better there."

  He nodded, hesitated for a moment, then left.

  Helen closed the door and leaned against it. Saying goodbye had never been that hard before. Not even with Ian.

  She pushed away from the door and the memory and headed into the bedroom to pack her own bags. With JB gone the townhouse felt cold and empty. She'd do better at the beach, where being alone was familiar. There, she'd stay busy, meet her deadlines on the articles she'd promised to several travel magazines, and slip back into the life she'd grown to love.

  Her mind whirred with things to do. She'd take along most of her clothes and let her family know she was leaving town, then have a quiet leisurely dinner alone at a riverfront restaurant.

  After her three-mile walk, she would have plenty of time to prepare for her late-night appointment with Irene. If all went well, she'd be at the coast tomorrow in time for lunch. Perhaps she'd go to Tidal Raves, her favorite restaurant in Depoe Bay. She'd walk along the beach at Fogarty Creek State Park, soak up some sun, and watch for whales.

  Heavenly as it sounded, her usual enthusiasm evaded her. Helen bit her lip, wishing the anxious feeling in the pit of her stomach would go away. She closed her eyes and uttered a prayer for JB's safety. And her own.

  Chapter Two

  You shouldn't be doing this. Helen ignored the persistent inner voice as she reached into the back of her sweater drawer and pulled out her .38 special. From another drawer she retrieved the ammunition. Since quitting her job with the Portland Police Bureau ten years earlier to become a travel writer, she rarely needed the weapon. Not that she couldn't handle it. Regular practice at a shooting range had proven that her Smith & Wesson and her vision were both functioning as well as ever.

  The phone rang. Helen glanced at it, knowing she wouldn't be able to let the answering machine pick it up. She dropped the last of five shells into the cylinder, snapped it shut, then reached for the phone on the fourth ring. Helen half expected to hear the voice of the mystery woman she'd agreed to meet and was surprised when her husband responded.

  "There you are, luv." JB's mellow Irish brogue, still present after all these years, temporarily dispelled the anxiety still churning inside her. "Did I wake you? I know it's late, but I wanted to hear your sweet voice one more time before I left the States."

  "I was awake. Where are you?" Helen set the gun on the bedside stand. Though his call pleased her, she hoped it wouldn't make her late for her meeting.

  "In D.C. My flight's been delayed."

  Helen closed her eyes and sat on the edge of the bed, smiling as she envisioned him. "I miss you too. I wish you were here."

  "I'd like nothing better, but it's not possible."

  "I know. I wonder if the world will ever stop playing these silly spy games. I may as well have married double-o-seven. Same initials, same sort of job."

  JB chuckled. "And do you find me as handsome and swash-buckling as well, luv?"

  More so, Helen thought but didn't say it. "Don't you be getting any ideas. You're no longer a bachelor."

  "There's no need to worry about that, now is there? You've captured me heart and soul." JB paused and cleared his throat.

  "I'm not concerned. Not about that." It's your life I'm worried about. Once again she considered telling JB about the phone call from Irene. Had he been home with her instead of on some assignment for the Pentagon, she would have. Perhaps they'd have gone to see the distraught widow together. But JB didn't need another worry just now. Nor did she want him telling her she ought not to go.

  Helen stared at the red glowing numbers on her radio alarm. 11:42. Time to leave. "When is your flight?"

  "I have an hour providing they don't delay it again. I think I'll find a restaurant and have some coffee."

  Helen picked up the gun and felt a mingling of excitement and trepidation about wearing it again. "JB, I... be careful."

  "I always am, luv."

  After saying their I-love-yous, Helen hung up.

  "You'd best be careful yourself," she warned the image in the full-length mirror on the closet door. She finger-combed her short salt-and-pepper hair, wishing this once she'd succumbed to the "get rid of the gray" ads. Though she rather liked her silver highlights, dark hair would have made her less conspicuous. Helen had donned a black turtleneck and matching jeans for her midnight rendezvous, but the silver streaks in her hair stood out like fluorescent stripes on a bicycle fender. Had she been home, she might have worn a black knit cap or a scarf, but she had nothing like that at JB's townhouse. Well, too late to do anything about it now.

  She slipped the gun into the holster. Odd. The shoulder holster had once felt as comfortable as an old shoe. Now it seemed heavy and awkward. She considered ditching it and using the pack that circled her waist, then discarded the idea. If she needed the weapon, she wanted to be able to get to it quickly. She started to put her cell phone in the fanny pack, but realized that not only did the cell phone need a charge, she’d forgotten the charger at the beach. She shrugged. Hopefully she wouldn’t be needing it. Unlike so many, Helen didn’t utilize her cell as often as she probably should have. She didn’t like the idea of being available night and day.

  After one last look, Helen grabbed a black, lightweight cotton jacket from the hall closet and headed out the door.

  Reaching the sidewalk she turned left and jogged past a number of riverfront shops. To her right the sidewalk bordered the Willamette River. She glanced down at the boats bobbing peacefully on the water, secured to their moorings for the night. A couple of
late-night inline skaters buzzed past.

  Making a left at the Alexis Hotel, Helen followed the sidewalk a block west to Front Street, then north again, angling back toward the river and into the park. About a mile long and a block or so wide, the park ran along Portland's seawall.

  Moving quickly through the lights and shadows, she began to question in earnest the wisdom of Irene's time and place for their meeting. Though the city had made a lot of improvements over the years and police officers patrolled the area regularly, the park was not the safest place for a midnight stroll.

  She paused under one of the old-fashioned lamplights near the Salmon Street Fountain to tie a shoelace that had come undone. The comforting sounds of water splashing against the concrete wall were obliterated by a noisy Jet-Ski. The driver careened across the water, shattering the quiet and distorting the city's colorful reflections. She shook her head. Racing around out there at night was not a very smart thing to be doing.

  Ironically the same could be said for herself.

  Another jogger rushed by, hailing her with a breathless hello as he passed. She helloed him back and pressed on toward the Japanese memorial at the north end of the park. With each step away from the condominium her unease mounted. Her reason for meeting the woman at all escaped her at the moment. But to meet her at this time of night hardly qualified as a wise decision. But then neither had the time she'd gone bungee jumping for an article she never sold.

  You could turn back, Helen reminded herself. She wouldn't, of course. Even in her younger days as a police officer she couldn't resist the caller's plea for help. The desperation and sense of urgency in Irene's voice would have compelled her then, perhaps even more than it did now. Although she didn't know the details, Helen had felt Irene's fear even in the few moments they'd connected over the phone and she'd do whatever she could to help.