A Haunting Refrain: A Helen Bradley Mystery (Helen Bradley Mysteries Book 4)

by Patricia H. Rushford

  "There's blood on it," Claire continued, determined to make her point, whatever it was. "Helen was going to send it to a lab for analysis."

  "Blood?" Stone bristled. "Are you sure it was blood?"

  "No, that's why I wanted it analyzed." Helen reached into her pocket.

  "Why didn't you call us when you found it?" Stone asked. "After all, the man is missing."

  "There didn't seem much point in that." Helen pulled it out and examined it again.

  "May I see the ring?" Stone asked.

  Helen handed it over.

  Stone examined it and rubbed her forehead. "I'm going to hang on to this as possible evidence. I doubt it's related to Paddy's death. The most plausible explanation is that he lost it like Greg said." She passed it to Powell. "What do you make of it?"

  Stone's request seemed to surprise him. "The man is missing. Still, it seems odd that his ring would turn up now. Maybe he did come back to the island. But then where is his, or rather, Claire's car? How did he get here?"

  "Did you ever meet him?" Helen asked.

  "Once. He seemed like a decent sort. I was frankly surprised when Paddy mentioned him as a possible suspect."

  "Thank you, Officer Powell," Claire said. "I can't tell you how much it means to me to hear you say that. Everyone has been against him."

  "I'm not against him," Greg said. "I'm just for you. I would be ecstatic if he turned out to be innocent, but we have to be realistic. The guy's gone and so is your car and almost everything else he could get his hands on.” Greg's features softened. "I don't want to see you hurt."

  Claire smiled at him and squeezed his hand. "You're a good friend. Thank you."

  "I've tried to be. Your father wasn't against him, either, you know. Did Paddy tell you about hiring a private detective to find him?"

  "No. We didn't get a chance to talk."

  "That's too bad. A couple of days after Fabian disappeared, Paddy told me he'd hired a detective. No offense, officers, but Paddy didn't have much faith that you'd find him. And you haven't. Of course, neither has the detective as far as I know. Paddy told me he had a meeting with the guy yesterday in Anacortes while he was waiting for you and Helen. I guess he had a lead or something. Paddy didn't go into details."

  "This detective have a name?" Stone asked.

  "Trace something."

  Powell and Stone exchanged glances. "Trace Peterson?" Powell asked.

  "Yeah, that's it. Sounds like you know him. I hope he's legitimate."

  "He was legit all right," Stone offered. "A top-notch PI."

  "Was?" Helen caught the past tense.

  "According to the reports," Stone said, "Trace Peterson's body was found early this morning in his car. Shot in the head. Execution style."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Claire wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed at the gooseflesh on her arms. "How awful."

  Helen's stomach churned. Why hadn't Paddy said anything about the detective when he'd asked for her help? Or had he? She tried to remember, but nothing came to light. "Where was he found?"

  "At the far end of the Casino Royale parking lot."

  "Any idea who killed him?" Helen asked.

  "Last I heard they didn't have any leads. I think that's about to change." Officer Stone pushed her chair back and stood up. "Excuse me. I have a phone call to make."

  Helen settled an arm across Claire's slumped shoulders. "Why don't you go upstairs and rest. You look like you're ready to crash.''

  "Good idea," Greg said. "I'll walk up with you."

  She stood, her eyes glazed in shock. "Thanks, but there's no need for you to do that." Claire pushed her chair back in, crossed the uneven surface, and disappeared into the massive entry.

  "What do you make of all this, Mrs. Bradley?" Chad folded his napkin into its original rectangular shape and set it beside his plate.

  "There are certainly a lot of avenues to pursue. My inclination is to look very closely at Richard's activities over the last few weeks. His name keeps popping up, and he does have a gambling problem. On the other hand, he looks too frail to be traipsing about committing murders."

  "Unless he's leading us to believe he's worse off than he really is."

  "I don't think so. He couldn't fake the weight and hair loss. He's undergoing chemotherapy." She turned to Greg. "Did you know about Richard's illness?"

  "I'm afraid not. I will say I suspected something was wrong when I saw him last week. I could tell he'd lost some weight, but he didn't have that emaciated look he has now."

  "What about the gambling? Did you know about his addiction?"

  He sighed. "Yes. Several times in the last few months Paddy loaned him money to cover his debts. The last time I suggested maybe the money would be better spent on rehab for him. I don't think Richard was open to it."

  "I'm not surprised," Helen said. "This gambling connection puzzles me. Paddy applying for a gaming license. Then Trace Petersen, supposedly looking for Fabian, ends up dead near the casino where Richard was playing yesterday."

  "Richard's being there may have been a coincidence." Greg bit his lower lip. A frown deepened the wrinkles he already had. "The detective may have been there looking for Fabian. I have reason to believe Claire's husband was into gambling as well. Someone has been withdrawing money from her account."

  "She didn't say anything to me about it."

  "She claims she made the withdrawals. I think she's trying to protect the jerk."

  Chad leaned forward. "Are you suggesting Peterson found Fabian and Fabian killed him?"

  Greg shrugged. "It's a possibility. All I know is that Paddy hired the guy and now both of them are dead. Fabian is missing. I refuse to believe that Richard had any part in it. So if that leaves Fabian, so be it. I just hate to think what it would do to Claire."

  "I'd sure like to know more about this detective Paddy hired,'' Helen murmured. "Is there any chance I could look through Paddy's desk? Maybe he made some notes."

  "As a matter of fact, he did. He named you executor of his will and gave you power of attorney. We can go right now if you'd like."

  "Good." Helen began gathering up the dishes. "Um . . . I'm wondering about funeral arrangements. Shouldn't we. . .."

  "All taken care of." Greg rubbed the back of his neck. "Paddy had a prepaid funeral plan. He wants to be cremated. There's to be a simple service here on the island performed by Father Daley. Speaking of which. . .." Greg checked his watch. "He should be here soon."

  Even as they spoke Helen heard the buzz of an engine. A float plane touched down in the lagoon and floated toward the dock. Peter emerged from the shed and secured the plane to the moorings.

  The pilot, a man about Peter's height, was wearing slacks and a black short-sleeved shirt. As he turned toward the castle, Helen noticed he wore a clerical collar. A deputy stopped him at the dock, where they spoke briefly. Moments later the priest began climbing the hill.

  "What are you doing, Lopez?" Sheriff Stone spoke into her lapel microphone. "I told you not to let anyone else come up here."

  "He's a priest," came the garbled response.

  "I don't care if he's the pope. That might get him into heaven, but it doesn't grant him access to a crime scene."

  "Hey, if you want to send him away, be my guest. Like he says, the family has a right to talk to a priest."

  Stone mumbled something unrepeatable and took off toward Father Daley.

  Greg glanced at Powell. "I'm not normally a gambling man, but my money's on the priest."

  Powell chuckled. "I don't know. Stone is one tough character. Unless he's into baptizing bears, he probably doesn't have a chance. How much?"

  Greg fished out his wallet and slapped a five on the table. The Mountie did the same. Helen rolled her eyes and walked back inside, then stacked the dishes near the sink. A petite blonde backed out of the refrigerator. Her short, striped, ribbed top rose to reveal a two-inch band of tan skin.

  "Hi," Helen said. “You must be Sarah."r />
  "Oh!" She swung around, nearly dropping a container of milk. "Mrs. Bradley! You scared me. You shouldn't sneak up on people like that." Her rosy cheeks grew even rosier.

  "I brought the dishes in from outside."

  "Thanks. You didn't have to do that." Sarah set the milk on the counter. Her mannerisms reminded Helen of her granddaughters, Jennie and Lisa. They were about the same age. Pull­ing a glass out of the cupboard, Sarah poured herself a glass and set it next to a plate on the kitchen table. "I haven't had lunch yet."

  "Then by all means, eat. Do you mind if I sit with you for a few minutes? I'd like to ask you some questions."

  The girl shrugged. "I guess." She bit into her roast beef sandwich and focused on the red-and-white checkerboard tablecloth.

  "I wanted to talk to you yesterday afternoon, but you'd already gone."

  She swallowed and took a swig of milk. She nervously looked around, her gaze falling on everything but Helen.

  "I wanted to thank you for taking the roses my husband sent clear up to my room."

  She shrugged. "That's okay. I didn't mind."

  "I noticed one of the roses was missing."

  She shrank back. "I didn't take it."

  "It would be all right if you did. In fact, if I'd have been there, I'd have given you one."

  "Really?"

  "Really.” Helen smiled. “If you did take it, you wouldn't be in trouble. I'd just like to know."

  She bit on her lower lip. "If I tell you, please promise not to tell my mom or Hillary. They'd be mad."

  "I won't tell them."

  Sarah put her elbow on the table and rested her head on her hand. Her straight flaxen hair swung forward. "When they came, Hillary said to take them up to your room."

  "How did you know I'd be staying there?"

  "We didn't know for sure, but Hillary said you and Claire would probably want to be together."

  "So you took the roses up. Then what happened?"

  "You know that painting of Mr. and Mrs. Werner in the great hall?"

  "Yes, it's beautiful."

  "Well, the roses looked so much like the one she was holding. I thought it might be neat to take one and put it in her room."

  "So you were giving her a gift?" Helen traced the squares on the tablecloth with her finger.

  "Yeah, I guess. It's kind of like the way we put flowers on my grandmother's grave. Only it was for me too. I thought a rose would make the room nicer."

  "Were you still in Mary's room when Claire and I came in?"

  She sucked in a deep breath. "Yeah. I was setting it on the dresser when I heard you. I ran out, but the rose was top- and it fell over. I hid in the closet."

  "So were you the one who cleaned up the glass while I was on the balcony?"

  She nodded. "Please don't be mad at me. I didn't think you'd miss one. I know it sounds stupid, but I wanted Mary to have a rose. She's so sad."

  "You sound as though you know her."

  "I guess I do, sort of."

  "I thought it might have been you. When I asked Hillary, though, she said you were too frightened to go up there."

  Her saucer like blue eyes met Helen's. "I let her think that. Anyway, it can be scary, especially at night. I don't go there at night anymore. Not since the noise started."

  "Noise? You mean the music?"

  "That, too, but the noise I'm talking about is a kind of a swishing sound. My dad says it's just the pipes, or maybe squirrels. Hillary says it's the ghosts."

  "Are you the one who cleans Mary's room?"

  She gave the door a furtive glance. "I started doing it this summer when we stayed out here on the island."

  "You stayed here? Your whole family?"

  "For a while. Mr. O'Donnell hired my dad to work on the staff quarters, and it seemed silly to go home every night. Anyway, I wanted a place to come where I could be by myself and read sometimes. I don't hurt anything. I've been really careful."

  "So what do you think? Does Mary's ghost haunt the castle?"

  She grinned and leaned closer. "Don't tell anyone I told you this, but I don't think there is a real ghost. I'd have seen her by now if there was."

  "I don't think so either." Helen smiled back and then sobered as she thought about the second missing rose. "Sarah, did you take a second rose from my bouquet and put it in Mr. O'Donnell's room before you left yesterday?"

  She frowned and shook her head. "No. After I cleaned up the broken glass, I got out of there. I didn't want to be caught."

  "How did you leave without Claire or me seeing you?"

  "There's a back way, through the servants' quarters."

  "I wondered about that" Helen turned sideways in the chair and started to get up. "Sarah, have you been in the basement?"

  She nodded. "It's where we keep supplies. I hate going down there. It's a lot creepier than the attic." Sarah glanced up and snapped her mouth shut.

  "Are you still eating?" A woman with mousy brown hair wearing faded blue jeans and an open flannel shirt over a red turtleneck entered. She stopped when she saw Helen. "Oh, you must be Helen Bradley. Hillary's told us so much about you. I'm Martha Briggs." She reached out with a work-roughened hand that smelled of lemon cleaning solution.

  "Nice to meet you. Hillary tells me you're responsible for that heavenly pot roast we had last night. Thank you."

  "Glad you enjoyed it." She glanced at Sarah. "I hope you haven't been bothering Mrs. Bradley." Looking back at Helen, she added, "Sarah's a good girl, but she does tend to talk a lot."

  "Mom.”

  "She hasn't been bothering me at all. In fact, it's the other way around. I was asking her questions about the castle." Turning back to Sarah, Helen said, "I hope I haven't kept you from something important."

  "Oh yeah," she softened her sarcastic tone with a smile. "Like cleaning toilets is so urgent."

  "You'll be happy to know I've already done that. Hillary would like you to dust the rooms on the second and fourth floors, and if there's time, vacuum the stairs."

  "You two are such slave drivers." She heaved an exaggerated sigh and sat back down. "Do you mind if I finish eating?"

  "Poor baby." She gave Sarah a quick hug. "Take your time, but do try to get it done before dinner. We'll have a houseful of guests tonight, and I need you to help me serve."

  "No problem."

  "I'd love to chat with you, Helen, but I need to get cleaned up so I can get started in the kitchen."

  "I understand. If there's something I can do to lighten the load, let me know."

  "That's sweet, but no. You're a guest."

  "All right, but if you change your mind, let me know." At the door she stopped and turned back to Sarah. "While you're dusting my room, why don't you take one of my roses."

  "What a nice thing to do." Martha grasped Sarah's shoulders. "Tell her thank you."

  Sarah rolled her eyes and in a singsong voice said, "Thank you, Mrs. Bradley."

  Helen suddenly knew why grown daughters had such a propensity for mothering their mothers. They were getting back at them for moments like these. Martha said her own thanks and hurried off.

  "Mrs. Bradley." Sarah stopped her. "That was a way cool thing to do. Thanks."

  "Maybe later we can go visit Mary's room together. I'd like to have a closer look."

  "Sure. Want me to find you when I finish working?"

  "That would be perfect." She wasn't sure why visiting Mary's rooms again seemed so important, but it did. She was relieved to know about Sarah's part in stealing the first rose, but who had taken the second one and when? More important, how had it ended up in Paddy's room?

  Helen went back outside but saw no sign of Officer Powell, Sheriff Stone, Greg, or the priest. Father Daley's float plane was still anchored in the lagoon, so Helen assumed that Greg had won his bet.

  Going back inside, she made a beeline for Paddy's suite. Now was as good a time as any to look through her uncle's papers.

  She heard the muffled sound of someone cr
ying as she approached the door. The yellow crime-scene tape set up to keep everyone out had been ripped away. Helen opened the door and quietly stepped in, her heart aching for the figure hunched over Paddy's desk. "Claire? What are you doing in here? I thought you'd gone upstairs to rest."

  Claire raised her head. Her eyes puffy and red, she handed Helen a folder. "They were right all along. Fabian was even worse than the others."

  Helen read the top Sheet in the folder. It was a typewritten report signed by Trace Peterson.

  I've located the suspect in question and have made contact. Using your suggestion regarding casinos, I left a photo with the local casino managers asking them to contact me if they spotted him.

  In addition, I have evidence placing him in Las Vegas two days after his disappearance. The hotel clerk remembers him coming in with a woman. They were intoxicated. This afternoon I received a call from a buddy who manages Casino Royale. Looks like Fabian is back in town. I will attempt to make contact with him. Meet me at the Riverfront Cafe in Anacortes on Monday at three and I should be able to give you more details.

  Respectfully,

  Trace Peterson, PI

  Helen looked up from the letter and into Claire's red- rimmed eyes. "Fabian killed that detective, didn't he? And that means he probably killed Paddy too."

  Chapter Nineteen

  It took Helen only a few minutes to peruse the file. Besides the report on Fabian, it contained a receipt for a one-thousand-dollar retainer, a Post-it Note with Trace's name and phone number on it, and a contract from Trace outlining his fee and what was expected of him. In it, Trace agreed to take the case and would start as soon as he received his retainer. He listed his fee schedule. Helen raised her eyebrows when she read the amount, five hundred dollars a day plus expenses, and decided she was in the wrong business.

  "Where did you find it?" Helen set the file on the corner of the desk.

  "In his locked drawer."

  "Has the sheriff seen it?"

  "I don't think so. She asked for the key earlier, but I didn't know where it was. Then I remembered watching him open the door once while I was here. He kept the key in here." She pointed to a small wooden puzzle box on his desk.