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

by Patricia H. Rushford

  In the meantime she'd use the adrenaline rush her anger had provided to her advantage and make a few notes of the day's happenings on her computer. She needed to enter some of the information Isabelle had already gathered.

  Helen stepped out of the cooling water, dried off, and slipped into her cotton nightgown, then blow-dried her short, serviceable hair and ran a brush through it.

  Feeling refreshed and wide awake, Helen fluffed up pillows, set her laptop on the bed, and went to the desk to retrieve Isabelle's files. She could have sworn she'd set them in the top drawer when she'd come back earlier in the day, but they weren't there. She checked her backpack. Nothing. After looking through every possible space including the wastebasket, Helen dropped onto the bed to think where she might have put them. Maybe she'd left them in the car.

  A more patient woman might have gone to bed and waited until morning, but Helen knew she wouldn't rest until she'd found those notes. She quickly donned a pair of sweats and stuffed her feet into her tennis shoes.

  Emily was coming up the stairs as Helen came down. They met on the landing in the middle and Helen explained what had happened.

  "I'll help you look."

  The folders weren't in the car. Back in the house they conducted a second search, thinking Helen might have laid them down somewhere. Emily seemed as obsessive about finding the files as Helen. They began in Helen's room and worked down.

  On the main floor, several minutes later, Helen finished looking through the living room area and went into the kitchen to find Emily. She was kneeling in front of the basement door at the far end of the kitchen. "Now, how do you suppose this got here?"

  "What is it?" Helen knelt beside her.

  "Sand. I just cleaned the floor this morning and haven't been down to the cellar in days."

  "Could Dan have dragged it in? He was on the beach earlier."

  "He came in through the entry and took his shoes off. 'Course he could have had sand in his socks, but I'm sure he didn't come over here."

  Helen opened the door and Emily flipped on the basement light. The two of them leaned over to examine the stairs.

  Clumps of sand lay on the steps below.

  "Looks like someone came in from the cellar." Helen peered into the dimly lit room below. "Maybe we'd better call Dan back."

  Emily didn't answer. Helen turned around. The back door stood open so Helen hurried outside. She found Emily around the side of the house staring down at the weathered cellar door. Helen followed Emily's flashlight beam to a jagged hole in the whitewashed wood.

  "Looks like someone stepped through it."

  Helen reached down and wrenched an ax handle out of the hole. The silvery blade glistened when she held it up to the light. "Or busted it up with the hatchet."

  Chapter Seven

  The alarm buzzed her awake at four the following morning. Helen tried not to think about the fact that she'd had only four hours sleep. She groaned and reached over to pet the furry feline who'd taken her part of the bed out of the middle. "I can't believe I'm getting up at this hour to go fishing."

  Swinging her legs off the bed, Helen yawned and stretched. The messy desk in front of the bay window gave proof to last night's bizarre break-in.

  Within minutes of their phone call, Dan and another deputy had come to investigate. He verified their findings and insisted Emily take a careful inventory of all her belongings, including the antique jewelry she kept in her room. "Makes no sense that someone would bust in the cellar door just to steal Isabelle's notes."

  "Unless there is something incriminating in them," Helen noted.

  "Now, that's not likely, is it? Didn't you say you'd read through them?"

  "Not all of them."

  "Let's say you're right and the thief did steal Isabelle's files. Why wait until now to steal them?"

  Helen shrugged. "You've got a point."

  That point was something Helen had stewed over half the night. The best scenario she could come up with was that Isabelle's killer, if indeed there was such a person, hadn't felt threatened until they'd heard about Helen taking over the book project. Still, it seemed odd to wait so long. Unless... Maybe the burglar hadn't been after Isabelle's notes at all. Maybe he, or she, had been after Helen's. And there weren't many of those. Or maybe they weren't after incriminating evidence and only wanted to slow her down.

  Whatever the reason, she couldn't deal with it now. If she didn't get down to the docks soon, Mike Trenton and his Merry Maid would leave without her.

  Fifteen minutes later, dressed in denims, a turtleneck, and a baggy sweat shirt she'd borrowed from J.B., Helen pulled on her tennis shoes and hurried downstairs.

  Emily, true to form, had prepared a huge breakfast of cantaloupe, omelet, hash browns, and scones, the likes of which made Helen's stomach queasy just looking at it. "I can't possibly eat this much."

  "'Course you can. I fixed you a nice lunch too." Emily opened a cupboard and reached for a prescription bottle and a small clear plastic container. She set both on the table in front of Helen. "Take two of the seasickness pills now and save a couple for later. You'll want to use the sea bands too. Just wear them on your wrists while you're out. I also tucked in a little bag of dried ginger. Supposed to work wonders for seasickness."

  "I think I'll pass. I rarely get seasick." Helen scooped out a bite of melon.

  "Ever gone over the Columbia River bar?"

  "No, but I've been ocean fishing and whale watching along the Oregon Coast."

  Emily shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'll pack 'em in with your lunch in case you change your mind."

  At five minutes after five Helen slipped on her jacket, gathered her pack and Emily's well-stocked cooler, and headed out the door. In the predawn light, Helen drove the thirteen miles to Ilwaco and parked in the lot near the port. While she unloaded and locked up her car, a Jeep Cherokee and a Ford truck pulled in and parked nearby. The drivers and passengers spilled out—five in all.

  Helen recognized one of them as the man she'd seen with the Carlson brothers the night before. A greeting slipped out before she remembered she hadn't actually met him.

  A toothpaste-ad smile flashed across his face. "Morning. You going out on a charter this morning?"

  "Sure am." Helen adjusted her pack and picked up the cooler.

  "Wouldn't be the Merry Maid, would it?"

  "It would."

  "In that case, would you tell the skipper not to leave without us? Knowing these guys, it'll take us at least ten minutes to check in and get our stuff down to the boat."

  "Hey, Wilson, who you calling slow?" someone on the other side of the truck bellowed.

  Wilson ignored the man, his gaze lingering on Helen. "You look familiar. Have we met?"

  "Not officially. We ate in the same restaurant last night."

  "Oh, right, I remember seeing you."

  "I'm Helen Bradley."

  "Earl Wilson."

  She switched the cooler to her left hand and shook the hand he held out to her. "Nice to meet you. I'd better scoot or the skipper will end up leaving all of us. See you on board."

  "Come on, Wilson. Stop flirting with the lady and give us a hand."

  Helen ignored that comment and the ensuing catcalls and hurried on, stopping briefly at the charter office to check in and purchase a fishing license.

  From the top of the dock she caught sight of the Merry Maid. The white fiberglass craft reminded Helen of a slightly larger and more expensive version of the Hallie B. Her stomach fluttered with anticipation. Of course it could have been protesting the breakfast Emily had fed her. Maybe she should have taken those pills after all.

  On her way to the Merry Maid, she passed the Klipspringer, Hank and Bill Carlson's boat. The big black-and-white trawler was badly in need of a paint job. Helen had hoped to see the men this morning, especially Hank. She had her camera loaded and ready.

  Seeing no sign of the two men on or around the boat, Helen moved on to the Mariner III a few slips down. S
he didn't see anyone about there either, but then she hadn't really expected to. More than once during the night she'd worried about Chuck and his reluctance to disclose what he had found. He didn't seem to mind who knew that he was on to something. It was almost as if he were asking for trouble.

  Wave action, probably from boats leaving the port, set the craft and the dock to rocking, dispelling Helen's thoughts.

  A short distance away, Mike Trenton stood on the dock in front of the Merry Maid, hunched over, hands in his pockets, the stub of a cigarette dangling from his lips. At least she assumed it was Trenton. He pulled it out of his mouth when she approached and tossed it into the water. It sizzled. So did Helen. She set the cooler down, knelt on the dock, fished the butt out of the water, and handed it to him. "You dropped this."

  "Humph." He tossed the soggy butt back in, far enough this time that she couldn't reach it without going for a swim. "Don't tell me you're one of those lame-brained environmentalists."

  Helen bit back a caustic lecture about endangering wildlife. This wasn't the time. "Let's just say I care, Mr. Trenton. As for the lame-brained part, I'll let you figure that out." Helen sighed. "We seem to have gotten off to a bad start. If you'd rather not take me along, I'll see if I can find someone else."

  "No! I...um...I'm sorry. Guess I'm just in a lousy mood. My deckhand called in sick, and the men who chartered my boat haven't showed up yet."

  "Oh, I nearly forgot. I saw them in the parking lot. Should be down any minute."

  Laden with more stuff than could possibly fit on one boat, the men had made it as far as the ramp and were slowly advancing toward them.

  Trenton swore and mumbled something derogatory about weekend fishermen, then picked up Helen's cooler and helped her on board. "Did you bring any fishing gear?"

  "Gear?"

  "Fishing pole, tackle box. A lot of people bring their own."

  Helen laughed at herself and at the odd look on Trenton's face. "You must think I'm two slices short of a sandwich. It didn't even dawn on me to bring a fishing pole."

  He grinned at her for the first time. "Don't worry about it. I've got everything you need."

  Helen settled into the second mate's seat in front of the console and watched the men load their gear and themselves onto the Merry Maid. Mike swiftly and efficiently tucked away coolers, tackle boxes, fishing poles, and bait.

  She caught sight of Bill Carlson on the bridge of the Klipspringer motioning to Hank, who stood on the dock, preparing to cast off. Helen quickly moved to the rail and snapped several photos. Bill started the engines.

  "Mrs. Bradley!" Mike shouted. "I need your attention over here. Before we take off I want to go over some safety regulations." He removed the cushions from one of the benches and scooped out several life vests. Some yellow, some orange. Some new, and some that looked as though they'd been around since World War II. While Helen grabbed one and slipped it on, he told them about the lifeboat, the first aid kit, and how to use the radio to call for help in case he, for some reason, couldn't. "There are two life rings on each side of the boat. Now, I don't anticipate any trouble. The weather calls for morning clouds with clearing midmorning. We'll head out around Buoy Ten and do some salmon fishing." He reached into one of his many pockets and retrieved some pamphlets. "These are the fishing regulations. I'll let you read 'em. Easier than spending half an hour going over them with you.

  "Guess that's about it. If you got questions, you know where to find me." Trenton then ascended the ladder to the pilothouse and within seconds had the forty-foot craft up and running. Helen and Earl volunteered to untie lines and shove off. She was the only one wearing a life vest.

  The sky took on glorious shades of red and orange as they motored between Sand Island and the Coast Guard station. The sight brought to mind an old saying: Red sky at night, sailors delight. Red sky in morning, sailors take warning.

  A chilling wind whipped through her hair as the boat picked up speed. Helen shivered and turned up the collar of her jacket, then stuffed her hands into her pockets. She forced her mind away from thoughts of trouble and focused on the fiery sunrise and the tranquil bay. The black water barely rippled as they sliced through it. Several other boats accompanied them on their trek, but Helen recognized the names of only two: the Klipspringer and the Mariner III.

  Helen was surprised to see Chuck Frazier out and about. He had a passenger, she noticed, but they were too far away for her to see who it was. She waved at Chuck and received a toot from his horn.

  The Klipspringer chugged slightly ahead of the Merry Maid. Bill Carlson waved from the pilothouse, probably in response to the horn. Hank was bent over the rigging on the aft deck. Helen took several photos of the sunrise, but looking through the viewfinder unsettled her stomach.

  "Ever been ocean fishing before?" Earl shouted over the chugging engines. He was wearing a bulky sweater in shades of ivory, muted greens, and browns, which again suited his brown skin tone and dark features.

  "Several times," Helen yelled back.

  "What's the biggest fish you've caught?"

  "A hundred-pound striped marlin." Helen smiled at the memory. "In Mexico." She and J.B. had gone out after a successful drug bust off the coast of Central Mexico. The water there had been a brilliant turquoise.

  "Really? How long did it take you to land him?"

  "Thirty minutes. At least that's what my husband told me. Seemed more like an hour. He put up quite a fight." Helen smiled. "The fish, not the husband."

  Earl chuckled. "What are you hoping to catch today?"

  Information. A killer. She shrugged and said neither. "Anything will do. I'm not really out here for the fishing." She explained her mission to write a guidebook.

  "So you're a writer. I always thought it would be fun to write a book." He lurched forward, catching himself on the railing. "Water's getting rough."

  "Uh-huh." Helen swallowed back a wave of nausea and took a deep breath. Sea air mingled with diesel fuel did little to quiet her churning stomach. "Excuse me." Helen bolted for the side of the boat and relinquished her breakfast to the sea. Oh well. She hadn't wanted it anyway.

  Trying to ignore the smirks of her fellow passengers, Helen made her way down to the galley, where Mike had stored the coolers. She pulled out a cold pop and pressed it to her fore­head. Digging through the cooler again, she found the Dramamine, wrist bands, and the plastic bag of ginger. Helen downed the pills with ginger ale and slipped the bands on her wrists, placing the buttons over her pulse points. The pills would take a while to work, but at least she wouldn't have to worry about losing her breakfast anymore. She pinched off a square of the ginger and put the rest in her pocket.

  Unable to handle the confines of the cabin, she climbed back up the narrow stairs and went aft, settling into the corner. The Klipspringer continued to chug along off their starboard side with Bill at the helm and Hank still intent on his task. Helen fumbled with her camera but couldn't focus.

  Chuck Frazier still brought up the rear. His passenger stood near the bow looking back at the rugged shoreline.

  The red sunrise had given way to gunmetal gray clouds. Behind them and off to the right, high atop the headland, stood the Cape Disappointment Lighthouse and the Coast Guard lookout where she and Adam had been the day before. She could see the narrow inlet of Dead Man's Cove. The Interpretive Center adorned another headland, and a short distance from that was the north jetty and the sandy curve of Waikiki Beach.

  "You feeling better?" Earl sat down beside her.

  "A little." She raised her can. "The soda seems to be helping. Or maybe it's the dried ginger."

  "Good. Can I get you anything?"

  "Thanks, but..."

  Helen's response went dead as an explosion ripped through the gray morning. She covered her mouth to stifle a scream. Her pop can clattered to the deck.

  "God help us," she gasped, then stared horrified as the Mar­iner III turned into a gigantic fireball.

  Chapter Eight
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br />   Mayday! Mayday!" Mike Trenton yelled into his radio as he turned the Merry Maid around and closed in on the burning vessel. He raised the Coast Guard and relayed what they had just witnessed.

  The bleating sound of the Coast Guard siren pierced the air before he finished speaking. They'd probably seen it from the tower at Cape D. The Klipspringer had turned around as well, Hank's gaze fixed on the Mariner III. Bill stared at it, too, the radio mike clasped in his hand.

  The flames had diminished some, but Helen could still feel the heat and smell the burning diesel. Thick black smoke rolled up and dissipated on the wind. Debris floated on the water, but she saw no sign of the two men who'd been aboard.

  Mike cut the engine and tore down the steps to the aft deck, ripping off his boots and jacket on the way. An instant later he jumped overboard. Helen thought briefly of following, but common sense held her back. Though she'd taken lifesaving courses, she'd never been a strong swimmer, and with her injured arm she doubted she'd be much help. Better to stay on board and assist from there. Besides, jumping into these icy waters even for a few minutes was tantamount to suicide.

  "What in the world is he doing?" Earl leaned over the aft rail, watching the water where Mike had disappeared seconds before. Trenton surfaced several feet away, sputtered, spun around, and went under again.

  "I don't know. Maybe he spotted someone." Helen released one of the round white life preservers hanging over the side of the boat and handed it to Earl, then grabbed another for herself. She scanned the water again for any sign of Chuck Frazier and his passenger but saw nothing resembling a human being. Mike surfaced again, this time holding on to someone. She heaved the life ring out to him.

  Mike hooked his arms through it, his face a study in pain. "Pull us in."

  They were still struggling to haul the men onto the boat when the larger of the two Coast Guard vessels approached the Merry Maid bow. Adam and two other men wearing orange sur­vival suits and carrying a body board and an EMT jump kit boarded Trenton's craft.