When Shadows Fall: A Helen Bradley Mystery (Helen Bradley Mysteries Book 5)

by Patricia H. Rushford

  "Eleanor, it's me, Helen. I just wondered if you'd heard from Ethan."

  "Not yet. I did as you suggested and called Joe. He wasn't in, so I left a message to have him call me."

  "That's good. He's tied up right now. But I'm sure he'll call as soon as he's free."

  "You've seen him, then. You didn't tell Joe about our conversation."

  "No, I haven't said anything." Helen rang off without telling her what Joe was tied up with.

  She then called Lynn Daniels. Lynn hadn't heard from Chuck either.

  "I think you're more worried than I am, Helen. He'll come home when he's sober."

  "I'm sure you're right." Ending the call, Helen tucked her phone and bag into the trunk and zipped up her jacket.

  Though a thick cloud cover persisted and the air was still damp and cold, the rain had stopped. Helen walked back to where the officers were still working to extricate the corpse from its root-bound prison. Several people stood on the periphery, eager to learn firsthand about the body on the beach. A couple of reporters had already shown up. A cameraman panned the area several times while a man Helen recognized from one of the news stations spoke into a microphone. She wondered how they'd managed to respond so quickly. Before long the area would be saturated with reporters clamoring for details.

  Helen diverted her gaze and hoisted herself onto a nearby piece of driftwood, a log about three feet in diameter and some twenty feet long. Dampness from the rain-soaked log seeped into the seat of her jeans. She stood and brushed off the sand, then leaned against the log instead.

  Since she'd been gone, two officers, a man and a woman neither of whom she knew, had joined Joe and Tom. Two paramedics stood to one side waiting to transport the body to the morgue once it was freed. Tom and Joe now had on scuba gear and stood knee-deep in the soupy surf. They'd apparently been trying to shovel the sand out from under the tree stump, an impossible task with the incoming tide extinguishing their efforts.

  George stood near the paramedics. One of the new officers, probably Clarkston, stood behind an all-terrain vehicle, securing the hook from his winch to a chain they'd put around the narrower part of the enormous stump.

  Tom heaved his shovel onto dry sand. "Try it again," he yelled to Clarkston.

  The deputy jumped inside the four-by-four and switched on the ignition. Revving up the engine, he engaged the winch. The others moved aside and watched the cable tighten. The stump inched forward.

  "That's enough." Tom and Joe pulled the body free and carried it out of the surf, laying it in the dry sand, well away from the water.

  The reporters snapped photos while the camera whirred. The newsman spoke excitedly into his microphone and pressed in for a closer look.

  George hunkered down to examine the victim.

  Dread filled Helen as she speculated again on the victim's identity. She wanted to know, yet at the same time she didn't. Tearing her gaze away, she watched a boat riding the swells on the distant horizon.

  Twenty minutes later, Helen still waited on the dreary, cold, and windy beach. Joe and George had apparently completed their on-site investigation. The paramedics loaded the body into the back of the four-by-four and draped a blanket over it. Clarkston drove them back to the parking lot, where they transferred the corpse to a stretcher and put him into the waiting ambulance.

  Helen hadn't been able to see much from her vantage point. Several times she'd thought about moving closer. Joe and George would have welcomed her presence. But Helen had already seen more than she wanted to.

  The crowd then broke up. The reporters and cameraman managed to get a statement from Joe. Helen heard snatches of the conversation: "Yes, we've been able to ID the victim. We'll release the information as soon as we've notified the family."

  Helen's stomach churned. They'd identified him. That meant he was probably a local.

  The reporters seemed satisfied with the report and left. Helen straightened and walked out to meet Joe and George.

  "Well?"

  Joe's dark eyes met hers for an instant before moving toward the surf.

  "It's Ethan."

  "Oh no!" She closed her eyes. "I was afraid of that."

  Joe looked surprised. "You were? Why would you think it might be Ethan?"

  "I talked to Eleanor this morning. Ethan didn't come home last night. She was going to talk to you about it."

  He shook his head. "But she didn't."

  "She left you a message." Helen buried her hands deeper into the pockets of her jacket. "Any idea how long he's been dead?".

  "Hard to say. I suspect it was sometime last night." George put an arm across her shoulders. "I take it he was a friend."

  "Yes. Yes, he was."

  "I'm so sorry, Helen. If there's anything I can do please let me know.

  "You two know each other?" Joe asked.

  "We sure do." George tightened his hold for a moment, then released her. "We collaborated on a lot of cases. Are you still working in an official capacity, Helen?"

  "Not exactly."

  "Not for money, anyway," Joe corrected. "We call her in as a consultant, she helps out when we're overloaded or short- handed."

  "What's that?" Helen asked, frowning at the plastic bag swinging from Joe's hand.

  He held it up to give her a closer look. "A knife of some kind."

  "I can see that, but what. . ..?"

  "Helen," George said, "I don't think the tree stump killed Ethan. Looks like he was murdered."

  Chapter Five

  Helen's stomach rolled and pitched like a ship at sea, her mind a jumble of wild and random thoughts and questions.

  George excused himself, saying he needed to get back to work. "I'll call you sometime today, Joe. Helen, I'll catch you later. Maybe we can have dinner."

  She nodded absently. "That sounds good."

  "Hard to believe, isn't it?" Joe lowered the bag containing the weapon to his side.

  "Unthinkable. Who would want to kill Ethan? And why? He was one of the kindest men I know."

  While part of her refused to accept his death, another part, the homicide detective, had already begun to look at motives and suspects. Helen pushed her thoughts aside, reminding herself not to get involved. The last time she'd taken on an investigation, she'd nearly gotten herself killed.

  Still, Ethan had been murdered. Helen looked at the weapon again. Though the wet sand in the bag limited her view, it looked oddly familiar. The handle had an unusual rectangular shape. The blade was narrow, maybe half an inch wide and about six inches long. "It doesn't look particularly lethal."

  "Maybe not, but the fact still remains, someone was trying to kill him."

  "Joe, if you don't mind, I'd like to take a closer look at the weapon when you're through with it."

  He raised an eyebrow. "Sure. You planning to come in on this one?"

  Not wanting to commit herself, Helen ignored his question. "I have the oddest sense I've seen it somewhere. Just can't place it."

  "Well, think hard. It's about the only physical evidence we have so far. Surf washed almost everything away. This is going to be a tough one. We'll keep looking, check out the area more thoroughly, but it doesn't look good." Joe shook the water off his hat, then replaced it. "Unfortunately, the killer has had a lot of time to disappear. That tree stump coming in probably kept anyone from finding the body sooner." He frowned. "Look, I need to tell Eleanor. Um . . . I hate to ask, but could you come along? You're her friend and . . . she might need some moral support."

  "Of course, but I think you're the one who needs the moral support."

  'You got that right," Joe muttered.

  Helen understood his reluctance. Informing the family had always been the hardest part of being a police officer. "Poor Eleanor." She thought briefly of telling Joe about Eleanor's sus­picion of an affair but decided against it, at least for now. There wasn't much point in bringing it up, since Eleanor had no proof. None that she'd shared anyway.

  Helen trudged through the so
ft sand with Joe, making what she hoped were appropriate responses to his statements of disbelief.

  "This is too much," Joe said as Helen tuned him back in. "Two mayors murdered within two months. Makes you wonder."

  "You don't think they're related, do you? Mayor Ames's killer is in jail awaiting trial isn't he?"

  "Yes, but two mayors?" He shook his head. "What are the odds?"

  "Maybe there was more to Ames's death than we thought."

  "Meaning our suspect might not have been working alone."

  "It's possible." By the time they reached the parking lot the drizzle had become a steady shower. She pulled her keys out of her pocket. "I'll see you there."

  He nodded and ducked into the patrol car.

  Helen folded her long, slender frame into her own car, setting her now empty cup in the drink holder. Pulling a towel from the backseat, she dabbed at the moisture on her face and rubbed most of the wetness from her hair. She vigorously shook her head, then finger-combed her short salt-and-pepper hair and started the car. Cold air from the heater blasted her as she backed out of the lot.

  She flipped off the air and shivered. Helen loved her vintage car, but it took forever to warm up. She was nearly to Bay Village before the engine warmed enough to turn on the heater.

  Helen eyed the empty cup, wishing she had something hot and comforting to drink. As she spotted Past Times, her favorite hangout, her foot went to the brake. She wanted a latte in the worst way and imagined herself curled up in one of Rosie Monahan's wonderful overstuffed chairs, sipping a hot creamy drink and talking to her good friend. Bad days and problems always seemed to diminish when she and Rosie chatted. They made a good pair, sharing both good times and bad and managing to cheer each other up when the dark gray days threatened to send them into depression.

  Helen looked longingly at the beautifully restored Victorian and drove on by, promising herself that the moment she left Eleanor's, she would go straight to Rosie's. Besides, Rosie would want to know about Ethan. The two of them could commiserate together.

  Thinking about Rosie got Helen to considering what Eleanor had said about Ethan's late nights. She hated the direction her thoughts had taken, but she didn't stop them. Instead she began looking for connections. Rosie had been one of Ethan's strongest advocates when he was being considered as a replacement for Mayor Ames. Could she have been the other woman? Rosie and Ethan?

  Helen had never particularly noticed it before, but now the clues seemed to pour down like the rain pummeling her windshield. How often had she gone to the bookstore and found Rosie and Ethan chatting, or Ethan buying a book and lingering over a cup of coffee? Helen had seen them talking at various get-togethers at church and charity functions. No one would

  argue the fact that they were friends. But lovers?

  "Don't be ridiculous," Helen said aloud, chiding herself for her groundless speculation. She wouldn't have even made the connection if Eleanor hadn't mentioned the possibility of another woman. Being an avid reader didn't make Ethan guilty of cheating on his wife. Still, Eleanor's suspicions had to count for something, didn't they?

  “Not necessarily,” she answered her own question. How many times had she and Ethan talked? He was friendly with everyone.

  The idea of Ethan having a romantic tryst had been born out of Eleanor's fears. She'd as much as admitted that. Helen certainly understood how wild the imagination could be. Hadn't she been building scenarios out of thin air about the mysterious phone call and J.B.'s reaction to it? Given enough time she might have come up with the other-woman theory herself.

  J.B. would never be unfaithful to her.

  Never say never.

  Thankfully, her imaginings came to an end when she turned into the Cranes' driveway.

  Helen pulled in beside Joe, then, slipping the keys into her jacket pocket, hurried to catch up with him. When they reached the wide porch, he rang the bell.

  "Joe, hi." Annie Costello, Bay Village's finest and only caterer, opened the door. "And Helen. What a nice surprise."

  Helen didn't miss the way Annie's admiring gaze lingered on the handsome sheriff. The petite strawberry blonde brushed short, wild curls from her forehead.

  "The surprise is seeing you here," Helen said.

  Annie's smile diminished. "Oh, I guess it would be. Ever since the fiasco at the art auction, business hasn't been so good. I mean . . . everyone knows I didn't poison poor Mayor Ames, but when it's your food, people are hesitant to hire you. Anyway, I needed a job, and Eleanor needed an extra hand over the holidays, so here I am."

  "It's only temporary," Joe said. "Before long your business will be booming again."

  "I'm sure it will," Helen added. "Just give it time. Which reminds me, I'm on the committee for the women's luncheon this month. I'd like to talk with you later about catering it."

  Annie's dazzling smile was back. "Thanks. I'd love to. Come into the kitchen before you leave and we'll discuss the menu. Is Eleanor expecting you?"

  "No." Joe sighed heavily. "She's not."

  "What's wrong? It's Melissa, isn't it?" Annie's green eyes clouded. "Eleanor and Nancy have been worried. She's been gone for. . .."

  "It isn't Melissa." Joe settled a hand on her shoulder.

  "Then what?" She covered her mouth. "Oh no, not Ethan."

  "I really need to talk to Eleanor." Joe stepped past her into the entry.

  "Of course." Annie bit into her lower lip and glanced toward the wide, curved staircase. "She's upstairs with Nancy. I'll get her."

  Helen closed the door. Memories washed over her, taking her back nearly twelve years to the day she'd opened her own door to two men in black suits, identifying themselves as CIA agents. Now Eleanor would hear the same words.

  Helen shoved the thoughts back into the musty corner of her mind. Joe had asked her to come, and Eleanor would need someone strong to lean on.

  Moments later, Eleanor joined them in the living room. Since Helen's morning visit, she'd changed into jeans and a long-sleeved coral jersey knit. "I've asked Annie to bring us some tea and cookies." She led the way into a sitting room.

  Once they were seated, Eleanor looked from one to the other, letting her confused gaze linger on Joe. "I assume you're here about Ethan." Turning to Helen, she asked, "You told him?"

  "About Ethan being missing, yes," Helen answered, letting her know she hadn't mentioned their discussion about the alleged affair.

  "I tried to call you earlier, Joe."

  "I know."

  "I suppose I should have called you sooner," Eleanor said, "but I kept hoping he'd show up. Helen told you he should have been here last night?"

  Joe nodded.

  "I know an adult isn't considered missing for twenty-four hours, but I think you should make an exception. It isn't like him not to call."

  "Eleanor," Joe interrupted. "Ethan isn't missing."

  "Well, of course he is. . . ." She stopped. "I don't understand. Have you found him?"

  Joe took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. "There's no easy way to say this. Ethan is dead"

  Eleanor stared at him with a blank expression as his words sank in. "That's not possible. He can't be."

  Helen moved to Eleanor's chair. Hunkering down, she placed what she hoped was a comforting hand on her friend's arm. "It's true, Eleanor. I'm sorry."

  "There must be some mistake."

  "No mistake," Joe answered. "I wish there were."

  Eleanor closed her eyes and folded her arms as if trying to hold herself together. "How. . . how did it happen?"

  Joe cleared his throat. "His body was found on the beach under a tree stump."

  "On the beach? Under. . . you think he was caught by a sneaker wave?"

  "That's what we thought at first. But when we pulled him out, we saw that he'd been stabbed. The medical examiner will do an autopsy to determine the exact cause of death."

  Her eyes widened in horror. "Stabbed? I don't understand. Are you saying someone killed him and buried him un
der a- a tree stump?"

  "We don't know what happened yet." Joe turned his hat in his hands. "I'll need to ask you some questions."

  Eleanor's eyes held a mixture of shock and disbelief. She clasped her hands and straightened. "Of course. But I don't know what I can tell you."

  "When did you last see Ethan?"

  Eleanor glanced at Helen. "Thursday afternoon. He was flying to Washington, D.C., for a special meeting with our state senator."

  "Do you know whether he arrived in Washington?"

  She nodded. "He called me Thursday night from the hotel."

  "You're certain he was in D.C.?"

  "Yes. I looked at the number on the Caller ID."

  "Was that the last time you talked to him?"

  She nodded again. "He said he'd be home Sunday. Told me not to wait dinner and that he'd grab something on the way and see me around nine. He never came." Eleanor's shoulders sagged. Pulling a tissue from a decorative box on the end table, she dabbed at the corners of her eyes, catching her tears before they spilled. "This can't be happening."

  "Did Ethan have any enemies?" Joe asked. "Someone who might want to see him dead?"

  Lines knitted her forehead. "Not that I know of. I suppose he's made a few enemies being mayor. You can't please everyone. No one that would kill him. I. . . I'm sorry. Can we do this later? I can't think." She folded her arms again, pressing them against her stomach, then leaned forward and back in a rocking motion.

  "Yeah," Joe said. "I can come back later."

  "Thank you."

  "I can stay with you for a while if you'd like," Helen said. "I know how devastating this must be."

  "Would you?"

  Annie arrived with the tea and cookies. "You're leaving?" she asked as Joe stood.

  "I have to get back," Joe said.

  Annie set the tray down on the coffee table in front of Eleanor and Helen. "I'll walk you to the door."

  He told Helen and Eleanor he'd see them later and turned his attention to Annie.

  Eleanor dabbed at her eyes again, then busied herself with the ritual of pouring tea. With shaking hands, she offered Helen a cup before taking one for herself. "There's something sooth­ing about a cup of tea, don't you think?"