A Haunting Refrain
A Helen Bradley Mystery
Patricia H. Rushford
Copyright by Patricia H. Rushford
Mysteriously Yours
Cover design by Patricia H. Rushford
Kindle Edition 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 both 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.
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.
This book is a work of fiction. 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.
Previously published by Fleming H. Revell
Table of Contents
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
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
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Chapter One
You must come to Paradise tomorrow, Helen," Hillary insisted. "Paddy has asked me to call the entire family."
Hillary Brown was Helen's eccentric uncle's maid, companion, and friend. Paradise, in Washington's San Juan Islands, was the latest in a long line of luxurious resorts Paddy owned.
"As much as I'd love to, Hill, I can't. My house is in the throes of remodeling. I can't leave J.B. in this mess." Helen winced as a builder from Bay Shore Construction narrowly missed hitting her living room window with a two-by-four.
"Please. You must come. He's wanting to talk to you about his will." Hillary made a whimpering sound. "He's especially anxious for you to be here."
"What is it? He's not sick, is he?" Helen chewed her lip.
At age eighty-four, Patrick O'Donnell looked closer to sixty. He'd been the family icon and an indestructible force until a stroke two years ago. Even then he'd recovered quickly and resumed his position as the O'Donnell family patriarch. On his doctor's advice Uncle Paddy was in the process of selling his resorts, eventually paring down to one, Paradise Island, where he'd gone into semiretirement.
"N-no." Hillary answered. "Healthwise, he seems to be doing fine. It's just that. . .." She lowered her voice. "He'll have my head for telling you, but someone is trying to kill him."
Helen could hardly hear above the construction noise. "I'm sorry. I must not have heard you right. Did you say someone is trying to kill him?"
"That's right. There have been three attempts on his life so far. 'Accidents,' he calls them."
"What sorts of accidents are you talking about?"
"The first one may have been, I'll give him that. The boat sinking could have been a run of bad luck like he says. I suppose the second could have been an accident too. The trail that runs along the bluff gave way. He took a bad tumble. Thank God, he only ended up with a sprained ankle and a few bruises. But the last one. . ..he keeps insisting it was a stray bullet from a poacher."
"Good heavens. You're saying someone shot at him? Was he injured?"
"No, but he could have been. My guess is that someone fired at him from a boat offshore. I tell you, someone is trying to kill him."
"Has he notified the police?"
"Only to complain about the poacher. He won't admit that he's in danger. You know how stubborn he is."
"Are you sure, Hill? I mean, who'd want to kill Uncle Paddy?"
"The castle ghost. Maybe she's unhappy about all the remodeling. On the other hand, I wouldn't be surprised if it was that greedy, good-for-nothing son of his. Richard has been acting strange lately."
Helen shrugged off the reference to the ghost and focused on Richard. She had never been especially close to Richard O'Donnell, at least not as she'd been to his sister, Claire. He'd been a playboy in his younger days and was used to the good life. While he might want to get his hands on his inheritance early, she doubted he'd go as far as killing his father to get it.
"All I know is that he was out here two weeks ago begging for money to pay some debts. A couple days later the trouble started." Hillary's voice took on a more desperate tone. "Look, I can't talk anymore. Just come. Please, Helen, he wouldn't be asking if it weren't important."
"All right. I'll talk to J.B. and let you know this afternoon."
"Good. Be at the marina in Anacortes at three o'clock tomorrow. Paddy will meet you there." She spoke as if it were a given that Helen would drop everything in order to obey her uncle's summons regardless of her prior commitments. Paddy, after all, had spoken. "Oh, and Helen," Hillary said, "you'll want to plan to stay for at least a week."
A week! Helen started to voice another objection, but Hillary had already hung up.
Helen sighed heavily and dropped the phone in the cradle. She should have just said no and been done with it. Unfortunately, Helen was long overdue for a visit to her mother's younger brother. With her father having died when Helen was ten, Paddy had become like a father to her. Her mother died several years ago, and Paddy became even more intent on taking over the parent role in her life. It didn't seem to matter that Helen was now a grown woman with children and grandchildren of her own.
Though she and J.B. had visited him briefly at his resort on the French Riviera a couple of months before, she hadn't been to his new place in the San Juan Islands, or seen the castle he'd spent the last couple of years renovating. Rumor had it the private island with its quaint castle was quickly becoming one of the most desirable retreats in the country. Uncle Paddy catered to the rich and famous and as a result had become rich and famous himself.
Unfortunately, the timing couldn't be worse. Still, if he was in some sort of danger how could she not go?
Helen shook her head. Perhaps Hillary was imagining things and making mountains out of molehills. Richard may have financial problems, and he could be annoying, but to try to kill his father? Not a chance.
Or was there? From what Claire had told her, Richard had grown bitter and cynical over the years, drifting from one job to the next. At the last reunion there had been rumors of trouble between him and his wife, Sandra. Would his disappointments and fa
ilures be enough to turn him into a murderer?
No. Absolutely not.
The more believable scenario was the ghost Hillary mentioned. And Helen couldn't imagine anyone silly enough to blame a ghost for attempted murder. Yet something was apparently going on, and she owed it to Paddy to look into it.
Helen shook off the ridiculous notion of leaving now. "You can't go," she told herself in no uncertain terms as she made her way into what used to be her living room and office. Running her hands through her coarse salt-and-pepper hair, she grumbled, "Why now, God? You know I can't deny Paddy's request for a visit. But I can't possibly leave now. What am I going to do?" She kicked aside a nearly empty can of paint after almost tripping on it. It tipped over, but the lid was on and it didn't spill.
"At least something is going right," she muttered. "I wish I'd never started this project."
Dropping to her knees, Helen righted the can and glanced up knowing God would be telling her to get a grip. "There's no point in complaining is there? I've made my bed and all that. You might have at least warned me. I knew there would be some inconveniences, but this." She stood up and swung her arm around for emphasis. "This is a nightmare."
Her computer sat on a large oak desk, covered like the rest of the furniture with a drop cloth to protect it from the sawdust and paint. Fortunately, she'd decided to take a month-long hiatus from her work as a travel writer, so at least she didn't have the increased stress of deadlines.
Ideally, she and J.B. would have moved out until the builders were done. Only she didn't trust any of them to get the job done properly without her constant supervision.
The builders had knocked out nearly half the living room wall this morning for what would eventually be French doors leading to the patio. "We'll have it in today. No sweat," Chuck Burns, their contractor, had promised. "You just leave everything to me."
Today was half gone and the doors hadn't even been delivered. Heavy clouds had replaced the morning sunshine. A cold wind whipped at the plastic sheet that covered the gaping hole, forcing itself between the cracks and threatening to bring more rain and more delays.
Perhaps part of her frustration could be blamed on grief. In a way she was experiencing the loss of her home. Her lovely beach house would never be the same. She'd fallen in love with her cozy three-bedroom Cape Cod the moment she'd seen it eleven years ago. With its three dormer-style bedrooms upstairs, there was plenty of room for her and an occasional guest. Her ocean retreat had provided the perfect place to heal from her first husband's death. Now, eleven years later, she was sharing it with her new husband. Not that she was complaining. She adored J.B. and wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of her life with him, even if it meant tearing up her house.
With J.B. retired and underfoot all the time, however, the house simply wasn't big enough for both of them. They each needed an office, a place of their own where they could escape and think and write.
Their plan was to create a lovely patio and breezeway that would connect to an addition on the north side. The new addition, now only a skeletal frame and foundation, would eventually be two stories, with a garage and shop on the lower level and their two offices and a bathroom above. With large windows all around, it would afford them both a lovely view of the Oregon coast to the west, the Coast Mountains to the east, and the lights of Bay Village to the south.
Helen had a hard time imagining the piles of lumber and supplies turning into the beautiful structure depicted in the drawing that lay on her dining room table. She went over again to look at the pen-and-ink sketch, reminding herself that the construction phase would be over in less than a month, well before winter settled in. At least that's what the contractor had promised. Once the contractors completed their part, she'd have her daughter, Kate, do the interior design. Helen had already picked the colors and furniture and would leave the decorating details in Kate's capable hands.
She shook her head and muttered to the opposing voice in her head, "There is no way I can go to Paradise Island." Leaving Bay Village was hardly an option, especially with J.B. having recently suffered a heart attack. A mild one, she quickly reminded herself, but a heart attack nonetheless. She imagined him now, sitting in the makeshift office upstairs, typing away on her laptop. He'd received a contract from a New York publisher to write his memoirs.
Helen had mixed feelings about his overnight success. She loved the idea that he now had something to keep him busy, but she felt somewhat jealous that he should so quickly be offered a substantial book contract. It shouldn't have surprised her. Publishers thrived on biographies by and about people in the limelight. J.B. was definitely that. His latest and final assignment for Uncle Sam had elevated him to hero status. He'd headed a team to rescue four Americans who'd been held captive by terrorists in the Middle East. The effort won him a splendid retirement package and a citation from the president.
Helen made her way around the clutter and up the stairs, and then quietly opened the door to the guest room that now served as a temporary office. "J.B.? I'm sorry to bother you, darling, but we need to talk."
"One minute, lass." Her big, handsome Irishman made her laptop computer look like a child's toy. He continued to type, his hands nearly covering the small keyboard. She'd encouraged him to buy a desktop model, but he'd refused, saying he'd just as soon wait until they moved into their new offices.
Moments later he whipped around, giving her his full attention. His smiling blue eyes and the tender look he settled on her almost made her forget why she'd come.
"How's the book coming?" She sank onto the twin bed. At the moment she wasn't even sure she should bring up the distressing phone call.
"Good. I'm working on the time the three of us infiltrated the British embassy in Russia." He shook his head. "Hard to believe we were once so bold and fearless."
"You and Ian were fearless. I. . .."
"You, my love, were the brains and, I might add, saved our necks a number of times."
Helen laughed. "I won't argue with you there. Sometimes you were a little too daring." They'd been inseparable in those days. Helen O'Donnell, Ian McGrady and Jason Bradley. J.B. and Ian had attended military school together in England and joined Interpol immediately upon graduating. Helen had grown up next door to Ian and they married soon after she graduated from college. They later moved to the US. J.B. followed a dozen or so years later, taking a job with the FBI but acting also as a special agent when the need arose.
"That we were, luv, that we were." He had a faraway look in his eyes, a sadness that encompassed what they both must have been feeling: Times change. Age happens, and there is little one can do about it. Now, instead of experiencing the adventure and danger of his profession, J.B. could only write about it. The government he'd risked his life for had no use for a man who'd suffered a heart attack. But, she reminded herself, he was still alive. For that she would be eternally grateful. As a bonus, he had his memories and a publisher clamoring for what they expected to be a bestseller.
J.B.'s soothing baritone brought her out of her reverie.
"What's troubling you, lass? More problems with the building? I know it looks impossible at the moment, but it will come." His concerned gaze met hers, reining in her memories and bringing her back to the task at hand.
"It's not that, well, not altogether. You remember my uncle Paddy, don't you?"
He grinned. "How could I not? He almost talked you out of marrying me."
"He was just being cautious and didn't want me ending up a widow a second time. He did have a point, you know. You and Ian are cut from the same cloth."
"More than likely he didn't want his favorite niece hooking up with the likes of me." He arched an eyebrow. Easing himself out of his chair, J.B. pulled her up and wrapped his arms around her.
Helen snuggled closer, savoring the warmth and comfort of him. "Well, you are a bit of a rogue, but I love you." She rested her head on his shoulder for a few moments, then tipped her head up for a kiss. W
hen they came up for air, Helen wove her fingers through his thick silver hair. Whoever said passion died with age was dead wrong. "If we keep this up, you'll make me forget why I interrupted you."
"Ah yes, and why might that be?"
"Uncle Paddy has summoned the entire family to his island. Hillary says it's about his will, and he especially wants me there. I have no idea why."
"And you're going?" J.B. didn't hide his disappointment. "Just like that?"
"I have to," she heard herself say. Though only moments ago, hadn't she decided against it? "Something strange is going on. Hillary says there have been attempts on his life. I know it's silly, but my instincts are telling me I should go."
"Are you sure you're not just feeling guilty?" J.B. released her and went to stand by the window. "As I recall, your uncle Paddy can be quite a manipulator. Maybe he's just lonely and wants his family to visit."
"I don't think so. Hillary seemed genuinely concerned." Helen recounted their conversation. "Of course, it may be nothing, but I think her allegations bear looking into. I feel I should go, but I don't want to leave you with all of this construction mess."
"Now, luv, that's not a problem. I can handle things here. My concern is having you go alone. What if there's trouble?" J.B. wrapped her in his arms again, as if doing so could protect her from whatever trouble he'd imagined.
"I can take care of myself. You know that." Helen smiled. Before becoming a travel writer, she'd been a homicide investigator in Portland. After Ian's death she retired from the force and began writing. She'd maintained a high level of fitness and still kept her fingers in law enforcement by doing odd jobs for the government and solving occasional crimes on her own. "It would be wonderful if we could both be there. From what I've heard, Paradise is one of Paddy's most unusual resorts."
"Oh yes, the castle. I remember him telling us about it. After what we've been through with this building project, we could both use a trip to Paradise."
"Mmm. It does sound nice." Helen closed her eyes, envisioning the resort. "If it's like the others, there'll be a spa complete with mud bath, massage therapy, mineral bath, body wrap, steam room, and plenty of time to rest." She quickly shook away the image. "Unfortunately, Uncle's timing is off. I don't think suspending the remodeling project is an option."
A Haunting Refrain: A Helen Bradley Mystery (Helen Bradley Mysteries Book 4) Page 1
