Red Sky In Mourning: A Helen Bradley Mystery (Helen Bradley Mysteries Book 3)

by Patricia H. Rushford

  Emily returned to take her place beside Helen. "Sorry to take so long. Joanna and Libby are writer friends of Isabelle's and mine. They want to know if Helen would come to our writer's group next week. We meet on Wednesday night. Maybe talk a little about how you got started writing."

  "It's not much of a story, I'm afraid."

  "That's okay. They'd like to hear it anyway." She paused to try her salmon. "Mmm. Rusty's coming along. You tell Shells she's doing a good job teaching that boy."

  "Darn right." Chuck reached for his beer.

  "Looks like you've had enough, Chuck," Dan said. "Hope you don't plan on driving anywhere."

  "Haven't had that much. 'Sides, I'm staying on the boat tonight."

  Dan set his pizza down to take a call on his cell phone. "Where?" He glowered at Chuck while he talked to his caller. "I'm on my way."

  Dan slipped into his jacket and mumbled an apology. "Some kids partying on the beach up at Klipsan set fire to the dunes."

  Adam scrambled to his feet. "Want me to come too?"

  "We'll handle it." On the way out the door he paused and looked back. "Box up some of that pizza for me, Auntie. I'll come by later on tonight."

  "What was that all about?" Helen swung her gaze from the departing sheriff back to Adam. "Dan seemed almost hostile about your offer to help."

  "He's probably just in a bad mood about having his dinner interrupted." Adam snorted. "And don't forget, I'm still considered an outsider. And, um, being interested in the same girl probably doesn't help."

  "He's a proud man," Emily offered. "Not too inclined to accept help from...others. 'Course, you didn't help his mood much, Chuck."

  "That's for sure." Adam turned back to Chuck. "If you know something, you really should ...."

  The rest of Adam's sentence hung suspended in the sudden silence as Chuck pitched forward and fell face first in his pizza.

  Chapter Six

  Adam pulled Chuck off the chair and eased him to the floor. Helen knelt beside him and checked for vital signs. "He's still breathing." She placed two fingers along Chuck's jaw and found a pulse. "We'd better call an ambulance."

  "I already did. It may be a while." Gracie put a hand on Adam's shoulder. "Emergency vehicles are all up at the north end. Dispatch operator said we should drive him since it's only half a mile to the hospital. Any idea what's wrong?"

  "He just fell over," Adam said.

  "Passed out is more like it." From her seat at the table, Emily gave Chuck a disapproving look. "Two beers since we came here and who knows how many before that."

  "You might be right." Gracie wiped pizza sauce from Chuck's nose and plucked a slice of pepperoni from his beard. "He had one earlier, and I couldn't swear to it, but he might have started before he came in. He was acting kind of strange."

  "His pulse is a bit slow. Otherwise he seems stable." Helen lifted his eyelids to check his pupils, then sat back on her heels. They were pinpoint. "Does Chuck take any medication or drugs? Something that might react with alcohol?"

  "Not to my knowledge," Adam said. "If you're thinking about street drugs, I seriously doubt it."

  Gracie shook her head. "Definitely not. Doesn't drink all that much. Guess that's why I noticed tonight."

  "Well, we'd best stop speculating and get him in." Helen positioned herself at his feet and instructed Adam to get his head and shoulders. "If he did ingest something other than alcohol, the blood tests should tell us."

  Between the four of them, they managed to carry Chuck outside and settle him into Adam's car.

  "Should I follow you to the hospital?" Helen asked.

  "No need." Adam opened the driver's side door. "I'll give you a call later and let you know what they find out. Might be he had too much to drink, but like Gracie said, it isn't like Chuck to have more than a couple beers. If it is just the booze, I'll take him to my place and sober him up. Maybe I can get him to tell me what he's up to."

  After watching Adam drive off, Helen and Emily went back inside. They had only intended to clean up their mess and leave, but Emily's friends insisted they move over to their table.

  "Come on, Emily," said one, twisting around in her seat. "You can't just leave. What gives?"

  Emily explained what had happened, then introduced Helen to Joanna Black, an ample woman with an easy smile and eyes the color of molasses. And Libby Ainsworth, slightly over­weight, with blue gray eyes and long gray hair swept up in a chignon. Helen liked them immediately. Both were published writers and both had been Isabelle's friends.

  "I'm glad the publisher decided to go ahead with Isabelle's book." Joanna slid her remaining pizza into a Styrofoam container and reached for a napkin.

  "Me too." Libby pursed her lips. "I have to tell you, when we found out the publisher had chosen an outsider, we were... Let's say more than slightly annoyed."

  "We thought they should have chosen one of us. After all, we were her critique partners." Joanna shrugged. "As Emily so wisely pointed out, the editor didn't know we existed."

  "I'm glad they picked you, though. At least you live on the coast. I've seen several of your articles—loved the one you did in the Tour and Travel a while back on swimming with dolphins. Did you really do that?"

  "I did." Helen laughed, recounting the experience. She'd invited her granddaughter, Jennie, to Dolphin Island in Florida. The trip had taken a serious turn when the two of them became involved in a two-year-old murder investigation. "It was quite a thrill."

  "I've always wanted to travel like that." Libby sighed. "No money, though. About all I can afford these days is an occasional jaunt to the Bay area to visit friends."

  "That's one of the perks of writing on assignment. They pay my way." Helen took a sip of her drink. "Of course I did have to write about six articles on my own before they brought me on as a feature writer."

  "You don't have to travel to do that, Libby," Emily said. "Look around you. We have a vacation spot in our own backyard."

  "She's right, you know," Helen agreed. "In the short while I've been here, I've seen several possibilities. You could do an article on bed and breakfasts, or on the history and appeal of your lighthouses, or on the fascinating trails.

  Libby raised her hands in mock surrender. "All right, you've convinced me."

  "Well...." Joanna used her napkin to sop up some water she'd spilled. "You two can have the tourist stuff. I'm working on a mystery novel that's set here, or a place like this. I probably can't use real names. It's based on a murder we had down here about two years ago."

  "Murder?" Helen leaned forward.

  Libby raised her eyebrows. "It was an accident."

  Joanna's dark eyes widened. "I happen to think otherwise. Isabelle did, too. In fact, she and I were talking about it the day before she died."

  "Could you tell me about it?" Helen asked.

  "Mike Trenton and Harry Bolton were out hunting, and Mike shot Harry."

  "Hunting accidents happen all the time." Emily rubbed her forehead. "Mike isn't a killer." She'd apparently been through this before.

  "Just because Dan says so? He thinks Isabelle's death was an accident, too, and we know better, don't we?" Joanna lifted her shoulder-length brown hair from her neck and leaned back. "Rumor goes against the physical findings in the case, but I have a bad feeling about it." She grinned. "Call it a hunch, but I see some connections between Harry's and Isabelle's murders."

  Libby sniffed. "I don't see how they can be related."

  "Well, we know Mike killed Harry. We just don't know why. We also know Isabelle was killed down here on the docks. Mike's slip is only two down from where Chuck supposedly found her body. I think Mike killed her," Joanna contended.

  "Oh, come on, Joanna." Libby tossed her an incredulous look. "You can't be serious. Mike was out of town when Isabelle disappeared."

  "Humph." Joanna pursed her lips. "So he says. He could have come in during the night and gone right back out—who's to - know? No offense, Emily, but I wouldn't be surprised i
f Dan isn't in on it, the way he brushed both of them off as accidental."

  Helen looked from one of her companions to the other, wondering how much of Joanna's account of the incidents was fact and how much was fiction.

  "It wasn't brushed off," Emily insisted. "Dan spent weeks investigating Harry's death. He's still working on Isabelle's."

  "Pardon my asking," Helen interjected, "but who is Harry Bolton and why would Mike want to kill him?"

  "Harry was born and raised on the Peninsula," Emily answered. "He used to own Bolton's on the Bay—a grocery store and restaurant in Nahcotta. He and Mike went to school together, and I can't think of a reason on God's green earth why Mike would want to kill him."

  Helen definitely needed to have a talk with Dan about Joanna's theory. How open would the sheriff be to her questions? Helen couldn't remember reading about Harry in Isabelle's notes. But then she may have had those with her. What had Emily said? They hadn't found her notebook, the one she carried with her everywhere. Still. In the notes they did have, she had listed Mike Trenton as one of the people she wanted to interview.

  Now, interestingly enough, Chuck Frazier, whose boat may have been sabotaged, was on his way to the hospital. Could Mike, or someone else, be trying to kill him as well? Another possibility existed, of course, that she was being swept up into one woman's fantasy. Despite what civilians often thought, the police, at least most of them, took their responsibilities seri­ously.

  When Helen tuned back to the discussion, the group had moved on to other matters. Something to do with politics within their writer's group. She half listened, thinking about Chuck and Isabelle and wondering whether or not she should even get involved. After all, she'd come to the Peninsula to write a guidebook, not solve a crime. Or crimes, as the case may be.

  "Oh my, look at the time." Libby glanced at her watch and made a face. "I hate to break this up, gals, but I need to pick Rachael up from choir practice. My daughter," she added for Helen's benefit, then slipped into her maroon parka. "Speaking of which. Our church is having a concert Sunday afternoon. I'd love for you all to come."

  They each thanked her for the invitation and said they'd think about it. Joanna followed Libby out while Helen and Emily collected Dan's leftover pizza and paid their bill. Driving back to the bed and breakfast, Emily spent most of the time defending Danny and assuring Helen that despite her disagreement with him over Isabelle's death he was a "good boy" and a fine sheriff. "I don't care what Joanna says," Emily reminded her again, "Mike Trenton is no killer."

  Helen listened agreeably and wondered why Emily felt she needed to defend either of them.

  Once home, Helen headed for her room in hopes of getting some writing done.

  Although she did manage to set up her laptop and open the file she'd started, she didn't get a chance to input much more than the date before Emily knocked to say there was a call for her. "It's Adam. You can use the phone in the entry."

  The entry phone was an old-fashioned box-type telephone with a fake crank ringer. Helen picked up the receiver and heard a click, which must have been Emily hanging up an extension.

  "Helen?"

  "Adam. Hi. How's Chuck?"

  "Not great. You were right about the medication. We found a couple Tylenol number threes in his jacket pocket. Couldn't be sure how many he'd taken, so they pumped his stomach."

  "Codeine." That accounted for the pinpoint pupils and slow pulse.

  "Yeah, go figure. You'd think a guy like Chuck would know better than to drink while he was taking pain medication."

  "He does know better," a woman in the background said. "Who are you talking to?"

  His voice faded as he apparently turned from the phone to answer, "Helen, the writer I was telling you about." To Helen he said, "That's Shells. I called her as soon as I got here. Chuck's been having trouble with his shoulder. Guess he injured it in the boating accident. His doctor put him on pain meds and told him to take it easy for a few weeks."

  "Like Chuck is supposed to know what that means." Shells' high-pitched voice betrayed her anger and disgust. "I can't believe he'd pull a stunt like this."

  "Apparently he did." Adam said into the phone. "Says he must have taken the pain pills and forgot. I'll be glad when he's more alert so I can find out what's going on. Right now, I'm heading home. The doctor says they'll discharge him in another hour or two. You can bet I'll be here to pick him up."

  Helen thanked him for calling, then went in search of Emily to give her the news. She found her in the kitchen baking scones for breakfast.

  "Looks like our mystery for the evening is solved." Helen helped herself to hot water and a bag of chamomile tea as she repeated the information she'd gotten from Adam. The news that Chuck had mixed his prescription narcotic with alcohol didn't, of course, answer the questions Helen had about murder and mayhem on the Long Beach Peninsula, but it did ease her mind a bit. As did the tea and the cozy kitchen. "The scones smell wonderful."

  "You can have one if you like." Emily peeked into the oven, then shut it again. "Should be ready in another five minutes."

  "I shouldn't. But. . ." She laughed at her hesitancy, knowing full well she'd give in. "I'd love it."

  "Good. Gives me an excuse to have one as well." Emily tossed her a companionable smile, and for the first time since she'd arrived at Bayshore Bed and Breakfast, Helen felt welcome.

  She watched while Emily puttered around her domain, wiping off the counters and rinsing dishes. She'd have offered to help but knew what the response would be. Besides, it felt good to just sit and relax.

  Emily, the scent of fresh scones, and the warmth reminded Helen of home. Back in Ireland long before Mum took sick. Before Helen had married Ian and moved to the United States. "My mother used to make scones. We'd have them nearly every day with tea."

  "With coddled cream and preserves, I'll bet." Emily pulled out the scones and slid them onto a waiting platter.

  "Of course."

  "I don't do cream anymore. Cholesterol's too high. But I use low fat whipped topping—it's a tad sweeter but mighty good."

  The words low fat took away any guilt Helen felt over indulging in their late-night snack. But their sweet reward hit a sour note when Dan arrived. To say he was in a foul mood would have been a gross exaggeration. He lightened up after a swig of decaf and a bite of cranberry scone. The dune party and fire ended up being a drug bust as well. A few of the kids had hand guns and used them. "Found a stash of crank." He hesi­tated and shifted his gaze to Emily. "That's street talk for methamphetamine."

  "I know what crank is, Danny."

  "Yeah, well, I've never seen so much of it in one place. Not down here, anyway."

  "Sounds as though you may have a meth lab or two hidden away."

  Dan leaned back in his chair and looked at Helen as if he'd only just noticed her presence. "Maybe. You keep hoping things like that will stay in the big cities." He sighed and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry about that. Shouldn't be bringing my troubles to you ladies."

  "It's all right. I can empathize with you about the meth labs. Seems you close one down and five more pop up to take its place."

  "Right. I hear your husband works for the Feds, Mrs. Bradley."

  Helen settled her cup in the saucer. "You've been doing your homework. And with record speed, I might add."

  He nodded. "Friend of mine is the sheriff in Bay Village. I talked to him after I stopped you."

  "I see. Did he tell you I used to be a police officer?"

  "That and a few other things."

  Helen met his critical gaze head on. "Are we going some­where with this?"

  "Maybe. I also heard you've done some undercover work for the DEA and was wondering if the Feds might have sent you down here to check into the drug-smuggling allegations."

  "No. They haven't. I'm here to write a book."

  "So you aren't here in an official capacity?"

  "No. Why do you ask?"

  "The sheriff down in Bay Villa
ge says you've helped them out on occasion. You're credited with solving several murder investigations."

  "And?"

  "Well, Mrs. Bradley, the folks down in Bay Village might welcome your input, but I don't. Regardless of what you might have heard to the contrary, I run a tight ship here in Pacific County. I don't need your help. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Oh, very clear, Sheriff."

  "Daniel Merritt! Sometimes you have the manners of a porcupine."

  "It's all right, Emily. Perhaps he's just trying to protect you. He's afraid I may try to involve myself in his investigations and drag you in with me."

  "That's nonsense." Emily sniffed.

  "You're very astute, Mrs. Bradley. But it's more than that. I just plain don't want outsiders, especially a woman, coming in and telling me how to run my business."

  Helen bristled but held back her anger and lifted the corners of her mouth into a smile. "I don't think you need to worry about that, Sheriff, at least for the time being. However," she punctuated the word to let him know he hadn't intimidated her, "if I am called in, you'll be the first to go. Oh, did I say go?" She stood and smiled down at him. "I meant know."

  She took mild satisfaction at the look of surprise on his face and turned to Emily. "Thanks for the treat. I'd love to stay and chat, but I really do need to get some work done tonight. Oh, and Emily," Helen added on a sweet note, "you might want to brief Dan on that incident with Mr. Frazier this evening, seeing as he runs such a tight ship and all."

  She bid them good night and went upstairs. Closing the door to her room, Helen took several deep breaths and vowed not to let that territorial chauvinist get to her. Taking a more subjective view, Helen suspected he might have ulterior motives for trying to warn her off.

  She made it a point to never fully trust a person who used threats or force to maintain control. Dan was obviously a man who liked being in charge. Was he protecting someone? Keeping dark and deadly secrets?

  Too upset to work, Helen allowed herself the luxury of a long soak in the claw-foot tub.

  It helped as had thinking of things she could do to get even. Not that she would. Getting even wasted too much energy. Better to think of him as a poor, unenlightened soul and feel sorry for him. Maybe she'd even add him to her prayer list.