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

by Patricia H. Rushford

  "But if they had no insurance, why sink their craft? And why offer to buy them out? Without their boats there would be little in the way of assets. Doesn't sound like a very smart business move."

  "That's true enough. Fishing isn't what it used to be. Was a time you couldn't walk on the dock without tripping over a fish cart. Now you're lucky if you see half a dozen. Harbor used to be full of boats. Now more than half the slips are empty year round."

  "I'm not sure I see your point. If the fishing industry is suffering, why would Mandrel want to buy the other fishermen out?"

  Emily shook her head. "Beats me. If you want, I'll do some more digging, see what I can find out. I know a couple of the folks he bought out."

  Helen hesitated. If Isabelle's "digging" had gotten her killed, she certainly didn't want the same thing happening to Emily.

  "I know what you're thinking. You don't need to worry about me. I've got a lot of friends around here who'll know the latest gossip. I'll just keep my ears open."

  Helen started to respond when she caught sight of flashing lights in her rearview mirror. "Uh-oh." Her foot automatically released the gas pedal and hit the brake as she looked for a place to pull over. Not an easy task along the dark two-lane road.

  "There's a parking lot just ahead," Emily said, "at the cranberry plant."

  Helen nodded. Since there were no cars coming and the patrol car hadn't bothered to pass, she figured the officer must be after her. "I wasn't speeding, was I?"

  Emily shrugged. "Might have been. Speed limit is only forty- five along this stretch. Folks tend to go faster."

  Helen pulled off into the dimly lit parking lot and waited. The siren stopped, but the lights continued to flash as a uniformed officer pulled in behind her, got out, and approached the car.

  Helen rolled her window down.

  "Any idea why I stopped you, ma'am?" The tall, attractive officer bent at the waist and peered into the car. His eyebrows raised when he caught sight of Emily, but he didn't acknowledge her.

  "I'm sorry—I have no idea." Helen couldn't make out the name on his badge, but judging by the expression on his face, this was Emily's nephew, Dan Merritt.

  "You were going well over fifty miles an hour."

  "Oh. I might have been. I didn't realize...."

  "Cut her some slack, Danny," Emily piped up. "She's not from around here."

  Clearly disgruntled at his aunt's interference, he cast her a keep-out-of-this look. "I saw the Oregon plates." His hazel gaze shifted back to Helen. "I'd like to see your license and vehicle registration."

  "Sure." Helen flipped on the dome light and dug through her bag for her license, then rifled through the maps, napkins, and other miscellaneous papers in the glove box until she came up with the proper card.

  "Helen Bradley." The sheriff’s piercing gaze settled on her face. "I know that name."

  "She's the one taking over Isabelle's book. I told you last week she'd be coming."

  "Right. You two stay put. I'll be right back."

  Helen watched him in her rearview mirror as he ducked into his car, probably to write her a ticket.

  A few seconds later he came back and returned the license and registration in through the window. "I won't give you a ticket this time, Mrs. Bradley, but you'll want to stick to the speed limit. We tend to come down hard on offenders."

  "I appreciate that."

  Dan's business demeanor disappeared behind a friendly smile. He gave her car the once-over and commented about its mint condition and how it was too bad Ford discontinued the old-style T-bird. "It's a '55, isn't it?"

  "That's right." Helen patted the dash. "It's always been my favorite. And when I found it at an antique car show in Portland a few years ago for eighty-five hundred dollars, I snatched it up. It needed some work, but I found a mechanic in Bay Village who loves to restore old cars."

  "Yep—you got yourself a beauty." He tapped the hood and peered into the car again. "Where you two headed this evening?"

  Helen didn't think it was any of his business but decided it was best not to say so.

  "Shells' Place." Emily volunteered. "Helen's meeting that coastie Jorgenson."

  "That so." His grin slid away. "I'll see you there, then. I've got business with him myself."

  Chapter Five

  Helen put away her license and registration, checked for traffic, and eased onto the road.

  "Wonder what business he has with the coastie," Emily said.

  "I have a feeling we're about to find out."

  Following Emily's directions, Helen drove into Ilwaco and made a right at the stoplight, then a left, where she followed the road as it curved west. A brightly lit sign pointed the way to Shells' Place—Waterfront Dining on Baker Bay.

  "This used to be an old dilapidated warehouse," Emily said. "Shells bought it and tore down what she couldn't use. By donating part of the land, she got the city to build a public fishing pier and parking lot. She sold part of it to Scott Mandrel. He put up a big fish processing plant just east of the restaurant. Big improvement over what used to be here. Shells built the restaurant and plans to add on eventually and maybe get some shops in here. Don't know how it will fly, though. Money's tight and you can't always depend on the tourist trade, especially with fishing being what it is."

  "Shells sounds like an enterprising young woman."

  "That she is. Had to learn to fend for herself at a pretty young age. Don't know how she does it sometimes."

  "Hmm. Adam told me about her parents." Helen parked the car between freshly painted white lines on the smooth, newly finished black asphalt. At Helen's suggestion they walked along the fishing pier. They could see the lights of Warrenton across the river. Off to her left was Pisces International, the processing plant Emily had told her about, and beyond that lay the Port of Ilwaco, where dozens of fishing boats waited for morning when they'd make their fish runs. Emily had been right about one thing. Over half the slips were empty.

  The odor from the fish processing plant took a backseat to the heavenly smells spilling out of the restaurant. The promise of food drew them back to the entrance of Shells' Place. The sheriff caught up to them at the door, and the three walked in together.

  The restaurant had been decorated in a shell motif. Nets hung across the ceiling holding glass balls, shells, driftwood, and other gifts from the sea.

  Adam was seated at a table near the window with a man in his early fifties, maybe younger. The man glanced at them and turned back to Adam. He must have told Adam about their ar­rival. Neither seemed pleased to see them, or perhaps it was their police escort. The men both recovered quickly, greeting Dan and Emily like long-lost friends.

  Adam pulled out the chair next to him. "Helen, I was about to give up on you. This is Chuck Frazier."

  "Hi, Chuck." Helen grasped his outstretched hand. His grip was firm, his hand callused. His leathery skin had the look of a man who never bothered with sunscreen and never would. "Nice to meet you."

  After Helen introduced Emily to Adam, Dan surprised her by accepting Adam's invitation to eat with them. Somehow she'd expected him to state his business and leave. The group spent the next few minutes arranging themselves at the table originally set for four.

  The restaurant had an eclectic menu, from gourmet- sounding dishes with French names to fish and chips, barbecued ribs, and pizza. When Helen commented on the unusual combination of choices, Chuck laughed. "If it was up to Shells, everything would be fancy-shmancy. She went to cooking school in France and then in New York. I told her the only way she'd get me and my friends to eat here was if she served real food. So she compromised."

  He leaned forward. "Don't tell her I said so, but she'd be out of business if she hadn't taken my advice." He tipped back a bottle of beer, finishing it off.

  "I doubt that, Chuck." Adam folded his menu and set it on the salmon-colored tablecloth. "Shells is a fine chef. Since she got that write-up in The Oregonian, people have been coming from all over Oregon and Wa
shington just to sample her cooking. She's even got a publisher interested in a cookbook."

  "Adam's right," Dan readily agreed. "No matter what Shells served, she'd be a success."

  Helen held back a smile. Shells must be quite a woman to have the admiration of Adam and Dan.

  "Where is she, by the way?" Dan stretched to look over the partition into the kitchen.

  Chuck shrugged. "You just missed her. She came over to say hello to Adam and me. It's her night off. Said something about going to see a movie. Rusty's cooking."

  A too-thin waitress with a white shirt and black pants brought them water. Her pin read Grace. "You all ready to order?"

  They were. Chuck and Dan wanted pizza—apparently Rusty's specialty. Adam, Helen, and Emily went for the bronzed salmon.

  Once they'd placed their orders, Emily excused herself to chat with two women who'd just been seated across the room. Dan asked Adam to step outside to talk business, leaving Helen and Chuck alone.

  "Adam told me you were taking over writing Isabelle's book." His eyes narrowed. Chuck looked as if he wanted to say something more but didn't.

  "Yes. I'm excited about the project. I'm hoping you and several of the other fishermen will help me with my research."

  "That'll be my pleasure. In fact, I'll introduce you around and maybe get you out on one of the boats. If you're going to write about the fishing around here, you'll want to go out on a charter. I'd take you myself, but the insurance company dropped me, too many accidents. Way things have been going lately, I'm not sure I can afford to take the chance."

  "I heard about the Mariner II. Adam said you'd lost a crewman."

  He nodded. The lines on his face grew deeper. Chuck leaned back in his chair. His gaze moved to the pier where Adam and Dan were standing, then back to Helen. "Mike Trenton might take you out. He had a cancellation, so he was looking."

  "Excuse me?"

  "On a charter. You wanted to go fishing, didn't you?"

  "Yes, but...."

  "I'll go call him right now."

  "There's no rush...."

  Chuck ignored her and hurried out to the entryway. She glanced around the room feeling at odds with being left alone. Emily was still deeply engrossed in conversation with the women four tables down. Three men sat in a far corner booth. Fishermen, most likely—at least two of them were. The two with their backs to her were average build. The one facing her, however, was a bear of a man with an unkempt pale coppery beard and mustache that nearly covered his face. A black Greek fishing hat sat on his head, giving him a continental look. His gaze shifted from his companions to the bay outside the window. He had the demeanor of a sea captain and seemed melancholy, contemplative. His blue eyes lifted to meet hers. He glanced away, intent on the contents of his cup.

  She thought of going over and introducing herself and asking if she could photograph him. But before she could get her camera out, the men scraped back their chairs simultaneously and walked toward the entry, where one of them stopped at the counter to pay the bill. He wasn't a fisherman, she decided. At least he didn't make a living at it. A businessman, maybe. His skin was smooth—a coffee-and-cream mix, perfectly suited to the off-white Aran sweater, khaki pants, and brown loafers. He handed the waitress a credit card and laughed at something she said.

  Helen's gaze drifted to the other two men. They were standing just inside the door, talking to Chuck Frazier, who'd just come in from using the phone. The bear stood at least a foot taller than Chuck and the other man. One thing she could tell for certain, the men shared a common interest and an easy camaraderie.

  Helen caught only bits and pieces of their conversation, noting it had to do with the day's catch. Small. Disappointing. The man paying the bill joined the group, and a few moments later the threesome left.

  Chuck came back to the table, panting heavily as he approached. "S'all set." He nearly fell into his chair. "Jus' show up down at the docks' charter office at five tomorrow morning. Pick up a fishing license and they'll show you where to find the Merry Maid."

  "Thank you. I appreciate that." Helen paused for a moment, not certain what to make of his odd behavior. "Are you okay?"

  "Kinda fuzzy, but might just be the booze on an empty stomach. Be okay as soon as I get somethin' to eat." He gave his head a quick shake as if to clear it.

  "Are you up to some questions?"

  "Sure, fire away."

  "Who were those men you were talking to just now?"

  "You mean the Carlson brothers?" He nodded toward the door. "Hank and Bill run the Klipspringer. The scrawny one is Bill. The yuppie in the sweater is probably a weekender. I've seen him around before. He musta gone out with them today." He paused a moment to dab at his forehead with a napkin. "You'll most likely get to meet Hank and Bill tomorrow. We usually head out about the same time."

  "The big guy looks like quite a character," Helen said. "Do you think he'd mind posing for me?"

  Chuck chuckled. "You can ask him. Hank's a shy one. Keeps pretty much to himself."

  "Maybe I'll take pictures first and ask later." Helen took a sip of water and changed the subject. "I understand Isabelle Dupont interviewed you before she died."

  "Wouldn't call it an interview exactly. She wanted to know if I'd noticed anything strange going on down at the docks. Why do you ask?"

  Helen shrugged. "Curious. Emily tells me Isabelle died under mysterious circumstances."

  Chuck hauled in a deep breath. He rubbed a hand through his thinning hair. "And you want to know if I had anything to do with it. What are you, a cop or something?"

  "I was at one time. I'm not implying you were responsible. I'd just like to know what she talked to you about."

  Chuck's gaze drifted away from her to the bay outside the window. "Besides asking questions, she wanted me to warn Shells about getting involved with a guy she's been seeing."

  "Adam?"

  "Ha." Chuck turned back to her. "Don't he wish. Nah. Much as I like Adam, he's not her type. No way would he settle down here. And to my knowledge, my sister don't plan on leaving anytime soon."

  "Dan, then?"

  "Wrong again. She's been hanging out with Scott Mandrel." His forehead wrinkled in a deep frown, showing his obvious disapproval.

  "Did Isabelle think Shells was in danger?"

  "Nope. I think she just wanted to see Shells and Dan get together. Isabelle and Emily kinda look after the orphans around here."

  "Orphans?" Helen was having trouble staying on track with the man.

  "Yeah, well some of us lost a parent or two over the years. I think they still see us as kids."

  "Did Isabelle talk about anything else?"

  He closed his eyes for a moment. "If you ask me, Isabelle was getting in over her head. She was asking too many questions. I got a hunch she asked the wrong people. I'll let you in on a little secret." He glanced behind her and mumbled, "Later."

  The man had definitely had too much to drink, Helen mused.

  Adam and Dan came back to the table the same time the waitress did.

  "Here you go." Gracie set a tray laden with drinks on the table. A beer for Chuck, iced tea for Helen and Emily, and soft drinks for the others.

  "Am I the only beer drinker in the bunch tonight?" Chuck's hand closed around the dark bottle of German ale.

  "Looks that way." Adam folded himself back into the chair. "Learned early on that boats and booze don't mix."

  "I'm on duty tonight," Dan said. "Gotta head out as soon as I finish eating."

  "You're not here for social reasons, then." Chuck plunked down the half-empty bottle and rested his arms on the table.

  Dan hesitated. "Like I was telling Adam, the Feds think there's been some drug trafficking up this way, but I haven't been able to spot anything. Since you pretty much know what's going on with everybody, thought I'd ask you too."

  "I don't know nothin' 'bout drugs," Chuck slurred, "but there's something fishy going on around here and it sure ain't perch."

 
; "This have anything to do with the message you left me this morning?" Adam asked.

  "What message?" the sheriff asked.

  "Chuck said he had proof his boat was sabotaged."

  "That so?" Dan pulled the straw out of his drink and set it aside.

  "It was. Did some diving after the Mariner II went down. Salvaged what I could. Can't say for sure, but I think somebody punctured the fuel line." Chuck rubbed his hand across his eyes. He seemed to be having trouble staying awake. "Engine kept sputtering—like it wasn't getting enough gas. Then it quit altogether. I swear, that engine was perfect that morning. I checked it out myself before I took her out."

  "Accidents happen," Dan said.

  Adam agreed. "Engine trouble or no, you were fishing too close to the spit."

  "No way. I've fished these waters all my life. It shouldn'ta happened."

  "But it did." Adam leaned toward his friend. "So are you going to tell us what's going on?"

  Chuck glanced over his shoulder, then leaned closer. The scent of beer settled around them as he spoke in a stage whisper. "It wasn't an accident. Someone wants me out of the way, an' I'm going to find out who."

  Dan shook his head. "Just as I thought. You've got nothing. The only problem I see is that you're drunk."

  "Oh, I got something all right. And tomorrow I'll have proof."

  Grace approached with a tray and set it on the fold-up stand. The conversation took a backseat to the food. The salmon, served with asparagus and wild rice, had a spicy Cajun flavor and tasted as good as it looked. Chuck ordered another beer and lifted a large slice of the house pizza to his plate.

  "Maybe you'd better tell us what you're working on, Chuck." Dan pulled the pizza platter toward him and transferred a slice.

  "Not yet. Like I said, I think we're onto something bigger'n drugs here."

  "Chuck." Adam forked a piece of his salmon. "If you're in some kind of trouble . . ."

  "No! No trouble. Forget it." Chuck slapped a heavy hand on the table.