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

  RED SKY IN MOURNING

  A Helen Bradley Mystery

  by

  Patricia H. Rushford

  Copyright 2012 by Patricia H. Rushford

  Mysteriously Yours

  Cover design by Patricia H. 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.

  Originally published 1997 by Bethany House Publishers

  To the Willapa Bay Writers, the real Long Beach Peninsula,

  and the people who make up

  "The Lost Corner."

  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

  Acknowledgements:

  About the Author:

  Books By Patricia H. Rushford

  Connect with Patricia

  Chapter One

  Helen Bradley lowered her book, How to Murder the Man of Your Dreams, and peered at the man of her dreams and husband of ten weeks, Jason Bradley. At least J.B. had been her dream man until recently. Now aspects of their relationship lapsed at times from dreams to near nightmares.

  Not that she was reading the book with murder on her mind. Helen doubted she'd have to resort to killing him, but she needed to do something and fast. Off work for three weeks and facing retirement, J.B. was driving her to the brink. She'd be leaving soon to do research for a book, but knowing J.B., he'd want to go along.

  The big Irishman paced from the entry through the living room to the kitchen and back again. The house, a roomy, remodeled Cape Cod, overlooked the Oregon coast in Bay Village, just south of Lincoln City. It had once seemed too large for her. Now it bordered on cozy. A little too cozy.

  "Darling." Helen marked her place and set the book on the coffee table with the front cover down so he couldn't see the title. "Would you like to walk on the beach?"

  He stopped. His blue gaze seemed as unfocused as his life had become. "A walk?" He blinked away the confused look and smiled. "Aye, that would be nice." Glancing out at the gunmetal gray sky, he added, "But 'tis a bit soupy out there."

  Helen chuckled and unfolded her lanky frame from the plush cushions of her favorite chair. She wrapped her arms around his firm and still muscular torso. "In case you hadn't noticed, we're at the beach."

  "I thought you wanted to get some writing done this morning."

  "I did." Helen hesitated. With her husband stalking through the house like a caged lion, she'd managed to write about three words an hour. "Can't concentrate," she admitted but couldn't bring herself to tell him why. Instead she stretched up to kiss him. "You'll love walking in the rain, especially with the gale winds in your face. Clears the sinuses."

  "Clogs 'em, you mean." Nevertheless, J.B. followed her to the entryway, where they donned hooded yellow rain slickers. Minutes later they braced themselves against a chilly August wind and made their way to the trail that would eventually lead past the rocks to the sandy beach at Fogarty Creek State Park.

  In the silence that stretched between them, Helen wondered what she was going to do about J.B. Only a few weeks before she'd encouraged him to take the early retirement the government had offered. J.B. deserved it. He'd spent most of his life working as a special agent. First in Great Britain, then for the last thirty years in the United States. When he wasn't off on some secret mission for the State Department, he worked for the FBI.

  J.B.'s last mission for Uncle Sam had taken him to the Middle East, where he headed up a special task force to rescue five prisoners who'd been held by guerrilla forces. He'd been hailed a hero by the president and awarded a medal. They also offered him a substantial retirement package. He'd surprised her by taking it. Helen had been pleased at first, but she realized now that retirement could be hazardous to one's health.

  Helen had heard tales about retired husbands getting underfoot, but she thought J.B. would be different. Surely he'd find ways to keep busy.

  He hadn't. Somehow fishing and writing his memoirs weren't enough.

  Helen sighed as he cradled her hand in his. She loved him too much to hurt him, but if she didn't get rid of him for a couple of weeks, she'd be forced to retire herself. Which was not an option at this point. She'd just signed a contract to write her first book. True, it was an assignment. She'd be finishing a project someone else had started, but it was a book just the same, and she wanted very much to write it. And she needed the time alone.

  "We need to talk." Helen squeezed J.B.'s hand.

  "You don't need to say it, luv. I can see it in your eyes. You've grown weary of me."

  Helen gasped. Had she been that transparent? "How can you say that? I love you."

  "I don't blame you," he went on as if he hadn't heard her objection. "I'm poor company, even for myself. I don't know what I'm going to do. I thought I wanted to retire, and now. . .. You were right, you know."

  "About what?"

  "My being addicted to danger. 'Tis true, I'm afraid, but I've no idea what to do about it."

  Tears stung her eyes. She'd been so concerned about herself, she hadn't stopped to think about how he might be feeling. She of all people should understand.

  Helen had retired from active duty with the Portland Police Bureau ten years earlier, shortly after her first husband's death. Ian McGrady and J.B. were two of a kind, both dedicated to ridding the world of evil. In fact, the men had been best friends since their military academy days in England. Ian's final mission had taken him to the Middle East, where a terrorist group bombed the government building in which he'd been working. Little wonder, then, she'd welcomed J.B.'s retirement.

  She understood his difficult transition. Heaven knew it hadn't been easy for her either. Following a time of mourning for Ian, Helen had eventually turned to a career in writing. And thanks to J.B., she'd satisfied her own addiction to danger by working on occasion as an undercover a
gent. She'd done her share of pacing before taking up the pen.

  Through the persistent encouragement of her daughter, Kate, Helen had taken a cruise and written several articles about it. Then, after querying several in-flight magazines, sold it for the not- too-shabby sum of $2,500. She hoped J.B. would find something he enjoyed as well.

  "At any rate," J.B. was saying when she tuned back in, "I've got some serious thinking to do, and I thought perhaps it might be best if I left."

  Helen grabbed his arm, yanking him around to face her. "You're leaving me?"

  "Only for a short while. Look at the bright side, luv. I'll be out of your way, and you'll be able to concentrate on that book of yours. That is what you've been wanting, isn't it?"

  "How did you. . . ?"

  "I know you better than you think, lass." J.B. offered her a wry smile. "I saw the book you were reading."

  "Oh." Heat rose to her cheeks.

  "Thought I'd best leave before you decided to do away with me permanently." His teasing tone lifted the cloud that had been hanging between them.

  "As if I could."

  "Why didn't you tell me straightaway you needed me out of your hair?"

  "I didn't want to hurt your feelings. I was afraid you'd think I didn't love you."

  "I might have at that." He held up his hand to silence her. "I know. You told me more than once before we married that you'd be needing uninterrupted time to work now and then. I'd for­gotten that until today."

  Helen eased her arms around his neck, her dark blue gaze meeting his. "You're right. I do need space. And you need time to make plans for the future."

  "True. As much as I enjoy fishing, it gets tiring after a bit. I've thought about bringing the boat down. Maybe docking it here in Bay Village and perhaps developing a charter business. Might be in­teresting."

  "That's a wonderful idea."

  J.B.'s boat was a twenty-seven-foot cabin cruiser. He'd dubbed her the Hallie B. "Hallie" was Greek for thinking of the sea, and "B" stood for Bradley.

  J.B. brushed his lips across hers and made a halfhearted attempt to smile. "You're lucky to have your writing."

  "Yes. And speaking of that, I need to go up the coast to the Long Beach Peninsula for at least a week. Maybe two."

  "Ah, to research the guidebook. Have you started it yet?"

  "No. I wanted to finish up a couple travel articles first and get them turned in."

  "Did you ever find out why the original author didn't finish the book?"

  Helen frowned. "No, but I intend to. Maybe it's my insatiable curiosity or my imagination, but I have the strongest notion my editor wasn't telling me everything. I put in a call to my contact person on the Peninsula, Emily Merritt. She runs the bed and breakfast where I'll be staying. Hopefully she'll be able to fill me in on the details."

  "When do you plan to go?"

  "I'm not sure. Tomorrow maybe."

  "So soon?"

  "Or Sunday if you'd rather. And you?"

  "Sunday would be good. I'd like to get settled in the condo before I go in to the office."

  The condo in Portland had been J.B.'s home before they'd married. Since they made so many trips to the city to visit family and travel in and out of the Portland airport, they'd kept it.

  "You're going back to work?" Helen asked.

  He gave her a sheepish grin. "I'd like to. And I might be talked into doing an occasional job. But that may not be an option. For now, I'm going in to clean out files and tie up some loose ends."

  "Sunday it is, then." Helen bit her lower lip, feeling a sudden sadness. Love was a crazy thing. It could fill you with ecstasy one moment and break your heart the next. At that moment her love for J.B. twisted her insides so tight her stomach hurt. In a day or two they'd be apart again. As much as she needed her space to work, she wanted to be with him. None of it made much sense, and she told him so.

  J.B. wrapped an arm around her shoulders and turned her around. "I know just the thing to make us both feel better." He grinned down at her and winked. "I'll build us a cozy fire while you make us some tea." J.B. didn't have to divulge what he planned after that. His eyes said it all.

  Emily Merritt called at nine o'clock that evening. J.B. and Helen had just returned from having a late dinner at the Tidal Raves, their favorite restaurant in Depoe Bay.

  "Sorry I couldn't call sooner," Emily said. "Guests kept me busy all day. What can I do for you?" Her voice sounded scratchy.

  "Thanks for calling back. My publisher gave me your name. I'll be writing the guidebook about the Peninsula."

  "Humph. I know who you are. Publisher already made reservations for you." Emily didn't sound too happy about the arrangement.

  "I suppose I could stay elsewhere if you'd rather," Helen said.

  "No need to do that. Room's already been paid for."

  "Good. I was hoping you could direct me to the woman who was previously writing the book. I'd like to. . .."

  "Can't do that. Isabelle won't be talking to anyone."

  "I don't understand. I was told I could get her notes. Perhaps you could ask her. . .."

  "What exactly did the publisher tell you about Isabelle, Mrs. Bradley?" Emily asked.

  "Nothing really, only that she had been commissioned to write the book and couldn't finish it. I assumed it was because of illness."

  "She wasn't sick. They probably didn't want to tell you the truth for fear you'd think the book is jinxed."

  Helen rubbed her forehead. "What truth? What are you talking about?"

  "Isabelle is dead. And you mark my words, it was working on the guidebook that killed her."

  Chapter Two

  Sunshine followed Helen as she made her way north along the Oregon Coast. Despite the forecast for rain, she'd trusted the blue skies and put the top down on her vintage Thunderbird convertible. Several times along the way she stopped to admire the view. Though Helen saw the ocean nearly every day, she never tired of it. Today the glimpses of gemstone blue water and white rows of waves raised her spirits and promised adventure.

  Once she crossed the Astoria-Megler bridge into Washing­ton, Helen stopped to photograph the historic St. Mary's church. About a mile later she pulled in at the entrance of Fort Columbia State Park and was disappointed to see it had already closed for the day. Just as well, she reminded herself. If she kept stopping, it would be midnight before she got to her destination. "There'll be plenty of time to explore in detail over the next two weeks," she told herself as she turned the car around and continued northwest. Besides, she needed to talk with Emily and learn more about the mysterious death of the guidebook's original author, Isabelle Dupont.

  Jamie Lindstrom, Helen's editor at Tour and Travel Publications, had apologized for the short notice but hadn't bothered to mention the fact that Isabelle had died, and under suspicious circumstances. All Jamie said was, "The writer we had lined up didn't work out, and since you live so close."

  "Didn't work out indeed," Helen mumbled. Emily Merritt hadn't been too helpful either. All Helen managed to find out was that Isabelle had drowned in the boat basin at the Port of Ilwaco. Helen was not about to let the matter rest.

  She glanced at her watch. It wouldn't be long now. With lunch, rest stops, and view breaks, the three-and-a-half-hour drive had taken nearly five hours.

  It was five-thirty when Helen finally spotted the carved wooden sign directing her to Bayshore Bed and Breakfast. Helen made a sharp right, then wondered if she'd read the sign correctly. Tall shrubs and trees lined both sides of a rutted gravel road that seemed to go on forever.

  She'd driven close to a quarter of a mile when the woods gave way to a lovely manicured lawn and gardens still displaying colorful dahlias, marigolds, Lobelia, and morning glories. It was the house, however, that captured Helen's heart. The magnificent three-story Victorian with its turrets and bay windows looked like something out of a fairy tale. Beyond the house and gardens lay the serene tidelands of Willapa Bay.

  Helen parked near
the entrance and stepped out of her car. The door to the house swung open. A white-haired woman in a blue flannel shirt and jeans strode across the porch and down the stairs, her cotton white curls barely moving in the wind.

  "You Helen?" The voice was unmistakably Emily's.

  Helen nodded, feeling a bit out of kilter. The woman and the house didn't seem to match. "Sorry I'm late."

  "No problem. Just be the two of us for dinner tonight. Rest of the guests left round noon. Decided not to start fixin' dinner till you showed up."

  "Did you expect me to change my mind?"

  "Anyone with a lick of sense would have." Emily pointed to the trunk. "Got any luggage?"

  "Lots, but I can get it." Helen unlocked the back and grunted as she pulled the heaviest suitcase out.

  Emily whistled. "Thought you were only staying for a couple weeks, not moving in permanently."

  Helen chuckled. "That's what my husband said. It's not that much, really—only the two suitcases for my personal things. The rest is my office—laptop computer, printer, paper."

  Emily grabbed two suitcases and headed for the stairs.

  "Wait, you shouldn't be.... Helen's protest died under Emily's sharp blue gaze. The woman was apparently used to fetching and hauling and didn't need pampering.

  An hour later Emily rang the dinner bell. Helen tucked the last of her empty boxes into the closet and straightened. Rubbing the kink out of her lower back, she surveyed what was to be her home for the next two weeks. "I could get used to this," she murmured. The room had been beautifully decorated, perhaps by Emily herself. Helen sensed a touch of elegance behind the Emily's harsh exterior. She loved the big brass bed and the muted rose and green accents against a cream background.

  Helen had set up her office in the turret, from which she had an unobstructed view of the bay. The main room also offered a view, and Helen imagined herself waking up to it every morn­ing. A large wardrobe held her clothes, and in an elegantly appointed bathroom, a graceful claw-foot tub compelled her to take a long hot bath. But the bell clanged again leaving no doubt as to Emily's impatience with her tardy guest. The bath would have to wait.