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

by Patricia H. Rushford

  "Not Adam." Helen shook her head. "I know I've wondered myself, but I just can't see him as a criminal."

  People can change, J.B. wrote.

  That was true enough, and it had been years since she'd seen him.

  "Shells, you said if you didn't know better. What did you mean?"

  "Only that Dan wouldn't work with Adam on anything unless he had to. Adam's an outsider. Besides, they hate each other because of me. They both like me and now they hate Scott." She glanced nervously toward the kitchen. "I really need to get back. Please say you'll help us."

  "Shells, tell me something," Helen said. "Why did you and Scott run away to get married and why right after the funeral?"

  Shells sighed heavily. "That was my idea. I felt so incredibly sad. It was probably not the smartest thing to do, but I needed to do something. I suppose it sounds terribly childish of me. I don't do funerals very well, Mrs. Bradley. There have been so many and . . .."

  Helen placed her hand over Shells' trembling one. "It's okay, no need to explain." Shells was impetuous and young. Running away from grief was something Helen had done herself.

  J.B. scribbled a message and showed it to Shells. She thanked them and headed for the kitchen.

  "What did you tell her?"

  J.B. passed the note to Helen. It read, We'll look into it.

  "We? J.B., you're not in any condition to . . ." Glancing at his note pad, Helen paused.

  I can still think.

  This was the most animated she'd seen J.B. since the heart attack. Maybe he needed the challenge of at least puzzling through this crime. "What do you have in mind?"

  J.B. grinned. Let me have a look at your notes.

  "Good idea. Maybe you'll see something I didn't." Helen had written down all she could remember from Isabelle's missing files. She'd read and reread them but couldn't find anything that might have led to her death.

  After a leisurely lunch and a short walk on the boardwalk in Long Beach, Helen and J.B. headed back to the bed and break­fast. The outing had exhausted J.B., who opted for a nap. He suggested Helen go to Oysterville and Leadbetter Point without him. He'd rest, then look over her notes.

  Helen readily accepted. She had a lot to accomplish, and although she'd have been happy to bring J.B., she also relished her time away. Equipped with snacks and field glasses for bird watching, she set out to finish her research. Helen had explored most of the Peninsula by now and stopped at several places on her way to Oysterville to make certain she had her facts straight.

  At Nahcotta she visited the Tidelands Interpretive Center at the Washington State Shellfish Laboratory. She and Emily had gone out into the bay one day to dig littlenecks, the nickname for the small clams that restaurants often referred to as steamers. They were delicious steamed in a broth with lime and garlic until they opened, then dipped in butter.

  After verifying the rules on limits, she popped into her T- bird again and at Nahcotta turned onto the road leading to a restaurant and another interpretive center, and two processing plants dealing primarily with oysters. Helen drove to the end of the dock, parked, and went into the retail store for some smoked salmon.

  "Hey, Mrs. Bradley." Bill Carlson sauntered in from the back room, wiping his hands. "How's it going? Heard about your husband. He okay?"

  "He's doing better. Thanks. What are you doing over here in the bay?"

  Bill shrugged. "We're harvesting oysters today. Won't be long before we'll be out crabbing. Like I told you before, we do a little bit of everything."

  Including drug trafficking? Helen wondered but didn't ask. Next thing she knew, she'd be suspecting Emily again. "You two do get around."

  "Yep." He gave her a wide grin. "Right now we gotta pick up some littlenecks for Shells. Then we'll head on back to Ilwaco."

  "Sounds like you enjoy your work."

  "Most of the time. Like everything else there's parts that ain't so good." His grin faded and he lifted his shoulders in a resigned shrug.

  "I'm curious, Bill. Isn't the Klipspringer rather large for the shallow waters here in the bay? I thought oysters were harvested with a barge."

  He smiled. "You're right about that. Made arrangements with a friend out here to use his pleasure craft for oystering and littlenecking." He rubbed his jaw. "You still working on that guidebook?"

  "Almost done with my first draft. I'm researching today."

  He nodded. "S'pose you'll be leaving soon, then."

  "Hmm. Going home on Sunday. But not before I stay at the lightkeeper's house at North Head. Couldn't resist that. And I'm sure we'll be back. The Peninsula is a wonderful place."

  "Be better once we get rid of the druggies. Speaking of which. It looks like we were wrong about Scott Mandrel. Sure feel bad for Shells."

  "Yes, well, there are still a lot of questions."

  "Think so?" He leaned against the wall and folded his arms.

  Helen swung her bag around to the opposite shoulder. "Shells seems to think he's being framed. She may be right."

  "Depends on who you talk to, I guess. Dan and that coastie fellow seem to think there's no question."

  "Yes, well, time will tell. I'd better be going." Helen was halfway to her car when she realized she'd forgotten to purchase her fish. She did an about-face and walked back inside. Bill was gone. A man in a stained apron placed a tray of oysters into the deli case.

  "Fresh in today," he said. "Can I wrap some up for you?"

  "No, but I'll take some smoked salmon. Don't plan on going back to the Bayshore for a while."

  "I can wrap them in ice."

  Helen shook her head. "Some other time."

  Back at her car, Helen leaned against the hood and nibbled on bites of smoked Chinook salmon while watching the activity on the bay. What a wonderful place this was, teeming with fish and wildlife. "When the tide is out, the table is set." Helen couldn't remember who had said that, but it certainly rang true here.

  Helen finished her snack, then meandered up the Peninsula, enjoying the distinguished old homes in Oysterville. Many had been refurbished, and most were dated, bringing tourists back in time for a look at what life might have been like in the late 1800s. From Oysterville she headed west, then north on Stackpole Road five miles to Leadbetter Point State Park and Wildlife Sanctuary. While walking north along the shore of Willapa Bay, Helen used her field glasses to closely examine a deer and two fawns. Farther north, she spotted the Klipspringer, no doubt headed back to Ilwaco. Not long after, she noted Mike Trenton's Merry Maid following some distance behind the Carlson brothers.

  They certainly were a diverse lot. She admired that. While some people collapsed with the diminished fishing, others like Mike Trenton and the Carlson brothers dug in their heels and looked for other ways to support themselves. Admirable, so long as what they were doing was legal.

  Helen turned her thoughts back to the guidebook. This northernmost end of the Long Beach Peninsula would be the final chapter in the book. She could hardly believe she'd done it. And on schedule. Amazing with all the goings on. She felt like celebrating and wondered if Emily and J.B. wanted to as well.

  Arriving back at the bed and breakfast, Emily had dinner waiting. There would be no celebrating unless they did something later. "It's Wednesday, remember. You promised to speak at the writers’ group tonight."

  "Oh right. Well, tomorrow night, then." Helen didn't want to cancel on the writers' group, since this would be her last opportunity before heading home.

  At the meeting Helen shared her writing experiences. How the tragedy of her first husband's death had plunged her into despair and how writing had brought her back. She talked about marketing and finding stories and ideas in everyday life.

  "In fact," she said, "Isabelle is an excellent example. She was writing a guidebook about the place she'd grown up in and loved. And from what I could tell from her files, she intended to use her research to write more extensively on some topics. She had an article started about salmon fishing and how it has c
hanged over the years. She had another started about how the drug culture's far-reaching effects had infiltrated the Peninsula. And one about pollution. For a while I thought she might be writing about the gunky stuff you sometimes have on the beaches up here."

  Several members of the group laughed.

  "Newcomers are always thrown by that," an older gentleman said. "Looks a lot like oil or sewage—smells too. But it's actually little organisms the clams feed on."

  "So I heard. At any rate, she had the right idea. While researching for one project, bear in mind that it may lead to many other projects as well. Emily, you might want to take over some of Isabelle's ideas."

  "Maybe." Emily glanced around the room. "Not sure it's a good idea to resurrect them, though seeing as one of those things she was writing about might have gotten her killed."

  Helen was suddenly in a hurry to get back to the bed and breakfast. She wanted to talk to J.B. about her own notes and to think more thoroughly about Isabelle's article topics. Now that she'd learned more about the Peninsula, those earlier notes might take on new meaning.

  She'd left J.B. with a pot of coffee, a printout of her guide­book, and her files. Helen and Emily returned to find papers strewn all over the living-room floor. And no sign of J.B..

  Chapter Twenty Two

  "Good grief!" Emily groaned. "Not again."

  "Stay here." Helen ordered. "Call 9-1-1. I'll see if I can find J.B." Just inside the door and to the right Helen spotted three drops of blood on the hardwood floor. And two more just beyond that. The trail of blood led to the kitchen. Helen started to follow, then stopped when she heard a clinking sound.

  "Be careful," Emily whispered, lifting a carved walking stick from the umbrella stand beside the door. "Take this just in case."

  Armed with the stick and a prayer, Helen crept forward. She reached the kitchen and heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness. I was afraid . . .. What happened?" Helen dropped the stick and ran toward her husband.

  He held her with one arm. With the other he held an ice pack to his head. Releasing her, he picked up a pen from the table and wrote, Doorbell rang. No one there. Went out to look around. Hit from behind.

  "Oh, J.B. Let me see. Are you still bleeding?"

  He shook his head. Just a big lump. I should have seen it coming. Oldest trick in the book. J.B. looked thoroughly disgusted with himself.

  "Did you see who it was?"

  Too dark. By the time I came to and got back inside they were gone.

  "What about a car?"

  He shook his head.

  "Are you sure you're not bleeding?" Helen looked his head over. "There are several drops of blood on the floor."

  J.B. pushed the paper and pen aside and spoke quite clearly for one who couldn't open his mouth. "Not mine."

  "Then it must belong to whoever attacked you."

  There's one way to find out, J.B. wrote.

  The sheriff would be along soon. They'd finally have some evidence they could use. Blood DNA. The long list of suspects could be narrowed down. But what if Dan took the samples and switched them or messed them up? What if he didn't have sophisticated enough equipment and labs? What if Dan was somehow involved?

  Helen pulled a plastic sandwich bag from the drawer. Going back to the dining room, she captured one of the blood smears inside the bag and slipped it into her pocket. Tomorrow she'd send it to the FBI office in Portland and have it analyzed.

  While waiting for Dan, they took inventory. The only missing items were her manuscript and laptop.

  Mischief. A random act. Vandalism. Dan used all three terms to describe the break-in. "You can't go connecting everything that happens down here with Chuck and Isabelle and that stupid guidebook."

  "Dan Merritt," Emily scolded. "What a thing to say. You just don't want to admit you're wrong about Scott. With him in jail he couldn't have done this. Which means the killer is still out there."

  "I am not wrong about Scott. I got a signed a confession from Kendall that says he killed Chuck Frazier and that Scott paid him to do it. I'm sorry the place got broken into again." He turned to Helen. "And it's too bad about the manuscript. I suspect you have a backup."

  "I do. In my bag. Luckily I had it with me."

  "Good." Dan made a few notes, then he and another deputy gathered evidence and left.

  "I don't understand it," Helen mused an hour later. A warm fire crackled in the fireplace. J.B. sat beside her on the sofa, eyes closed, a limp bag of melted ice by his side. Emily had gone up to bed. "There was nothing incriminating in that guidebook. Why steal it?"

  J.B.'s eyes drifted open, but he made no attempt to answer her.

  "It makes no sense. The only thing stealing my manuscript would do is delay things a little." Helen shifted, leaning her head on her husband's shoulder. "You're tired, and here I am keeping you up with my questions."

  J.B. squeezed her hand, then leaned over and brushed his lips against hers. She rose when he did. They embraced and held each other for a long while. She wondered what was going through his mind. How he must be feeling. He had lost so much recently. Would he be able to work through it?

  J.B. was the first to move away. He glanced at the stairs and back at her as if to say, Are you coming?

  "You go ahead. I want to clean up our dishes. I'll be up in a few minutes."

  He nodded and shuffled to the stairs, looking older and more frail than his fifty-nine years. Helen's heart constricted. She would need to be as strong and encouraging for him as he had often been for her. Strength was something she had little of at the moment.

  Hardly daring to think about what lay ahead for them, Helen moved to the rocker and stared into the fire, her mind a jumble of disconnected thoughts. No wonder nothing made sense. She was too scattered, moving in too many directions at once. Caring for J.B. Working on the guidebook. And this odd puzzle of events that wouldn't go away. Though she felt compelled to focus on J.B. and her writing, Helen couldn't let the mystery surrounding the book and the original author go. The more she tried not to think about it, the more it festered and demanded attention.

  Suppose the purpose in stealing the manuscript had been to slow her down. Perhaps whoever had done it didn't realize she could run off another copy in a matter of minutes. Or if it came to it, she could simply e-mail the book to her publisher. That could mean they were dealing with a non-computer person. Mike Trenton and the Carlson brothers came to mind. But that was unfair. Just because they made their livelihood fishing didn't mean they hadn't kept up with the latest technology. Still, it was something to keep in mind.

  Her gaze shifted to the pile of papers on the table. When Dan left, she and Emily had picked them up. They still lay in a random pile, as disordered as she felt.

  Helen had planned to go through them again before making her final revision on the guidebook to make certain she'd incorporated everything and to look for further clues. "Now's as good a time as any," she murmured. Scooping up the pile, she pulled out the file folders and put them in alphabetical order on the floor in front of her. Each paper, notation, photo, and pamphlet she placed in separate piles on the floor. She couldn't tell right off if anything was missing. It hit her then, perhaps because she'd mentioned it at the writer's meeting.

  The first break-in. It hadn't been only the information on the guidebook that had been stolen, but Isabelle's articles as well. The first night she'd been there Helen had given them only a cursory glance. She remembered seeing the rough drafts, but she hadn't read them and had no idea what they contained. Could there have been incriminating evidence? Drugs, pollution, fishing. What hadn't the thief wanted her to see?

  Ginger pounced on top of the papers, threatening to undo all her hard work.

  "Oh no, you don't." Helen unfolded herself from the cramped position she'd been in and scooped the cat into her arms. "You'll have to find something else to play with."

  She set Ginger on the floor and rubbed at the sore spots in her knees and lower back. Picking up
the files and a fresh legal pad and pen, she went into the kitchen. Ginger followed her in, sat by her empty dish, and meowed.

  "Did Emily forget to feed you?" Helen put a cup of water in the microwave, then opened the pantry. After locating the cat food and pouring a scoop in the dish, Helen refilled the water dish. It was then she noticed a brown stain on the counter and another in the sink. Blood?

  The intruder had apparently been injured outside or just as he came in. The drops of blood trailed into the kitchen. That meant the thief knew his way around. Had he washed his cut and bandaged it? If so, why not go to the bathroom? Why the kitchen? Because that was where Emily kept her first aid supplies. Using her pencil, she opened the cupboard. The first aid kit was there with the latch undone, hastily put away, no doubt. Emily would have fastened it.

  There would be prints, but again, she didn't trust Dan to take them. They could very well be his. He knew the house well. Helen wondered how many of the others did also. Following her suspicions, she opened the cupboard under the sink and pulled out the trash. There, lying right on top, was a wrap from a wide Band-Aid with a smeared bloody print. The find excited her. She'd send it along with the blood sample. Though the one visible print was smudged, there might be at least one good one.

  The beeper on the microwave went off. Helen picked out an apple cinnamon spice tea and dunked it in the hot water. Hearing footfalls on the stairs, Helen retrieved another cup, filled it, and set it in the microwave.

  "I thought that might be you." She glanced up as J.B. filled the doorway. "Hope my putzing around down here didn't wake you."

  He mumbled something and gave her a look she read as I thought you were coming to bed.

  "I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep, so I decided to arrange my files and." She shrugged. "Now I'm wide awake. Want some tea?"

  He nodded, then sat down at the table and wrote, Find anything?

  "Not in the papers." She told him about the fingerprint she'd found.

  Looks like our burglar is not too smart.