When Shadows Fall: A Helen Bradley Mystery (Helen Bradley Mysteries Book 5)

by Patricia H. Rushford

  "Yes." Helen wrapped her hands around the cup, gathering its warmth.

  Eleanor took a sip of the hot brew, then, setting her cup and saucer on the table, picked up a small throw pillow and fidgeted with the fringe on one corner. "You were right."

  "About what?"

  "I should have alerted the sheriff last night when Ethan didn't come home. Instead I let my fear of the gossip mills stand in the way of my better judgment. We're supposed to grow wiser with age." She rose and paced to the window, staring out at the churning water. "I don't know what to do. Should I tell Joe that Ethan might have been seeing someone?"

  "Do you really think he was?"

  She covered her eyes. "I don't know anything for certain. Maybe he was working all those evenings. When he didn't come home last night, I let my suspicions get the best of me. Poor Ethan. Do you think I was wrong about his having a mistress?" Eleanor turned back to Helen. "What should I do? Part of me wants to know for sure. The other part wants to look the other way and pretend nothing was going on."

  Helen nodded. "I understand. While I hate to think of Ethan as being unfaithful to you, if there was another woman, we need to know."

  Eleanor bit her lower lip. Tears gathered in her eyes again and she blinked them back. She was trying so hard to hold herself together.

  Helen cleared her throat. "Earlier today when you asked me to investigate the possibility that Ethan was having an affair, I said no. But in light of what's happened, I think it might be a good idea if I looked into the matter. Whatever or whomever Ethan was spending so much time with may have something to do with his death."

  "Do you think she might be the one who killed him?"

  "Let's just say if she does exist, she'd be a person of interest."

  "I don't want Ethan's name dragged through the mud."

  "Nor do I. If it turns out that Ethan didn't have a mistress, then fine. Only you and I need to know about your suspicions. However, if we find evidence that he was seeing someone, we'll have to tell Joe."

  Eleanor nodded wearily. "I suppose you're right." She sat back down and picked up her teacup. "I need to tell Nancy about her father. This is going to be hard for her. She's dealing with so much already."

  "Would you like me to stay while you tell her?"

  "That's kind of you, but no. I'd better deal with this myself. I'll tell her, then call Brian." She rubbed her forehead. "Oh, Helen, they'll be devastated. They loved Ethan so much. And Melissa. She adored her grandfather."

  "I know. When Ian died, I think the hardest part was telling the children." At least in the beginning. Later came the aching loneliness that no one could fill. Healing had been a long time coming.

  "Then you know what it's like." Eleanor drew herself up and stood and eyed the sweeping staircase.

  Helen picked up her jacket and reached into her pocket for her keys. "Call me if you need anything."

  "I will." They walked together into the entryway.

  Helen gave her a hug. "I mean it. If you need help with funeral arrangements or—"

  "Mother?" Nancy yelled from the top of the stairs. "Is Melissa back yet?"

  "Not yet, but I'm sure she'll be here soon. You know how kids are." Eleanor's voice belied the pained expression on her face. She gripped the banister and leaned heavily against it.

  "I'm going out to try to find her." Nancy came down the steps and stopped when she saw Helen. "Oh, you're still here. I thought I heard someone leave."

  "That was Joe," Eleanor said. "Nancy, there's something I need to tell you."

  Shifting her gaze to Eleanor, Nancy frowned. "Mother, what is it? Why are you crying? You never cry."

  "I'll try to stop by later." Helen closed the door and stepped into the rain. Once in the car, she rested her forehead on the steering wheel, letting reality settle around her. Ethan was dead.

  Eleanor's husband, the town's mayor, her friend, had been murdered.

  Straightening her shoulders, she drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then started the car. As she pulled out of the driveway she remembered her promise to talk to Annie about the catering. Deciding to call later, Helen drove on. She really needed that latte. But more than that, she needed to talk to Rosie.

  Chapter Six

  Unbidden thoughts linking Ethan and Rosie surfaced again on the drive through town. "This is crazy/' Helen mumbled as she parked her car in the gravel parking lot to the side of Past Times. "Eleanor thinks Ethan might be having an affair, and you suspect your best friend of being the other woman."

  Helen felt both justified in her thinking and ashamed at the same time. She needed answers, not speculation. But right now, she needed to let Rosie know about Ethan, and then they'd drown their mutual sorrows in hot coffee and hazelnut-and- chocolate-chip scones. Hopefully Rosie would be in a less frantic mode than she'd been during Helen's last visit. She'd been unusually flighty and short-tempered. When Helen tried to pin her down and get her to talk about what was bothering her, Rosie just attributed it to stress and money problems. Helen had suspected something else at the time, since Rosie had financial problems every year in the off-season and it had never sent her into a dither before.

  Helen opened her car door and took her time going inside, letting the feel of the place work its magic. Unlike most of the modern buildings in Bay Village that housed art galleries and gift shops, Rosie's establishment, Past Times, was a restored three-story Victorian. The third floor served as Rosie's home. The rooms on the first and second floors were filled with books, mostly used ones, and miscellaneous gift items that suited the room. Rosie had a theme for each room: one for romance, another for mystery, and yet another for the classics.

  She loved entering the store, especially on cold, blustery days like this one. Helen paused on the lovely wraparound porch before going inside. A familiar Celtic tune by one of her favorite artists drifted out of the speakers at either end of the porch. ‘Music and books complement each other,’ Rosie had said more than once. Celtic was her preferred style. Helen's too. The ancient sounds drew her back to her Irish roots.

  Patches of sunlight pushing through the gray sky made the store look even more spring-like than it already did. Even on the bleakest of winter days, Rosie's place never failed to brighten Helen's spirits. There were planter boxes and hanging baskets everywhere, filled with real flowers in season and silk or plastic plants when nothing in Bay Village grew except rain clouds. It looked like something straight out of Better Homes & Gardens.

  On the porch to her right sat a lovely white wicker chair- and-sofa set with mint green and rosebud cushions and match­ing throw pillows. Pink and white geraniums filled the window box. Buttermilk, a mottled gray cat, lay coiled in the chair. ‘Her Majesty's Chair,’ according to Rosie. The cat cast Helen a bored, don't-even-think-about-sitting-here look, then closed her large blue-gray eyes and ignored her. Buttermilk, Rosie claimed, actually read books, and especially liked mysteries. The Cat Who . . . series by Lillian Jackson Braun were Buttermilk's favorites.

  A cold ocean breeze tinkled the chimes that hung from the ceiling as the door swung open, a sweet, happy sound, so at odds with the turmoil in the pit of Helen's stomach. The fragrant scent of vanilla and spice mingled with coffee and baked goodies.

  "Excuse me." A plus-sized woman in a long gray raincoat brushed past Helen and opened her umbrella. She tossed Helen a thin smile and mumbled something about wishing the weather would make up its mind. Helen watched her descend the steps and turn toward the only other car in the parking lot.

  Helen grasped the edge of the still-open door, forcing her mind back to the reason she'd come. Somehow she'd have to inform Rosie of Ethan's death and at the same time maintain her objectivity to read Rosie's reaction. She'd always been good at judging correctly people's nonverbal communication. Helen took a deep breath and closed the door, then leaned against it for a moment, gathering her strength and resolve.

  But the store's atmosphere made it hard to concentrate on Ethan's being murdered
, when all her senses told her to relax and enjoy the surroundings. Paradoxically, the sun peeking through the curtained windows made her mission seem all the more obscure and the death of their friend unreal.

  The music was softer now. Melancholy. Or maybe it was just the singer's tone as she sang about a woman in love with a man about to die on the gallows. Helen tuned out the morbid words and glanced around, looking for her friend and, at the same time, hoping she wouldn't find her.

  She scanned the former living room with its overstuffed chairs and end tables. The cozy niches provided customers with places to sit and browse. Rosie had recently put in an espresso bar and several small round patio tables with cafe chairs. On the other side of the cafe was the children's corner, where an orange tabby kitten sunned herself on top of one of the many bookshelves. The kitten, a stray that Rosie had taken in, stretched, turned, and settled back down without so much as brushing against the fanciful display of Alice in Wonderland books and ceramic figurines.

  Helen finally spotted her friend behind the counter, nearly hidden from view by stacks of books on the counter. Rosie's dark head was, as usual, bent over a book. She sat in a platform rocker with her stockinged feet propped up on a matching hassock. Rosie's bohemian tendencies were evident in the flowing, colorful clothing she wore. She reminded Helen of a rainbow in her floor-length gauze dress splashed with vivid greens, reds, blues, and yellows. Rosie made no excuses for having been a flower child in the sixties.

  Rosie glanced up and greeted her with a dimpled grin. "Helen, I was just thinking about calling you." She set her glasses and the book she'd been reading aside, slipped into a pair of leather clogs, and came out from behind the counter. Giving Helen a hug, she said, "It's been ages. I was beginning to think that gorgeous husband of yours was holding you captive in an ivory tower somewhere."

  Helen laughed despite the seriousness of her visit. "You've been reading too many romances."

  'You can never read too many of those, or any book for that matter. How is J.B.?" Rosie beamed up at her. Her deep brown eyes shone with elfish delight.

  "Okay, I guess."

  "Uh-oh. Sounds like the honeymoon is over."

  Helen shrugged. "It happens. We had an argument this morning. He left for Portland in a huff and wouldn't tell me where he was going or why."

  "Wow. I don't blame you for being upset." Rosie leaned against the counter, her gaze lingering on Helen's face. "You're really torn up about this, aren't you?"

  "It isn't just J.B., Rosie. Something has happened."

  "What is it?"

  Tears gathered in Helen's eyes as she started to speak. Annoyed with herself, she dug a tissue out of her jacket pocket and wiped them away. Straightening her shoulders, Helen glanced around the store. "Are we alone?"

  "Yeah, it's been dead today. What's wrong?"

  "I found a body on the beach this morning. It was trapped under a huge piece of driftwood."

  "Oh, Helen, are you serious? Who was it? Another sneaker wave? That'll be eight this year. It wasn't another kid, was it?"

  Helen bit into her lower lip. "It was Ethan."

  Rosie stared openmouthed. "Ethan? But that's not possible. Why, just last night he. . .."

  "You saw Ethan last night?" Helen grabbed the statement and threw it back.

  "Oh. Um. . .. No, I mean, he came into the store the other day." She swayed and leaned against the counter.

  Helen's heart hammered. Rosie was lying. She had been with Ethan last night. And judging from her response, she and Ethan may well have been more than friends.

  "He was murdered." Helen watched Rosie's face, her eyes. "Stabbed in the back with. . .."As Helen visualized the familiar-looking knife, with its book-shaped handle, she suddenly remembered where she'd seen it. The murder weapon had come from Rosie's mystery room. "Your dagger." The words slipped out before Helen could stop them.

  "My what?" Rosie's hand flew to her throat.

  Helen's mouth went dry as the implications set in. How had Rosie's letter opener ended up in Ethan's back? Had Rosie killed him? Not likely. The genuine look of shock on her friend's face attested to her innocence. Besides, Rosie wouldn't be stupid enough to use such an easily identifiable weapon. Helen couldn't see her using a weapon at all, of any kind. Just the same, she needed to proceed with caution. "Ethan was killed with the dagger you got from that world mystery convention you went to a few years ago. The one advertising some book."

  "Letter to a Dead Man." Rosie frowned and shook her head. "My letter opener killed Ethan?"

  "Unless someone else in town has one just like it, yes."

  Rosie moved from the counter to her chair and sank into it. "I don't understand. How could my. . .?" She hesitated. The color drained from her face. "Oh no. You. . .you don't think I . . .?" Her eyes searched Helen's. "You do. Oh my. . . You think I killed him."

  "I didn't say that."

  "You didn't have to," Rosie gasped. "Ethan was here. I didn't. I swear. I couldn't kill Ethan. I loved him. He was my friend."

  "Rosie, stop. I'm trying not to jump to conclusions here. But the murderer used a letter opener like the one you have in your memorabilia upstairs in the mystery room." Helen started for the steps. "Look, we can check this out right now. If yours is there. . .."

  "You don't need to look. It's gone. I thought I'd misplaced it." She held on to her desk with a white-knuckled grip. "I can't believe this. I'd been keeping it on my desk and using it to open the mail. I broke the wooden one, you know the one my brother made with the bird carved into the handle. I went to grab it one day and it was gone."

  Rosie loved him. "When did you notice it was missing?"

  "Last week. Tuesday, I think. Like I said, at first I thought maybe I'd misplaced it, and then I got to wondering if it might have been one of the tourists. There was a whole busload in that day." She frowned. "But that doesn't make sense, does it? It's not worth anything to anyone but me. It was a letter opener. I never dreamed someone would use it as a weapon." Her eyes widened. "Someone's trying to frame me. That must be it. They stole the letter opener from me and used it to kill Ethan so I'd get the blame."

  "Rosie, stop. We don't know that. Let's sit down a minute and think this through."

  "What am I going to do?"

  "First, we have to tell Joe."

  Rosie looked horrified. "No, please. He'll put me in jail. I didn't kill Ethan, but my fingerprints will be on it." Her tearful gaze flitted around the room, reminding Helen of a frightened bird desperate to escape.

  Helen doubted there would still be identifiable prints but didn't say so. "Rosie, please. Calm down. If it's any consolation, I don't think you killed Ethan."

  Rosie clasped her hands. "Thank goodness for that."

  "But you're not being honest with me. You were with Ethan last night, weren't you?"

  "No, I. . .." She hesitated. "All right. Yes. He came by around five-thirty. I was just closing up. He was looking for a book."

  "What kind of book?"

  She shrugged. "Something to do with the environmental impact on wetlands. He said he was preparing a statement for a meeting he had with some corporation wanting to build a shopping center north of here."

  Helen knew about the proposal. She and J.B. were prepared to fight it. If approved, it would go in across the highway from their neighborhood and extend into a designated wetland area. The mall would negatively impact the environment and basically ruin their easterly view of the hills, as well as their peace of mind. Yes, it would generate jobs and possibly bring in more tourists, but at what cost?

  The already-established retail businesses would suffer, and it was so unnecessary. The area had plenty of shops and restaurants. Helen tucked away the information and her annoyance with the project. It was something she'd have to look at later. Ethan had probably made a few enemies there, but would getting rid of him strengthen the investors' cause? Helen doubted it. And the idea of using Rosie's letter opener made no sense whatsoever.

  "Did E
than say where he was going when he left here?"

  Rosie hesitated, frowning. "No. Just home. He hadn't eaten."

  Helen bit the inside of her cheek. "Eleanor told me Ethan wasn't going to be home for dinner last night."

  "She did?" Rosie's gaze slid to her desk, then back to Helen. "Maybe I just assumed that. He may have been meeting someone."

  "Who?"

  "I don't know."

  "You make a lousy liar, Rosie." Helen heaved an exasperated sigh. "I'd like to help you, but you've got to tell me the truth."

  "I am. He came in for a book and left. Why can't you believe that? He was fine when he left here." Rosie buried her face in her hands. Several moments passed before she brought her hands down and hauled in a deep breath. "I didn't kill him."

  Helen placed a gentle hand on her friend's shoulder. "We need to call Joe. The sooner he knows about the letter opener the better."

  "I can't." Fear glistened in her eyes.

  "You have to, Rosie. If you don't, I will." Helen softened her plea with reassurance. "It will be all right. Just tell Joe what you told me. And be honest about your relationship with Ethan. He needs all the facts if he's going to find out who killed him."

  "I suppose you're right. I'll call him." Rosie moved toward the phone she kept on her desk. She picked up the receiver and punched in the numbers. Then in one fluid motion she opened the top drawer and pulled out a gun.

  Chapter Seven

  Rosie!" Helen gasped. "What are you thinking? Put that thing away before one of us gets hurt."

  "No. I can't talk to Joe. Not yet!" Rosie's voice hung on the edge of hysteria.

  Helen held her breath and took a step toward her. "Come on, Rosie. This is crazy. Put the gun down."

  "Don't come any closer." She waved the gun for emphasis. "I mean it. I don't want to hurt you. That dagger was mine. You know what that means. They'll think I did it."