Red Sky In Mourning: A Helen Bradley Mystery (Helen Bradley Mysteries Book 3)

by Patricia H. Rushford

  Helen hurried down the winding staircase to the dining room. The long formal table, though lovely with its ivory lace tablecloth and floral centerpiece, had not been set. Helen wandered past it and followed the light and the unmistakable aroma of fresh bread to the kitchen. Emily was already seated at a small wooden table set for two.

  "Hope you don't mind eating in here. Isabelle and I usually did when we didn't have guests to tend to." She'd changed clothes, exchanging the jeans and flannel shirt for a denim skirt and an oversized white blouse, caught around the waist with a silver belt. On her feet she wore a pair of Birkenstocks.

  "I don't mind at all." Helen pulled out a chair. "It's much cozier."

  "Good, then you won't mind serving yourself either. I made us some clam chowder and salad. And rolls." Emily passed the cloth-covered basket.

  "This is perfect."

  "Mind if I ask a blessing? Try to make a habit of it. Isabelle and I used to take turns."

  Pretending not to notice the catch in Emily's voice, Helen nodded and bowed her head. When Emily had finished saying grace, Helen silently added a prayer of her own, that God would ease Emily's heartache over the loss of what must have been a very close friend. "Isabelle lived here with you, then?" Helen asked.

  Emily nodded and promptly changed the subject, going on to talk about the gardening that needed doing.

  After dinner, Helen helped Emily clear the table. She'd have helped with dishes as well if Emily hadn't ordered her out of the kitchen.

  "Kitchen's not big enough for the both of us. If you want to make yourself useful, you can tend to the fire in the parlor. I'll fix a pot of chamomile tea. When I'm finished in here, we can talk. Figure there's some things you ought to know if you're going ahead with this fool idea."

  Bypassing the numerous couches and chairs, Helen headed for the fireplace and piled three split logs and some kindling on a heavy iron grate, then stuffed in newspaper. Once the fire was lit, she sank into the nearest chair to watch the flames. She wished J.B. could be with her, and at the same time felt relieved that he wasn't. They'd be together again soon enough. J.B. would be coming to join her for the weekend. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift to the guidebook and to Isabelle. What had happened to Isabelle?

  "You asleep?" Emily set a tray on a nearby coffee table.

  "Not quite. I was getting close, though." As Helen straightened, her gaze drifted to an enormous orange tabby who'd followed Emily in and was now approaching Helen with a wary who-are-you-and-what-are-you-doing-in-my-kingdom look.

  Helen leaned forward and extended her hand. "Hi, kitty," she cooed.

  "That's Ginger. Isabelle's cat." Emily lowered her slightly overweight body into the chair beside Helen's. "I don't have much use for her myself. But I haven't the heart to turn her away."

  "Meow." Ginger ignored Helen's hand and jumped into Emily's lap, turned around three times, then settled into a ball. Emily's arthritic fingers stroked her golden fur. The cat's loud purring rendered Emily's denial of ownership null and void.

  "She's a nuisance. You might want to leave your door ajar in case she decides to make her rounds. With you using Isabelle's room, she's likely to want to come in and check things out. Won't harm anything. She'll meow up a storm if she can't get in."

  Noting the weariness in the older woman's eyes, Helen poured tea and offered Emily a cup.

  "Thanks." Emily took a sip, then asked, "What time will you be wanting breakfast in the morning?"

  "You don't need to trouble yourself. I'll be happy to fend for myself."

  "Isabelle liked to work for a couple hours before eating. 'Course she had to have her coffee first thing."

  "That will work out fine. Except, if it's no bother, I'd just as soon drink tea. Earl Grey if you have it."

  A smile curved Emily's thin lips. "I do."

  They spent the next few minutes in companionable silence. Helen found the cat's steady purr relaxing.

  "How long have you had the bed and breakfast?" Helen asked.

  "Well, now, that depends. It's been a bed and breakfast for ten years. But the house has been in the family since 1882. My grandfather built it and passed it along to his son. Isabelle and I were both born here."

  "Really. So you're sisters?"

  "Cousins actually, but we grew up together."

  "I wondered about the connection."

  "Our mothers were sisters. My family lived here so my mother could look after her parents. I just kept the tradition going."

  "And Isabelle?"

  "Her family lived in Portland but came down to the Peninsula nearly every weekend. After Isabelle's husband died she moved in here with me. Said she liked the peace and quiet, ideal for writing. It was her idea to turn the place into a bed and breakfast. Our plan was to make enough money to keep the place up."

  "What will you do now?"

  "Keep it, I imagine. May need to hire someone to come in and help one of these days."

  Helen scrutinized her. "You've been taking care of this place alone?"

  "It's not that bad most of the time. Weekends are worse."

  Sipping at the soothing hot tea, Helen felt a distant camaraderie with Isabelle. "How long had Isabelle been writing?"

  "Took it up when her kids were small. She figured it was one career where she could work and stay home at the same time."

  "What happened to her, Emily?"

  "I told you. She drowned."

  "Yes, but you indicated it was because of the book."

  "Not the book exactly. She was writing about all the things a person could do at the south end of the Peninsula. Isabelle called me round eight the night she disappeared. I'd never heard her so excited. 'It's a long story,' she said, 'and you are not going to believe what I found. Can't talk now. I'm meeting Danny in a few minutes. I should be home in an hour.' Isabelle never showed up for that meeting and she never came home. Chuck Frazier found her under the dock two days later when he came in from a fishing trip. Guess he was backing into his slip when he spotted her body."

  "How awful." Helen paused a moment reflecting on the tragedy. "You mentioned her meeting someone named Danny. Who is that?"

  "Dan Merritt. My brother's boy. He's the sheriff here in Pacific County. I think she must have stumbled onto something illegal—otherwise why call Danny?"

  "Was there an investigation into Isabelle's death?"

  "Humph—if you could call it that. Coroner said she must have tripped on a rope and fallen off the dock. She had a skull fracture. They're guessing she fell into the water and got trapped under the dock. Accidental death."

  Helen drained her cup and set it down. "Apparently you don't think so."

  "Don't matter much what I think. I'm an old woman. What do I know?"

  "What do you know? Please tell me."

  Emily's wounded gaze disappeared behind parchment lids, then reappeared. "Suppose it could've been an accident, but I suspicion there's more to it. From the way she sounded, she'd uncovered something big, maybe drug dealers or something. Whoever it was might have killed her before she could get to the sheriff."

  Emily heaved a sigh and stood up. "Don't figure it does much good to talk about it. It's not like you could do anything. Only reason I'm telling you is that if it wasn't an accident and if you go stirring up the same waters, who's to say you wouldn't end up just like her?"

  Chapter Three

  Helen awoke with a start. The light from the hall tumbled into her room. Something soft and furry brushed against her arm. In the seconds it took to realize where she was and what was on her bed, Helen's heart had careened into overdrive.

  "Ginger!"

  The cat scrambled off the bed.

  One hand on her chest, Helen tossed the covers aside and padded to the open door. Ginger sat just inside, licking a paw and acting as though she'd accomplished her task and now it was time to clean up.

  "Are you staying in or going out?"

  Ginger ignored her.

  "Suit yourself."
Helen closed the door, leaving just enough room for the cat's paw to slip through and open it again when the time came. Going back to bed, she caught a movement and turned to stare at the ghostly apparition reflected in the window.

  She gasped, then shook her head when she realized it was only her white brushed cotton nightgown. Helen sank back onto the bed. She was bordering on paranoia. There was nothing out there to fear, at least she hoped not. Prone to premonition, Helen couldn't escape the feeling that something unpleasant was about to happen. Best, however, not to dwell on it. She'd know what it was all about soon enough.

  Helen pulled her thoughts back to the moment and focused on the scene outside her window. Moonlight poured through the shadeless windows, creating replicas of the lace curtains on the opposite wall. The full moon hung high in the sky, yellow and bright as a child's drawing.

  For a moment she wished she could capture it on canvas. Unfortunately, she didn't paint. Her mother had, but those genes had bypassed Helen and gone directly to her daughter, Kate.

  "Kate. Dear Kate," Helen whispered, her lips curled in a half smile as she thought about their strained relationship. Kate meant well, but like a lot of grown daughters, she had gotten a bit too bossy of late. Imagine telling Helen to slow down. "As if I could." Or wanted to.

  Not that Kate hadn't had cause for concern. Helen did have a knack for getting into difficult situations. She'd taken a bullet while looking into a murder case a few weeks earlier. Helen rubbed her stiff right shoulder. The injury had slowed her down for a time and reminded her of how fragile life could be. Maybe that was why she felt such a strong urge to keep going. She wanted to maintain her independence and ignore Kate's admonitions to take it easy.

  Kate had been none too happy with her for getting involved in what turned out to be a multiple murder investigation. And here she was, faced with another possible murder. She could imagine what Kate would say if she knew about Isabelle.

  Ah, but she was getting ahead of herself. The authorities had called Isabelle's death an accident.

  Helen turned on the bedside lamp and glanced at her watch. Not quite midnight. "So much for a good night's sleep."

  "Meow." Ginger scurried in and curled herself around Helen's ankles.

  "What's this? An apology?" Helen bent down to rub Ginger's ears and neck. Standing again, she made her way to the desk, where she'd set the papers Emily had given her before they'd gone to bed. The files contained Isabelle's notes on the guidebook and apparently several articles she'd started. One was on pollution, another on the fading fishing industry, and still an­other on increasing drug use on the Peninsula.

  Helen picked up the thick file folders and after bunching pillows against the antique headboard settled back to read. Ginger coiled herself against Helen's hip.

  Isabelle had collected a variety of brochures advertising some of the businesses and events on the Peninsula. Helen looked at a few fliers on charter fishing, then moved on to a yellow note pad outlining the book. Isabelle had started at the south end and listed places to see and things to do, beginning at the Astoria-Megler Bridge to Baker Bay, west to the Port of Ilwaco and the Coast Guard station. After that the notes were sketchy. On another sheet Isabelle had written "Contacts" and on another "Places I need to visit."

  Isabelle had compiled an extensive list, beginning with the fisheries department in Astoria, then under Chinook she'd listed a potter, and the Chinook Indian tribal office to get records on early Indian villages and culture. She also listed several restaurants in the area. Helen moved down the page, focusing on those people and places in and around Ilwaco, where Isabelle had died. Or been killed. Next to each name she'd written a brief description and phone number. How many of these people had Isabelle interviewed? Who was the last one to see her alive?

  The first listing for Ilwaco was Chuck and Shells Frazier— Shells: owner of Shells' Place. Chef. Chuck: runs Mariner III. Commercial fisherman.

  Beneath the Fraziers, Isabelle had listed Mike Trenton: runs the Merry Maid, a forty-foot charter out of Ilwaco, then Hank and Bill Carlson: Klipspringer—mostly commercial these days.

  The following entry, while listed with the commercial fishermen, seemed out of place: Scott Mandrel: new to Peninsula. Chinook Indian. Claims ancestors lived here. Owns Pisces International. Has been buying up property and small commercial fishing businesses in the area.

  Curious.

  Isabelle had starred the next name: Adam Jorgenson: Coast Guard, Cape D.

  "Adam Jorgenson," Helen murmured aloud. "It couldn't be."

  She leaned back against the pillows, remembering the Adam

  Jorgenson she knew. Like her son, Jason, he'd be thirty-eight now. Adam and Jason had gone to high school together, and for several years he had been like a second son. He kept in touch for a time, but Helen hadn't heard anything for about ten years.

  She reached to her side to pet the purring feline. Despite her excitement at seeing Adam, if he was indeed the same Adam, she could hardly keep her eyes open. She gathered the papers, set them on the bedside stand, and snapped off the light. Her last thoughts before drifting off were not on the guidebook she was supposed to be writing but on Isabelle.

  Tomorrow she'd try to retrace the writer's steps. She'd call Adam first, then arrange to meet others on the list. She also wanted to talk to Sheriff Dan Merritt to find out where the investigation into Isabelle's death stood.

  By morning a bright warm sun had replaced the moon. A perfect morning for a run. Helen was just putting on her tennis shoes when Emily knocked on her door and entered with a tray of hot tea and two cups.

  "Get much work done this morning?" Setting the tray on a round cloth-covered table, Emily poured already brewed tea.

  "Not yet. I read through some of Isabelle's notes last night. Thought I'd drive to Ilwaco today and talk to these people." Helen handed Emily the list. "Do you know any of them?"

  "I do, except for this Mandrel fellow and the coastie. The rest of 'em are all locals. Known their families for years."

  "Coastie?"

  "Nickname for the Coast Guard folks." She sniffed. "If you're thinking of asking them about Isabelle, you can forget it."

  Helen joined Emily at the small table, puzzled about her response. "Well, I was thinking I'd work it into the conversation. You seem convinced last night that Isabelle met with foul play. Perhaps talking to the people she had contact with might help solve the puzzle."

  Emily sighed. "Dan's already talked to most of them. They weren't much help."

  Helen nodded. "I may hit a dead end too. But since I have to do some research for the book, I may as well see what I can find out."

  "Suit yourself." Emily poured the tea. "Just be careful. No point in asking for trouble."

  After a brisk walk around the grounds, a modified workout, and a run to the main road and back, Helen ate breakfast, then made a call to the Coast Guard station. Adam was delighted to hear from her and would give her as much time as she needed. Helen gathered her supplies, camera, film, binoculars, note pad, and pens, as well as Isabelle's files on the guidebook. She stuffed them into a black leather backpack.

  The bag had been a gift from J.B. A stroke of genius. It had a number of pouches. Perfect, J.B. had assured her, for a photojournalist, which in a way she was. She often sent a photo layout with her articles for the travel magazines, and she planned to do the same for the guidebook.

  Eager to be off, Helen bid Emily a hasty good-bye, put the top down on her T-bird, and climbed in.

  "Better take this with you." Emily approached with a wicker basket and set it on the backseat. "Some nice picnic spots out that way. Enough there for you and your coastie friend."

  "What a nice thing to do." Helen thanked her, wishing she could wipe away the worry from the older woman's eyes.

  Once out on the main road, she breathed a sigh of relief. Until that moment she hadn't realized how Emily's fears had blanketed her as well. She hauled in another deep breath and let the wind blow aw
ay the lingering oppression.

  Helen drove south on Sandridge Road and followed the signs to Ilwaco. Once there, she took the winding road through the hills, past Beard's Hollow and the North Head Lighthouse, then on to Fort Canby State Park. There she followed the signs up the hill and left to the Coast Guard station. Excitement rose at the thought of exploring the area in detail. She wouldn't right now, of course. First she'd talk to Adam. During their phone conversation he'd said he remembered Isabelle and had given her a tour of the Coast Guard facilities. Helen was eager to find out what their conversation and the tour entailed.

  Following Adam's instructions, Helen ignored the Keep Out: Authorized Personnel Only signs and drove into the restricted area, parking in the lot near the neatly painted white buildings. The red trim went well with the background of evergreens. A sign over the main entrance read USCG. Cape Disappointment. Beneath that was the phrase "Pacific Graveyard Guardians."

  Adam emerged from a two-story building and was halfway down the stairs before she could pull the key out of the ignition.

  Adam Jorgenson hadn't changed much. His hair had gone from flaxen to ash blond. His light skin, flushed cheeks, and wide grin made him look about twenty. The uniform, a light blue short sleeved shirt and navy slacks, contributed to his youthful appearance. Helen waved and stepped out of the car. "Adam! It's good to see you." She wrapped her arms around the tall, muscular Swede, returning his exuberant welcome.

  "I couldn't believe it when you called, Mrs. McGrady.' Adam released her and took a step back. "Oh," he frowned. "That's not your name anymore."

  "It's Bradley." Helen retrieved her backpack and hooked a strap over her left shoulder.

  "Sorry, I should be able to remember that. I sure remember J.B. Jason was named after him, wasn't he?"

  "That's right. J.B. was Ian's best friend, mine too. We met in Ireland. Not long after Ian died, J.B. and I struck up our friendship again, and this summer he proposed."