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

by Patricia H. Rushford

  'What's that?" George asked.

  "Just thinking out loud." Helen heard an engine rev up. A white pickup backed out of a parking space at the north end of the seawall. It had some sort of logo on the side and looked similar to the one she'd seen in the driveway at Adele and Dave's house, but she couldn't be sure.

  The truck moved toward them and slowed. Helen recognized the Feldman's Construction logo and waved.

  The driver's arm came up. Helen caught sight of the weapon just as it went off.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Look out!" George yelled.

  Helen dove to the concrete. George landed on top of her. Gunshots. Two. Three. The bullets hit, then ricocheted off the stone wall.

  After a few long excruciating moments, the gunfire stopped. Tires screeched as the driver spun around and drove away.

  "Are you all right?" George rasped as he rolled off Helen.

  "Not exactly." Helen gasped for air. "What about you?"

  "Been hit." He grimaced and tried to sit up.

  Helen forgot her own injuries and cranked herself up onto her knees. "Lie still, George. Where did they get you?"

  "Hip." He gritted his teeth. "It'll be okay, lust need to put some pressure on it."

  Helen turned him so the wounded hip faced upward, then whipped off her hat and bunched up the material. Straightening her arms, she leaned forward, pressing the hat against his hip, and began calling for help. Blood seeped onto her pants as she knelt beside him. Helen prayed the bullet hadn't severed an artery. They needed help fast. Most of the buildings across the way were businesses. The street was deserted except for their cars, which might as well have been in another country. Her cell phone was in her bag in the trunk.

  A man came out of one of the buildings on the opposite side of the street. "What's going on? I heard shots."

  Thankfully, the man had already called 9-1-1, and within minutes a rescue vehicle from the local fire department had

  George on a stretcher. One of the EMTs checked Helen over and wanted to take her in as well, but she declined. She'd survived the fall better than expected. While she'd probably be sore for a few days, her heavier clothing and gloves had protected everything except one knee. For the moment her scraped and bloodied knee had adhered to her pants leg. Helen fought against the draining adrenaline and impending shock. She had to hold it together long enough to figure out why Dave Feldman would want to shoot her or George.

  Helen couldn't imagine the friendly contractor risking everything by using his own truck in a drive-by shooting. She hadn't actually seen the driver's face, but who else would be behind that wheel? Unless it had been stolen.

  "Are you sure you won't come along, Helen?" George asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  "No, I'm okay. I'll see you in the hospital later."

  He asked the EMTs to hold off on putting him into the back of the ambulance. Reaching for Helen, he said, "I don't feel comfortable about leaving you alone. Not after what just happened."

  She took his hand and held it in a firm grip. "Nonsense. Whoever shot at us is long gone. Besides, I'm hardly alone. In case you hadn't noticed, the place is crawling with cops." She gave him a reassuring smile. "I need to go home and change before I do anything else."

  "Not by yourself." He lifted his head off the stretcher to emphasize his concern. "Have one of the officers check the house out first."

  "George, that really isn't necessary."

  "Sounds like a good idea to me, Mrs. Bradley."

  Helen spun around. "Stephanie. When did you get here?"

  "A couple of minutes ago. I was heading home when I heard the report. Thought I'd come down and check things out."

  "Helen, promise me you'll be careful," George urged as the stretcher slid inside the ambulance.

  Helen turned back to him. "All right. I'll have one of the deputies escort me to the house. Now relax. I'll see you soon."

  The doors closed and the ambulance sped off for the hospital in Lincoln City. Helen swung her gaze back to Stephanie. "Have you talked to the officer in charge?"

  Stephanie nodded. "He's calling it a drive-by, but we'll check out your claim that it was Dave Feldman's truck."

  "My claim? It was his pickup."

  "No offense, Mrs. Bradley, but the guys are saying Dave Feldman isn't exactly the kind of guy who'd do something like this."

  "I didn't think so either, but it was his pickup."

  "Deputy Perry said that if it was Dave's truck, someone stole it. Might have been some kids out for a joyride."

  "And a little down-home shooting spree?" Helen felt light-headed. Her hand shook when she brushed it through her hair.

  "You sure you don't want to see a doctor?'' Stephanie grabbed hold of her arm and eased her to the sidewalk.

  "Just give me a minute." Helen hung her head down between her knees and took several deep breaths.

  When she regained her composure, she straightened. "If Deputy Perry is finished with me, I'd like a lift back to my car." The steadiness in her voice surprised her.

  "Are you sure you should be driving?"

  "I'm okay now." She patted Stephanie's arm. "There's no way I'm going to leave my car out here all night."

  Stephanie insisted on driving Helen to the house after enlisting the help of another officer to follow. Once they'd seen Helen safely home, he'd drive Stephanie back to her patrol car.

  The arrangement annoyed Helen, but she complied. Not doing so would have taken more time. Since she had to ride with Stephanie, she decided to make the best of it.

  "Have you learned any more about Chuck's death?" Helen buckled herself in and handed Stephanie the keys.

  "Chuck? Oh, you mean the guy we found in the mayor's car. Still waiting for the ME's report. Joe thinks Jordan killed him and took him out to the river, then set it up to make it look like Chuck was driving." Stephanie plugged the key into the ignition and turned it, pumping the gas as Helen instructed. She smiled as the car came to life.

  "Runs good," Stephanie said. "It's a great car. If you ever decide to sell it, I might be interested."

  "I don't think that will be anytime soon." Helen waited until Stephanie had backed out, then brought their conversation back to Chuck.

  "You were telling me about the investigation into Chuck's death. What's your take on it?"

  "Like I told you earlier, I don't think Alex is guilty. Maybe Daniels killed himself."

  "I doubt it." Helen dismissed the idea.

  "It's possible. He was in the mayor's car. He could have killed the mayor and was afraid of getting caught. Remember the doors were locked and the windows closed. It doesn't look like he tried to get out."

  "I wouldn't figure Chuck as the suicidal type." Helen thought about the arrogant contractor and the way he'd handled problems. "His solution to just about anything was to go fishing and get drunk."

  "Still, don't you think it's possible he killed Ethan and the guilt of what he'd done put him over the edge?"

  Helen shook her head. "Even if he did kill himself, wouldn't you think running the car in a closed garage would be preferable to driving into the river and drowning? I doubt he had a choice."

  "I suppose you're right." Stephanie glanced at Helen. "Maybe he didn't mean to do it. Maybe he was hurt and couldn't get the doors or windows open."

  Helen's thoughts skittered back in time to when she and her granddaughter Jennie had been forced off a bridge near Sanibel Island in Florida. The car had been a convertible, yet had bobbed on the water for a short time before sinking. They'd both been able to swim away. True, Chuck may have been injured and unable to get out, but he had been wearing a seat belt. "Except for the muck, the car didn't look badly damaged," Helen said.

  "It wasn't."

  "Judging from how far it had drifted from the bank and with it closed up, I suspect it floated for several minutes before it sank."

  Pulling into the driveway, Stephanie said, "Did I tell you his alcohol level was over the limit?" She turned
off the car and handed the keys to Helen.

  "No, you didn't. I'm not surprised—about the alcohol, I mean." Helen dug a tissue out of her pocket to wipe her nose, then got out of the car.

  "He went to a bar to have a few drinks when he got off work. The bartender knows him. Said he left a little before eight. By then his wife had already gone home. Chuck was there about the same time Ethan and Alex supposedly left. Chuck and Ethan may have gotten into an argument over that land deal. Remember you told me about that?"

  Helen rubbed her forehead. "So you're suggesting that Chuck got into a discussion with Ethan and the two men decided to take a walk on the beach? Chuck knifes Ethan with Rosie's letter opener. Only he doesn't kill him, so he grabs a piece of driftwood and uses Ethan's head as a baseball. Then puts the knife back in the wound, goes back to the parking lot, and drives Ethan's car all the way to the Siletz River. How was he planning to get back to his own car? And what happened to Alex?"

  Stephanie cast her a surprised look. "How did you know the mayor was stabbed twice?"

  "George—Dr. Fisher told me."

  "Oh."

  "Now, as I was saying, the idea of Chuck using Rosie's letter opener as a murder weapon and taking off in Ethan's car is too farfetched." Helen massaged the back of her neck. "By the way, did you ever find Chuck's truck?"

  "It turned up in his garage. Mrs. Daniels didn't know how it got there. He usually parks outside. The keys were in it, so she figured Chuck had brought it back and was too scared to come in. No one seems to know anything about that. You know, Mrs. Bradley, it's possible Daniels didn't know what he was doing. A drunk can do some pretty irrational things. We found an empty bottle of whiskey under the front seat. He could have missed the curve and gone into the river and been too drunk to get out.

  "I don't know," Helen mused. "I can certainly see Chuck getting into an altercation with Ethan. Especially if he'd been drinking, but how would he have gotten hold of Rosie's letter opener? Maybe the bigger question is why would he? He'd have no reason to implicate Rosie."

  "That we know of." Stephanie sighed. "You're right. No matter how I try to piece it together, it doesn't come out right. Much as I hate to admit it, Joe might be right."

  "You mean in thinking Alex is the killer?"

  "It's looking really bad for him, Mrs. Bradley. Did Joe tell you we found Alex's jacket in the backseat of the mayor's Jag?"

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Alex Jordon’s jacket. In the back of Ethan's jaguar. Helen was stunned. Another attempt at framing him? Or more evidence that he killed Ethan?

  "Here's my ride," Stephanie said.

  The other deputy pulled in behind the Thunderbird, and the three met at the sidewalk. Helen started to follow them into the house, but Stephanie placed a restraining hand on her arm. "Stay here while Bill and I have a look around."

  Helen didn't argue. Normally she'd have felt perfectly capable of taking care of herself. At the moment, however, she wasn't sure she could walk to the front door. Her shoulder had begun a major protest and her knee pulsed in pain. Her legs felt like leftover spaghetti squash. She went slowly back to the car and leaned against it, then dutifully waited while the deputies checked the house.

  With nothing amiss, she thanked them, told Stephanie she'd see her later, and limped inside. Though Helen had promised George she'd meet him at the hospital, she had other things to attend to first and wasn't sure where to begin. Helen went into her bathroom to clean up for what seemed like the umpteenth time that day.

  "If you had two ounces of common sense," she growled at her reflection in the mirror, "you'd go to bed and let Joe handle this."

  But she couldn't. Especially not now. She and George had almost been the next victims. It all had turned excruciatingly personal. Was the shooting related to the two previous murders? Helen felt certain it was, simply because the shooter had used Dave Feldman's pickup.

  What Stephanie had said about Alex's jacket being in the trunk of Ethan's car hit Helen full force. Why had it been there? What had happened in that parking lot? Witnesses had put Chuck, Alex, and Ethan there around the same time. Ethan and Chuck were dead. Alex was alive. The driver who shot at them was using Feldman's pickup. Dave. Adele's husband. Rosie's brother-in-law. Alex's uncle.

  Alex couldn't have stolen Dave's truck. He was still in jail. So who was driving? Maybe Helen was again letting her friendship cloud the issue. Rosie could easily have gotten ahold of Dave's truck. She could have killed Ethan.

  "No way." She folded her arms and tipped her head back. "Rosie is not a killer."

  “She had a gun,” Helen reminded herself. “She used it to force you into the closet.”

  Helen shook her head to dismiss the idea. Rosie would never have shot her. Even if by some remote chance she did kill Ethan, she wouldn't then be dumb enough to use her brother- in-law's pickup in a drive-by shooting.

  She sagged against the wall. Maybe the deputies were right. She and George had been victims of a random drive-by. It happened far too often these days with guns being so readily available to anyone with the cash to buy them. But why would car thieves go clear up the hill to the Feldmans' place to get a pickup? There had to be plenty of vehicles that were more ac­cessible. And why take one with an identifiable logo?

  "It wasn't a random drive-by and you know it," Helen muttered. Whoever used that pickup wanted them to recognize it and come to the conclusion that someone in Dave's family was responsible for the shooting.

  Confusion dragged her into another scenario. Helen hadn't considered the possibility before, but when Dave invited her into his house, he later admitted to being financially strapped. Strapped enough to kill Ethan to give them a better chance of pushing the Riverside development through? Was Dave one of the owners?

  She thought back to her conversation with the lawyer. Nathan refused to or couldn't come up with the names of his investors on the Riverside project. Until she saw that list, all she could do was speculate, and so far that had gotten her nowhere.

  Helen temporarily shelved the questions and rooted around in her linen closet until she found her first-aid kit. With it at her side, she sat on the edge of the bathtub and gritted her teeth as she pulled her pants leg free of the wound. The scrape was only about an inch in diameter, but the pain ripped through her entire body. She stopped the bleeding and ran water over her knee, dug out particles of dirt, then dressed it with an ointment and applied a bandage.

  Ignoring the rest of her protesting muscles, Helen pulled on a fresh pair of jeans, another sweater, and sneakers. She threw her dirty sweater into the laundry hamper and her slacks and nylons in the trash, then painstakingly made her way down the stairs to the phone. No messages.

  Her thoughts drifted again to J.B. She wanted his arms around her, holding her, kissing away her concerns.

  "Stop it. Just stop it!" She jumped at the sound of her own voice. For whatever reason, J.B. had taken himself out of her life. Maybe it was only temporary. Maybe it was forever. Either way, Helen didn't want to deal with it just now. She mentally placed J.B. and her heart in God's hands. To continue ruminating over where he was or what he might be doing served no purpose at all. All she could do about him for the moment was to pray that God would keep him safe.

  Instead of worrying about him, she needed to focus on finding Ethan's killer. She had to keep moving. But in which direction?

  With so many questions and so many routes to take, Helen felt scattered. First things first. She crossed her legs and dropped to the floor. Closing her eyes, she said another prayer for J.B., then prayed for clarity and peace. She concentrated on clearing her mind of the chaos that had been building up since finding Ethan's body. Taking a deep breath, she placed her list of things to do in priority and then sat still for a while with her eyes closed, calling on God's help to discover the truth.

  When she felt more calm and controlled, Helen called the hospital to check on George. The nurse in emergency told her he'd been taken into surgery. She glan
ced at her watch, thanked her, and hung up. It was going to be a long night.

  She'd promised to meet Eleanor around nine-thirty. It was already nine-fifty-five. She called to apologize for being detained but didn't go into details.

  "It's not a problem, Helen. I'll probably be up all night anyway. I'll put the hot water on for tea."

  Helen's sore knee and aching joints pleaded for mercy. The more rational side of her brain insisted on telling Eleanor she couldn't come until morning, then going straight to bed. She wouldn't, of course. And she needed something to occupy her time while she waited for George to come out of surgery. That gave her an hour or two.

  "I'll be there in a few minutes," she heard herself saying.

  While Helen headed over to see Eleanor, she puzzled over the shooting incident. If it wasn't a random act, then it had to have been someone who knew where she and George were. Joe knew, of course. And the few people who'd been in the restaurant. The Cranes.

  Brian had walked out. Had she and George been the cause of his anger? But why? And how? He would have had to follow them, drive to Lincoln City, steal Dave Feldman's pickup, then come back and shoot them.

  "Now, that makes a lot of sense," she mumbled sarcastically.

  Still, he had been upset and left the restaurant. But how could he have known they'd be at the seawall? If he'd been following her, he'd know. He could have taken the pickup earlier and already had it at his disposal. But wouldn't Dave have missed it? She shook her head. It made no sense at all.

  Helen drove on to the Crane home. She'd try to find out where each of them had been while she and George were being attacked.

  Eleanor opened the door before Helen had a chance to ring the bell. "Come in. Please." Eleanor stepped aside. Her grief was reflected in the stoop of her shoulders and a weariness in her eyes.