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

  When Shadows Fall

  A Helen Bradley Mystery

  Patricia H. Rushford

  Kindle Edition

  When Shadows Fall by Patricia H. Rushford

  Mysteriously Yours

  Cover design by Patricia Rushford

  License Notes

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. With the exception of recognized historical figures, the characters in this novel are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Previously published by Bethany House Publishers

  Author Note

  This fourth book in the Helen Bradley Mysteries marks a milestone for me. During its writing, I was diagnosed with colon cancer, went through surgery, and had a toxic reaction to chemotherapy. All of this left me with very little energy and creativity. Much of the time, writing was paramount to paddling upstream without a paddle. In completing When Shadows Fall, I feel I have reached the shore. The process was a struggle I wouldn't care to repeat. While I felt God's continuing presence through it all, I'm not certain I'd have made it had it not been for the support of friends and family who loved and supported and encouraged me.

  I'm especially thankful to Drs. Ginsberg and Lamert for pulling me through the physical and emotional crises; my husband, Ron; my family and friends for the reassurance and care, especially Lois and Del Williams, Margo Power, Sandy, Gail, Lauraine, Ruby, Birdie, Marcia, Marion, Woodene, and Elsie; my editors at Bethany House, who understood and worked with me through missed deadlines and frustrations; and for editing and advice, I'd also like to thank Judy Frandsen and Howard Greer.

  So at the end of this book, I not only celebrate finishing yet another mystery, I celebrate life.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

  Books By Patricia H. Rushford

  Connect with Patricia

  Chapter One

  Helen Bradley wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. The Oregon coast in mid-November could be brutal. The day matched the dark gray clouds that hovered near the ground despite the wind's attempts to blow them away.

  If she were into rating days on a scale of one to ten, she'd have given this one a minus three. And that was before she found the body.

  The day had started out a ten with J.B. kissing her awake and telling her how much he adored her. She loved these languorous moments. Savored them. With J.B. retired after recently suffering a mild heart attack, who knew how much more time they would have together? His encounter with death had left her reeling. Helen snuggled against him, reveling in the feel of his solid warm body against her back.

  "Have I told you how lovely you are in the morning, luv?" he'd whispered against her neck.

  "Yes, but I don't mind hearing it again." Turning to face him, she whispered, "You look pretty wonderful yourself." She closed her eyes and wove her fingers into his thick silver hair, then kissed him thoroughly.

  The phone interrupted what promised to be one of their more exquisite mornings.

  "Let the answering machine pick it up," I.B. murmured against her lips.

  "Mmm." She'd have liked nothing better, but the mood was broken. Besides, she couldn't ignore a ringing telephone. "We should get it. Might be one of the children."

  Helen had two grown children from her first marriage and four grandchildren, with another on the way. Seven in the morning was too early to call for a chat. What if something had gone wrong with Susan's pregnancy? Her daughter-in-law was only five months along.

  J.B. sighed, rolled away from her, and grabbed the phone. "Hello," he barked into it.

  Helen snuggled against him.

  "Right." His voice softened. He turned onto his back, then grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. Raising a roguish eyebrow, J.B. grinned at her, his Irish blue eyes alight with a promise that they'd pick up where they'd left off as soon as the call ended.

  As he listened to the caller, J.B.'s smile disappeared. The light drained from his eyes. "Are you sure?"

  Helen frowned and mouthed, "Is it one of the children? Susan?"

  J.B. shook his head and averted his eyes. "I see. When do you want me to come in?" He withdrew his hand, then sat up, dangling his legs over the bed. "I'll be there by noon." After hanging up, J.B. turned and looked at her for a moment, his gaze filled with longing. He opened his mouth as though he wanted to tell her something, then leaned over and kissed her. Without a backward glance, he got up and strode into the bathroom.

  Helen stared at the closed door for several moments, then tossed her covers aside. "J.B.?" She tried the door, but he'd locked it. Locked it. 'What's going on?"

  She listened intently, hearing only the sound of running water. The shower curtain swished across the rod.

  Leaning against the door, she yelled, "J.B., what was that all about?"

  Still J.B. said nothing. He either hadn't heard or hadn't wanted to.

  "Fine. Don't tell me. You'd better not be thinking about going back to work." Helen shoved aside her annoyance and slipped into her white velour robe, then shuffled downstairs

  and into the kitchen to make their morning tea.

  "Men," she muttered as she filled the teakettle. Then, not wanting to wait for the water to boil, she filled a mug, put in a tea bag, and set it in the microwave. In the three minutes it took for the water to heat and turn into tea, Helen came to the conclusion that J.B.'s phone call had not been a request to return to work. For one thing the FBI wouldn't rehire a man who'd suffered a heart attack, unless it was for consultation. And if that were the case, J.B. would have been elated.

  No, she decided, this was something else entirely.

  Could the phone call have been from his doctor? J.B. had gone in for a checkup a few days before. Maybe they'd found something. It would have to be serious to garner that kin
d of disturbing response from J.B. Very serious.

  Helen didn't like the direction her thoughts were taking. "Don't be jumping to conclusions," she muttered. The doctor probably wouldn't be calling this early. True, they often made phone calls and hospital visits before they started seeing patients at the clinic. It could be anything. Though Helen couldn't imagine what, J.B. would tell her soon enough. Then again, if it was health related, he might not.

  For weeks following his heart attack, he'd been sullen, keep­ing his emotions under lock and key. It had taken some doing to get him to open up to her. Never having married before, J.B. wasn't used to sharing his concerns with a wife. He'd always been, and apparently still was, the strong silent type.

  Helen understood that kind of man all too well. Her first husband had been even more closemouthed. She didn't like it in him and disliked it even more in J.B. Maybe if Ian had been more open with her, he wouldn't have been killed. He might have told her where he was going, and she could have insisted he refuse the assignment.

  "That isn't true and you know it," she mumbled, sipping her Earl Grey tea. Besides, the government frowned on agents who disclosed their secrets, even to family. And she could never have talked Ian into quitting his job and going into another line of work. Ian had lived for his work as a government agent. He’d loved the thrill of facing death at every turn. If the bombing in Beirut hadn't taken his life, something else even­tually would have. Helen tucked her guilt and pain away as she had time and again for the eleven years since his death. Even if she'd known, he wouldn't have listened. He never did.

  “What's done is done,” she murmured. “You couldn't have changed Ian any more than you can change J.B.”

  Any more than he could change her.

  Helen smiled at the thought. She had little room for criticism. She'd gone from being an agent in her younger days to being a homemaker and mother. Then, feeling at loose ends, she'd returned to school and in due course became a police officer. Shortly after Ian's death, she'd retired from the police bureau in Portland and done some traveling. That led to a career in travel writing, something she still enjoyed. Even with her career change, Helen had never really given up her work in law enforcement. She still did odd jobs for the various government agencies and managed to solve a crime every now and then. It was in her blood.

  Taking her tea into the living room, she stood at the win­dow and watched the waves smash against the jagged rocks that separated the house from the ocean. Their home sat well above the pounding surf. The remodeled Cape Cod was one of several houses nestled in the fifteen acres of woods just north of Bay Village.

  Normally the view soothed her. Today it only made her more restless. Her insides churned with the powerful waves as she listened to J.B. walking around on the floor above.

  Maybe he just needs time to think, she reminded herself. Bad news could do that to a person. Undoubtedly he'd mull things over and tell her all about the phone call when he came down for breakfast. Speaking of which, she had better get it made.

  Several minutes later J.B. entered the kitchen, wearing casual khakis and a beige cardigan over a neatly pressed shirt that brought out the blue in his eyes. He set his overnight bag on the floor beside the door, his sad gaze roving from it to her face. "I'll be heading into Portland this morning, luv." His brogue was heavier than usual, a sure sign of distress. "May need to stay over a night or two." He cleared his throat. "Could be longer." He unfolded the newspaper Helen had placed on the table earlier and scanned the front page.

  She set the teapot, two bowls of oatmeal, juice, and grapefruit on the kitchen table, then poured J.B.'s tea and refilled her own. "Why?"

  His expression grim, he said, "Nothing for you to be concernin' yourself about." He settled into his chair, sprinkled brown sugar on his oats, and poured on a dab of milk, then began reading in earnest.

  "I see." She sat down across from him. It was all she could do to keep from picking up her bowl and dumping the oatmeal on his head. They finished their meal in silence, with J.B. read­ing the paper and Helen fuming. Until his retirement she might have accepted his refusal to tell her about his trip. Secrecy had been part of his job. She understood that. Normally he'd have told her it was job related, that he'd been called by this or that agency. Now, it seemed, he couldn't tell her anything.

  When they'd eaten, Helen cleared the table. "Could you at least tell me who called? Was it the doctor? Did something show up on the tests?"

  He cleared his throat. His anguished look settled on her. He seemed to struggle with what to say, then set his paper aside. "Can't a man take a trip into the city without his wife harassing him?"

  "Harassing! Jason Bradley, that is so unfair. I'm your wife. I've a right to know what's going on with you."

  "And I've a right to some privacy. Wasn't that part of our agreement? That we would give each other space?"

  "Fine. You can have all the privacy and space you want." She spun around and stomped through the living room, out the French doors, across the breezeway, and into the new addition.

  But by the time she'd run up the stairs to her office, slammed the door, and started a fire in the gas fireplace, most of her fury had been spent. In place of the anger came an overwhelming sense of loss. Helen brushed at the sudden tears as she stood at the window and watched J.B. toss his bag in the backseat of his Cadillac. He climbed inside, then started the engine and backed out with not so much as a glance her way.

  Helen hadn't known what to expect from their first real argument as husband and wife but certainly not this. Wasn't he supposed to come after her and apologize? Weren't they supposed to kiss and make up?

  Helen watched the road long after his taillights had disappeared. Would he be back?

  "Of course he will." She scolded herself for feeling so insecure. He loved her as much as she loved him. Whatever had come between them would pass. He'd apologize for shutting her out, and everything would be all right. Wouldn't it?

  Helen took a deep, calming breath and turned from the window. Glancing at her computer, she reassured herself again that all couples argued from time to time and that J.B. would indeed come home. She needed to pull herself together.

  Look on the bright side, she told herself. With J.B. gone you can catch up on your writing. Begin those articles on the San Juan Islands.

  Helen turned on her computer. While she waited for it to boot up, she made another cup of tea in the small kitchen.

  She loved the new addition to their home. The first floor served as a garage and workshop. The second was made up of two large offices, an adjoining bath, and kitchen. The addition had been J.B.'s idea. Helen had needed her own space to write. Now that J.B. had taken it upon himself to write a book about his experiences as a government agent. One for which he was being paid very well. He needed his space too.

  Space. Not long ago she'd pleaded for it. Well, like it or not, she had plenty of it now.

  Taking the tea to her desk, she sank into her plush leather chair. Time to stop worrying about J.B. and get to work. Something she hadn't done for far too long. Not that she needed to these days, as she'd recently come into a great deal of money. She owned a resort in the San Juan Islands with her cousins, Claire and Richard O'Donnell, Uncle Paddy's grown children. There were other resorts as well in France and the Caribbean. Her uncle had been a very wealthy man. Still, she'd much rather have him than his money.

  Even with her newly acquired wealth, Helen was determined to continue working, at least with the writing. She needed excitement and a sense of purpose. Truth be known, she was far more like Ian and J.B. than she cared to admit.

  Helen pulled up her files and clicked open the San Juan folder. She'd recently come back from a visit to the islands and planned to write two articles. The first would be about the different ferry routes through the area along with a travelogue on each of the major islands the ferries passed or stopped at. The second was a piece on Paradise Island, a world-class health resort and spa, of which she
was now part owner. She'd been skeptical about writing an article featuring the resort, as it would also be free advertising, but her editor wanted both pieces for the same issue.

  She'd managed to work up an outline and write two pages when the phone rang.

  "Helen, this is Eleanor Crane."

  "Eleanor, what a surprise." Eleanor was Bay Village's first lady and Ethan Crane's wife. Ethan had been sworn in as mayor only two months before. Since she was always chairing some fundraising event, Helen suspected the call was probably a request for money for one of St. Matthew's many community outreach programs. "I haven't talked with you in ages. How are you?"

  "I. . . um . . . fine. I'm so glad I caught you. I hope you're not busy."

  She didn't sound fine. Hearing the tension in Eleanor's voice, Helen revised her earlier impression. This wasn't a social call. "What is it, Eleanor? What's wrong?"

  "Oh, Helen," she gasped. "I don't know what to do. Ethan is missing."

  Chapter Two

  Missing?" Helen responded after getting beyond her initial shock. "Why are you calling me? You should be talking to the sheriff."

  "No, I couldn't do that. Not yet. You see, I don't know for certain. He didn't come home last night." She hesitated. "It's not something I want to discuss on the phone. Could you come here?"

  Helen was tempted to tell her again to call the authorities but didn't. If Eleanor didn't plan to alert the police, Helen might need to. To do that, she'd need far more information than she had gotten so far.

  "Please, Helen. I need to talk with you. I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."

  That was true enough. Eleanor was not the type to ask for help. "Of course. I'll be there within the hour."

  It took Helen less than twenty minutes to shower and dress. Wearing jeans and a classic white shirt under a blue cotton sweater, she grabbed her jacket from the coatrack in the entry. She picked up her bag and headed out the door and was just opening the trunk when someone in a muddy black utility van pulled in alongside her car.