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

by Patricia H. Rushford

  Going back, she stopped to see the lightkeeper's house which had recently been remodeled and open to tourists. Enthralled with the look and feel of the house, and maybe to give herself hope, Helen made reservations for herself and J.B. for the weekend after next. She'd be done with the book by then, or at least ready to put together all of the material she'd gathered. It would be a perfect way to end their stay on the Peninsula.

  Helen stared out at the spectacular view of the lighthouse and the ocean beyond it, lingering for a few moments after the guide descended the stairs. She felt an odd camaraderie with the wives of men lost at sea. Unbidden tears filled her eyes, blurring the landscape. "Lord, please bring J.B. back to me."

  The tour complete, Helen hiked back to the state park, then drove toward the jetty. She parked in a paved lot overlooking Waikiki Beach and worked on her laptop until the battery sig­naled its recharge warning. Saving her files, Helen put the computer away.

  She'd be meeting Kate soon. Dear Kate, who felt it was her God-given duty to care for her aging parent. Helen smiled at the irony of it. She didn't need taking care of yet. Maybe the day would come, maybe it wouldn't. One thing for certain, she had no intention of being a burden to her children if she had anything to say about it.

  Helen stepped out of the car and stretched, then picked her way over the rocks to the sandy beach. While she walked the length of the short beach, she rehearsed the conversation she'd planned to have with her daughter. Helen dreaded the thought of facing Kate after her hasty departure earlier that morning. Kate would be troubled. Helen sighed. Her overprotective daughter would give her that mother-you-need-a-keeper look. But, Helen reminded herself, it was far better to have children who cared a bit too much than to have them completely ignore her. And she did have a wonderful family.

  In fact, it was time for another gathering at her home in Bay Village. She hadn't had a get-together for a long time, not since she'd married J.B. It was that promise of a weekend together with which she placated Kate when she arrived at Shells' Place a few minutes later.

  Kate hugged her. "That sounds lovely, Mother, but I'll need to coordinate all of our schedules."

  "Good. You let me know and we'll plan to be home." They walked arm in arm into the restaurant.

  "Thanks for inviting me to lunch," Kate said. "When Emily told me you'd gone, I was pretty upset."

  "I'm sorry about that. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, and to be honest, Kate, I guess I was running away."

  "From me?" Kate's eyes widened in surprise.

  Helen smiled. "Sounds silly now." She paused to greet Gracie, who led them to a table at the window. A boat sat at the end of the dock. A container of fish, rock cod, Helen guessed, be­ing delivered to the processing plant. A plant owned by Scott Mandrel.

  When they'd been seated and had ordered drinks, Kate picked up the conversation. "Mother, I owe you an apology. I don't mean to come off sounding like an army sergeant."

  "Oh, Kate, you don't."

  "Emily thinks I do. And she's right. I have no business trying to run your life. I worry about you. Maybe I always have." She tossed her mother a wry smile. "I come by it honestly. With Daddy off doing his secret agent thing and you solving murders, somebody had to worry. I sure couldn't leave it to Jason. He thought having parents in law enforcement was cool."

  "I appreciate your concern, darling. It's normal to be worried about people you love and want to protect them. Take J.B., for example. I'm so afraid I might lose him. He was supposed to be retiring. I thought that was what I wanted. But I know now that's not the answer for him, or for me. At least not right now. He needs to be working and productive." Helen glanced out at the calm bay and squinted as the bright reflection of sun on the water shone into her eyes.

  "Emily told me I should be grateful you're as active as you are. And I am." Kate sipped at her water. "But I can't help worrying."

  "You always were the sensitive one." While her twins had shared similar physical features, both tall and slender with dark hair and navy blue eyes, they were opposites in many ways. Jason had gone on to study law, then joined the DEA. Kate had taken up art and design and become an interior decorator.

  "I guess I was. Remember how I used to get tummy aches when Daddy was out of town? And when you worked nights I'd go to sleep in your room so I'd wake up when you got home. Then, when Jason disappeared I nearly went crazy. When I think of all you three have put me through, it's a wonder I'm not a basket case."

  "Poor Kate," Helen cooed. "Were we really that hard on you?"

  "Terrible." A smile crept across her face, softening her delicate features. "Growing up with you and Dad and Jason was. . . " Kate stopped. "It was scary and exciting. I was so happy when you retired from being a police officer. I thought, Thank God it's over. But it wasn't by a long shot. For a while it was wonderful, then you started taking those secret trips. And you playing detective and getting shot at last month didn't help. You should be settling down and enjoying your golden years."

  "I'm not there yet. And you, my darling daughter, need to stop pushing me over the hill. Goodness, I'm not even silver, at least not completely." Helen reached up and brushed her fin­gers through her short graying hair.

  "You're right. I wanted to apologize, and here I end up grousing about my miserable childhood." Kate's gaze met Helen's. "And it wasn't all that bad. Anyway, you must have done something right. Look at how well I turned out."

  "At least you recognize that." Helen squeezed her daughter's hand. "I'm glad you came down. It's good having you here, especially with J.B. missing. You and Emily have been a great comfort."

  "Emily told me you might have a lead."

  Helen shared what Earl had said about Scott's dinner with J.B. "I hate to admit it, but Steve Kendall's confession may have been accurate."

  "At breakfast Dan was worried that Shells might have been taken as a hostage."

  "Yes. I hope not. She's been through so much already."

  "You two ready to order?" Gracie refilled their cups.

  "How fresh is your fish?" Helen asked.

  Gracie tossed them a you've-got-to-be-kidding look. "See that boat out there? We get fish and seafood, shrimp, oysters, crab, delivered fresh every day. Chuck used to supply all the fish, but now that he's gone we'll get it from the Carlson brothers mostly."

  Kate and Helen both ordered the sturgeon with a hazelnut coating, polenta, and a salad with raspberry vinaigrette dressing on the side.

  Gracie hesitated, chewing her lower lip, then said, "I couldn't help overhearing what you said about Shells. Um, I saw Shells leave with Scott yesterday. Like I told Dan, she asked Scott to go into town with her to pick up supplies. I don't know where Dan got the idea that Scott forced her."

  "But she was planning on coming back?" Helen asked.

  "As far as I know. It's not like her to leave and not call." Gracie shrugged. "Maybe Adam and Dan know something we don't. Anyway, don't pay me any mind. No one else seems to."

  Helen watched the waitress walk away. For the first time, she began to consider Shells as a possible suspect. If Scott was smuggling drugs, could he do so without Shells knowing? Was she an accomplice. Had Shells helped him escape?

  "Mother? Are you okay?"

  "What? Oh. I was just thinking about what Gracie said. It occurs to me that I've been making assumptions about the innocence of certain people around here. It's possible that Shells and Scott are a team. The restaurant is a good cover and with the wharf so close. What's to stop them from bringing in something besides seafood?"

  "Like cocaine or marijuana?"

  "Hmm. Shells could be making her kitchen available for storage. She has delivery trucks coming and going at all hours. Most of them would be bringing supplies, but some could be picking up the drugs and distributing them any number of places."

  "Do you think J.B. suspected them?"

  "Maybe. All I know is that J.B. being missing at the same time Scott and Shells are is too much of a coincidence." He
len stared out at the boat that was now chugging away, riding high in the water, its hold as empty as her heart.

  After lunch, curiosity about the fish processing plant drew Helen and Kate to the end of the pier. The entire setup smelled fishy, literally as well as figuratively. In Helen's mind, the plant would work perfectly for drug smuggling. A small coastal town, easy access where many people whose livelihood once depended on the fishing industry but were now forced to find other ways of earning a living. Like smuggling drugs. Helen thought about the fishermen Scott Mandrel had bought out. Perhaps his generosity had a catch.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Helen and Kate approached the processing plant wishing they'd brought nose plugs. The strong smell of fish and some kind of cleaning solution permeated the air around the plant. As they approached a security gate, a worker dumped a large container of blood, fish heads, and entrails into the water where hungry squawking sea gulls waited.

  "Gee, Mom. You see what a rough life I lead? When other mothers take their daughters on outings they go to flower gardens. We end up in a fish morgue."

  Helen chuckled. "Hush. We'll do flowers next time."

  "Right."

  The locked gate barred their way. A large metal sign read, Pisces International. No admittance. Another said Enter at Your Own Risk. Still another instructed them to ring the buzzer for assistance. Helen rang the buzzer. A young-sounding female voice came out of a speaker attached to a piling above them.

  "Welcome to Pisces International. How may we help you?"

  "Is it possible to tour the facilities this afternoon?"

  "We hold tours on Saturday and Sunday between one and four."

  "Oh." Helen took another tactic. "Mr. Mandrel said I could come by anytime."

  "What's your name?"

  "Helen Bradley. I'm writing a guidebook on the peninsula."

  "One moment please," the voice interrupted. Seconds later she

  was back. "Dad, I mean, Mr. Black will be right with you."

  Mr. Black, a congenial man in his mid-forties, greeted them with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Mrs. Bradley, yes. Scott mentioned you might come by this week." He was wearing a blue dress shirt and jeans. His neon tie was the type kids might give a dad on Father's Day.

  Helen introduced Kate, then added, "Is this a bad time for you? We can come back later."

  "No, no. Not at all. It's been a busy morning. S'pose you heard the news about Scott being wanted on murder charges. Fool cops. Only reason they're going after Scott is he's not a local boy. Humph. Ancestors were here decades before any of the rest of us. You'd think that would count for something."

  "We heard. You have to admit it doesn't look good with him leaving town."

  "No, don't suppose it does." He adjusted his hard hat. "So, you're writing a guidebook about the Peninsula."

  "Yes. I thought it might be an interesting perspective to do a piece on a seafood processing plant, since seafood is so much a part of this area."

  "Right, that and cranberries. Be glad to answer any questions you might have. Can't let you in through this gate, though. It's too dangerous with all the heavy equipment. You'll have to drive around to the main entrance. Just go back out to the road and turn right at the next driveway. I'll meet you in the office."

  Mr. Black, Pete, as he insisted on being called, reached the office door before Kate and Helen and escorted them inside. The office consisted of a large waiting room with a reception area. A hallway on the right led to several offices. The room smelled of cedar, which had been used to finish the interior walls. Colorful banners hung from the high open-beam ceiling. With its glass-cased exhibits and display of books and pamphlets, it looked much like a fisheries resource center.

  "Nice," Kate murmured as she wandered over to look at a metal sculpture of a fly-fisherman and his fighting trout. "Definitely a Northwest flavor."

  "Hi, Helen." A familiar-looking woman came out of one of the offices and set a file folder on the receptionist's desk. "How's the guidebook coming?"

  "Good." Helen recognized her as one of Emily's writer friends. "You're Joanna, right?"

  "Right. I can't believe you remembered." She turned to Pete. "Honey, why don't you let me show them around. Goodness knows you have enough to do today without a tour. Besides, it'll give me a chance to talk writing."

  "Thanks, Jo. I owe you one." Pete hung an arm over her ample shoulders. "My wife is the office manager and bookkeeper for the plant." He nodded toward the receptionist. "That's our daughter, Becky. She fills in for our regular secretary."

  Becky looked up at them and smiled, revealing a full set of braces. "Mom told me about the book you're writing. Sounds neat. If you decide to write about the cranberries, let me know. My grandfather raises them. He's got bogs right off Cranberry Road."

  "Thanks, Becky. I'll keep that in mind."

  "I'd best be getting back to work," Pete said. "If you have any questions just give me a jingle."

  Pete went into the first office and closed the door.

  The tour, though interesting and informative, provided no answers to Helen's concerns about the plant being a cover for a covert drug operation. Toward the end of the tour, Kate excused herself to find a rest room. Helen lingered in the plant viewing room, which looked out over the warehouse where fish were brought in and processed, and used the opportunity to question Joanna.

  "Drugs? Here? Oh dear, no." Joanna looked genuinely shocked. "We'd never work for a company that was into anything illegal. And we certainly wouldn't bring our daughter into an environment like that."

  Below them a dozen or so workers, mostly Hispanic, pulled fish onto tables in front of them, cleaning and cutting them to specification. They worked so quickly with their knives, Helen could hardly keep track of what they were doing. Within minutes of delivery, the fish was refrigerated and ready to ship out to waiting customers. "Could the workers be involved in a drug operation that you and Pete don't know about?"

  "I seriously doubt it. Pete's been the operations manager here since it opened six months ago. How could you even suggest such a thing?" She paused, her mouth dropping open in shock. "Surely you don't suspect us."

  So complete was the indignation, Helen doubted the Blacks, at least Joanna, had any inkling. "Innocent people have been used before, Joanna," Helen said. "It's obvious something is going on. Isabelle and Chuck are both dead, probably because they got too close to uncovering the truth. Emily's home was broken into. I was hit on the head. My. . . ." Helen stopped just short of telling Joanna about J.B. "The man who accused Scott and was willing to testify against him is dead."

  "He committed suicide. Mr. Mandrel was terribly upset over that. Says he can't imagine why the man would lie. He and Shells even drove to the jail in South Bend on the way to Portland."

  "Wait a minute. Scott went to .see Steve Kendall? When?"

  "Yesterday."

  "Joanna, he died yesterday."

  "You don't think he killed him." Joanna shook her head. "No, I won't hear of it. Scott Mandrel is one of the nicest men I know. Why, he paid us well over what our charter business was worth when he bought us out. He even offered us jobs at the plant."

  "I see." Desperate times called for desperate measures. "Scott bought out several fishermen, didn't he?"

  "Yes. And it was a good thing. We were close to declaring bankruptcy."

  "Did he offer jobs to the others as well?"

  "He did. But only three of the men took him up on it. The two who didn't are still grousing about how unfair life is while they drink away their unemployment checks."

  They walked back to the reception area where Kate was examining the banners suspended from the ceiling.

  "Joanna," Helen paused, making one last effort. "If Scott is as innocent as you say, where is he now?"

  "Wish I knew. Maybe the pressure got to be too much. Maybe he knew the law down here would crucify him and he felt he had no choice but to run." Joanna crossed her arms. "The one thing I do know is tha
t Scott Mandrel is not a killer."

  They chatted awhile longer and finally left on good terms with Helen promising to see Joanna at their Wednesday night writer's meeting.

  "Well," Kate prodded on the way back to their cars, "do you still think the plant is a front for a drug-smuggling operation?"

  "I certainly didn't see any signs of it. If something is going on, I don't think the Blacks are involved, not Joanna at any rate. I doubt she'd have her daughter working there if she so much as suspected drug involvement on the part of Pisces International."

  Helen paused at Kate's maroon Taurus. "Are you up for a drive and a walk on the beach?"

  "I guess." Kate grinned. "Beats looking at dead fish."

  "Good. I'd like to walk the boardwalk in Long Beach. Low tide is at four, so we should have plenty of time to drive up to the north end of the Peninsula. We can come in at the Ocean Park approach. Emily said I should stop at Colleen's at the beach approach for desserts or lattes. She mentioned a gift shop and bookstore as well."

  Leaving Kate's car in Long Beach, mother and daughter spent the afternoon walking, exploring, and getting acquainted with the Peninsula and reacquainted with each other.

  "I'm glad we decided to do this." Kate spooned out the last of her burnt cream from Colleen's and set the dish on the small round marble table. "It's been great."

  Helen had opted for a piece of marionberry pie and tea. Though Colleen had jokingly assured her she'd removed all the calories, Helen felt stuffed. "We were long overdue, I think." Helen looked at the brown stain on her shoes and frowned. "The only downside of our little excursion was that awful stuff on the beach."

  "I wonder what it is. Even the waves looked brown. Must be an oil spill or something."

  "I'll have to ask Earl. He's with the EPA. If anyone would know about a pollution problem, he would."