"You're not thinking she's behind the thefts? She's been with Dad for ages."
"Maybe not that, but about Mary."
"She really believes the place is haunted. She's the one who convinced me. Things have happened here, Helen. Unexplainable things."
"Maybe, but what I've seen so far doesn't convince me. I really doubt Mary wired that room or changed the gramophone to run on electricity instead of a crank. This ghost business is a front for something illegal."
"I hope not. Still, there is the problem of the missing money and Fabian." Claire poured them each a cup of coffee. "Oh, I'm sorry, I should have asked. You drink tea, don't you?"
"Most of the time. It's all right. I'll drink it."
"Good morning." Peter ambled in, kissed Claire on the cheek, and picked up a plate. "How are you two lovely ladies this morning?"
"Couldn't be better." Claire tossed him a broad smile. "Where's Megan?"
"Still in bed. I'm bringing her breakfast. We'll eat in her room. You don't mind, do you?"
"Of course not. She's all right, isn't she?"
"Just tired. Says she's not getting out of bed today. She'll be fine once she's eaten." He was trying to balance two plates in one hand while dishing them up with the other.
"The last stages of pregnancy can be miserable," Helen said. "Can I help you with those plates?"
He grinned. "Please. Now you know why I'll never be a waiter."
Helen held one for him while he finished his task. Claire found him a tray and settled his selections on it.
"Thanks." Looking at the bouquet of flowers on the table, Peter pulled out a pink carnation, wrapped the stem in a napkin, and set it beside the plate. He shot Claire a shy gaze. "I'm going to ask her to marry me again. Figure if I keep trying she'll eventually say yes."
"Peter." Claire looked at him over her cup. "I know you may not want my advice, but maybe you're trying too hard. Megan needs some time to adjust."
"You're saying I should play hard to get?"
"Something like that. Don't you agree, Helen?"
"I do. She has a lot to think about with the baby coming and all. Give her room to breathe. Who knows, she might come around sooner than you expect. There are no guarantees, of course, but why not give it a try.
He nodded. "Okay, I'll do it. I'm willing to try anything, and so far, my persistence doesn't seem to be paying off." He looked down at the tray. "Maybe I'll start right now." He removed his plate from the laden tray and set it on the table. "Room to breathe coming up. I'll join you in a couple minutes."
With that he was gone.
"Oh dear." Claire pierced a piece of sausage. "I hope I did the right thing. Peter tends to be an all-or-nothing sort. I know I should mind my own business."
"It's hard to do at times. In this case, though, I'm sure you said the right thing. Megan was telling me yesterday that he had a tendency to smother her."
Helen sliced into the juicy ham and was about to take a bite when she heard the scream.
"What in the world?" She and Claire jumped to their feet in the same instant.
"It's Hillary." Helen raced into the hall, then into Paddy's suite.
Hillary was on her knees. Her screams had diminished to a low, whimpering wail. "Mercy, mercy. Lord, have mercy." She rocked back and forth making the sign of the cross.
Chapter Thirteen
No, oh, no." Claire looked ready to crumble.
"Saints preserve us," Hillary wailed. "She's taken to killing. There's not one of us that's safe now."
"Who are you talking about?" The words were no sooner out than the answer presented itself. Mary. Helen spotted a single pink rose in a crystal vase on the mantel. Had it been there the night before? She couldn't remember. What kind of evil game was someone playing? She shuddered, knowing the rose had come from her room, yet not wanting to believe it. Someone had come in during the night. Had the music been an attempt to lure her out of the room? Or had someone come in while she was sleeping? But she was getting ahead of herself again.
Helen dragged her attention back to her uncle. Paddy was slouched in his chair, his head tipped back and to one side. His eyes, glazed and unseeing, seemed to stare at the rose. He'd been sitting in the same chair the night before.
Her heart lurched. Why hadn't she stayed with him?
Part of her wanted only to mourn with Hillary and Claire, but the situation demanded she remain in control. She pulled back her shoulders and forced herself to move closer to him. There was no point in checking for a pulse. She knew that. But she did it anyway.
"He's dead, isn't he?"
Helen put her assessment on hold and went back to where Claire was standing. "Yes. Come on." Helen circled her cousin's shoulders and led her out into the hall to a chair. "It's best that we don't stay in there."
"What's going on?" Richard rounded the corner. He sounded out of breath and was still tying his robe.
"It's Paddy." Helen sank her teeth into her lower lip, biting back her own grief.
Richard pushed past her and into the room.
"Wait. Don't touch anything." Helen followed him in. "We need to notify the authorities."
He stood transfixed, his shoulders hunched, hands stuffed in his pockets. "He can't be dead. I didn't get to tell him. . .." He closed his eyes. "It's too soon. Oh, God, why?"
She waited a moment, then tentatively touched his shoulder. "Richard? We need to alert the authorities. Do you know who to call?"
He turned around to face her, his gaze mirroring her own shock and disbelief. "I-I'll call Sheriff Stone. She'll know what to do." When he reached for the phone on the end table, Helen put a restraining hand on his arm. "Better use one in another room in case there are fingerprints."
"Why on earth—" He flashed her an angry gaze. "You're acting like this is some kind of a crime scene."
"It may be."
"That's absurd," he snapped. "He's obviously had a heart attack or a stroke."
"We don't know that for sure."
"You're right. I'm sorry." Bowing to her request, he raked his fingers though his hair and left the room. Helen glanced around again, looking for anything that might explain her uncle's death. The inhaler lay on the tray. His fingers were still curled around the cup handle of the warm milk he'd been drinking when she left him. The cup was empty now, its contents apparently contributing to the stain on the Oriental rug. She wondered how much of the milk he'd ingested and if the lab would find more than milk in the list of ingredients.
Again, it was too soon for such morbid thoughts. She knew better than to jump to conclusions. Even with the previous attempts on his life, she had no reason to believe he'd been murdered. Paddy was eighty-four. He'd had one stroke and could have had another. Glancing around the room, she saw no sign of a forced entry—no mess to indicate a break-in or a theft. Only the rose in its vase on the mantel.
"What's wrong? We heard someone scream." Megan's and Peter's voices cut into her thoughts.
"Don't go in there." Richard's tone went soft when he explained.
The room blurred as Helen listened to their cries of disbelief and attempts to comfort one another. She should be with them. Needed to be with them. And she would be soon.
Hillary was still on her knees sobbing. Helen helped the older woman to her feet. "Hill, please. It's time to get up now. I have to close off the room. The medical examiner and the sheriff will want to check it out."
"It won't do any good. She won't have left any evidence." She struggled to pull her ample frame up, using Helen's arm and a nearby chair. "Where are Claire and Richard? And Megan?"
"They're in the hallway. Maybe you could take them downstairs for me."
"Yes." She drew in a deep breath that seemed to calm her. "We'll go into the dining room. I'll fix us all some coffee and tea."
"That's a good idea. I think we can all use some." Helen felt a deep empathy for Hillary. Finding Paddy like that must have been a horrific experience. The older woman was pulling ou
t of the initial shock now and would soon be back to caring for the family. Keeping busy would help her cope. It wasn't a cure, but focusing on others, even for a brief time, kept grief at bay.
Helen was well versed in the dance of death, but it never came easy. The dance of death. That's what she'd come to call the grieving process following Ian's death. After the initial shock there would be denial, which Helen was convinced had been built into humans by God in order to get them through the initial phases of making all the arrangements, burying the dead, and seeing to all the details. There would be periods of self-blame, of course. She was already experiencing that with Paddy. Eventually the realization that he wasn't coming back would soak in. The numbness would fade from time to time to make way for the heartbreak, the emptiness, and the longing. She had J.B. now to fill some of those empty spaces, and, of course, God. Even though it had been eleven years, at times like this, the ache would return with full force.
Helen closed the door to Paddy's suite. The camera positioned in the corner purred softly, recording her movements. Had it also recorded his killer?
Remembering the rose and knowing what she'd find, she charged up the stairs and into her bedroom to count the roses. As she'd suspected, only ten remained. Several spots now stained the rich wood finish. Unnerved by the thought of an intruder coming into her room, she picked up the vase of remaining flowers and transferred them to the coffee table in the sitting room. Maybe tonight she'd set up some sort of trap. A wire that triggered an alarm or made enough noise to rouse her. Two could play at this game. She just wished she knew who her adversary was.
Hillary probably knew the castle better than the others, as she lived there full time. Helen glanced over at Claire's bedroom door. On the other hand, her cousin would have had the easiest access to her room. Hating where her thoughts were going, Helen shut them out and left the room.
She made her way slowly down the stairs, concentrating on the feel of solid wood beneath her hand. Pausing at the landing, she let her gaze wander over the lush green lawn and gardens, and on down to the water where Paddy's Pride was docked. The morning fog had worn off and the sun promised a perfect day for sailing. Paddy would have loved it. Were there boats in heaven? Helen wondered. She closed her eyes and imagined him in his full dress whites, standing at the wheel, wind in his face. Smiling. He would be smiling.
"There you are. I wondered where you'd gone to." Richard met her as she entered the great hall on her way to the dining room.
"I had to check something upstairs."
"I called Sheriff Stone. She should be here in twenty minutes or so. I also called the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I knew they would want to be involved. Chad Powell was pretty close to Dad."
"He's an RCMP?"
"Yeah. He and Dad have gotten to be pretty good friends."
"Hopefully they'll be able to get to the bottom of this. We'll have to tell them about the attempts on Paddy's life."
He massaged the back of his neck. "Tell me this is all a bad dream, Helen. That we'll wake up and Dad will join us for breakfast and. . .." His voice broke.
"I know." Helen leaned against him, letting her head rest on his shoulder for a moment.
"Are you okay?" He gripped her elbow.
"Not really. I'm feeling a little shaky. I'd better sit down for a minute." The adrenaline that had been sustaining her seemed to have run its course. She lowered herself to one of the chairs in front of the fireplace.
Richard dropped into the one beside her. "Have you had breakfast?"
"No, just coffee."
"No wonder." After a long pause he said, "I should have hired a guard to stay outside his room at night." Resting an elbow on the chair's arm, he covered his eyes. "I didn't think anyone would actually kill him."
"I didn't want to believe it either. At any rate, we don't know if he was killed or if he died of natural causes. It's not going to help matters if we blame ourselves."
The doorbell rang. Helen and Richard both jumped up. "I'll get it." Richard shuffled across the hardwood floor past the stairway and into the entry. His slippers flopped as he walked. His navy velour robe brushed against long legs, frail, skinny legs.
Helen sank back against the cushions and listened to the muted voices. She could hear Richard explaining Paddy's death. Perhaps it was Sandra and Marcie or the attorney, or Richard's son, Patrick. They were all supposed to come today. She frowned, wondering how they'd come in. She hadn't seen anyone dock this morning, and if security was that great, wouldn't they have been alerted?
"Do you know how it happened or when?" It was a man's voice, a tenor pitch that carried well.
"We just found him this morning, or Hillary did," Richard said. "I've called the authorities. Helen made sure no one touched anything."
"That's good. Helen, that would be Paddy's niece." The voices grew louder. She pushed herself out of the chair and held on to the back of it to steady herself. Low blood sugar, she decided. Something she planned to remedy soon.
Her question as to the caller's identity was answered when Richard ushered in a dark-haired man wearing a shirt and tie and black trousers and carrying a suit jacket over his shoulder.
"Helen, this is Greg Curtis, Dad's lawyer. This is my cousin Helen Bradley."
"It's good to finally meet you, Mrs. Bradley." He reached toward her. "I'm just sorry it has to be under these circumstances."
She clasped his hand. His handshake was solid, but not too firm. Just right. In fact, a lot about the man was just right. His expensive-looking suit and shoes shouted affluence. Tanned face and arms indicated that he spent his leisure time out of doors, perhaps boating or in some sport like golfing or tennis.
"I've heard a lot about you." His lips parted in a brief yet empathetic smile. "I guess you know Paddy thought a great deal of you."
"The feeling was mutual." Helen pinched her lips together.
"O, um." Richard backed away, adjusting his robe. "I'm glad you're here, Greg. We'll talk later. Right now, though, I need to go upstairs and get dressed. I won't be long. Helen, maybe you can take Greg into the dining room with the others."
"Of course." Helen shifted her gaze back to Greg. "Would you like some coffee?"
"That would be nice." Greg watched Richard labor up the steps to the first landing. His deep brown eyes were still filled with concern when he turned to Helen. "Is Claire here?"
"In the dining room."
He nodded. "How's she taking it?"
Claire has just lost her father, for heaven's sake. How do you think she's taking it? Helen bit back the acrid remark and answered with the standard, "As well as can be expected." She hated mindless questions like that. Not that she blamed Greg for asking. It's what most people did.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to see Paddy."
"We should wait until the medical examiner comes."
"Of course." He sighed deeply. "You're right. I can't believe he's gone. I guess I'd like to see for myself."
"I can understand that. I suppose it wouldn't hurt. As long as we don't touch anything."
As they walked toward Paddy's chambers, Helen asked the question that had been bugging her since his arrival. "How did you get to the island this morning? I didn't see a boat."
"Flew in. I have an ultralight. Comes in handy with all of my island clients. I was hoping to come in last night, but I had business in Bellingham. Sorry now that I didn't."
"I'm not sure there's much you could have done."
"Any idea how he died?"
"I have my suspicions, but it's difficult to say. At his age it could have been anything. A stroke, heart attack, or even poison."
He raised his dark eyebrows. "Poison? You're saying someone killed him?"
"It's possible. Thinking back to our discussion, he may have killed himself. The idea of dying didn't seem all that unpleasant to him. Still, that doesn't explain the rose." She went on to tell him what she'd seen. "I can't help but wonder. If he died of natural causes, why would s
omeone place the rose on the mantel?"
"Perhaps Mary is mourning over yet another death in her castle."
Helen grasped the door handle to Paddy's room. "Don't tell me you believe in her too?"
"After spending several nights here over the past few months, Mrs. Bradley, I'm not sure what to believe."
Helen pushed open the door. Paddy hadn't moved. But the rose was gone.
Chapter Fourteen
I don't understand it," Helen heard herself saying to Greg on their way to the dining room. "I saw the rose on the mantel, and there was another one missing from my bouquet."
"It isn't that I don't believe you, you understand, but why on earth would anyone, even a ghost, put a flower in Paddy's room and then remove it?"
He said it in such a way that Helen wanted to trounce him. Already she was seriously beginning to wonder if the rose and vase had been figments of her imagination. And Greg Curtis wasn't helping a bit. "I have no idea," she answered. "All I know is that I saw it there when I first went in. Now it's gone."
"Did any of the others see it?"
"Hillary, I think. She was going on about how Mary killed him. Maybe Claire and Richard."
Helen found no opportunity to ask them during her hurried breakfast. She managed to eat only a few bites of toast before Sheriff Tiffany Stone, a deputy medical examiner, and the emergency medical technicians showed up. Since Richard hadn't come down and Hillary was in the kitchen reheating and remaking breakfast, Helen saw them in.
"I'm Sheriff Stone, and this is Dr. Bond. I'm sorry to hear about Paddy. He was a good man." Stone was young, maybe in her mid-twenties. She seemed sure of herself in some ways and unsure in others. She wore her streaked blond hair in a short, shaggy, serviceable haircut that framed a heart-shaped face. Her eyes were piercing crystal blue.
"Yes, he was." Helen started toward Paddy's suite. "I'm glad you're here, Sheriff. I secured the room as best I could." She went on to describe what she'd seen. "You'll want to rule out homicide."
A Haunting Refrain: A Helen Bradley Mystery (Helen Bradley Mysteries Book 4) Page 12
