Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep: A Helen Bradley Mystery (Helen Bradley Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  Helen slowed to a walk and zipped her jacket to block out the chilly wind coming off the river. The park was well lit. Nothing to fear, really, she reminded her fluttery stomach again. Still, her heart thudded against the wall of her chest with a great deal more vigor than necessary.

  Stopping in the shadow of a tree, Helen scrutinized the area in and around the Japanese-American Historical Plaza where she'd promised to meet Irene. Off to her left, one of the city's homeless lay stretched out on the grass. Three empty bottles lay on the ground beside him.

  She glanced at the water. No boats marred the surface now. City lights danced on the ripples. The noisy Jet-Ski and its owner must have decided to call it a night.

  The click of shoes on the sidewalk jerked Helen out of her reverie. She glanced around, seeing only the odd-shaped shadows cast by stones commemorating Japanese Americans. Helen ducked behind the largest of the stones. She unzipped her jacket and gripped the handle of her gun.

  "Mrs. Bradley?"

  Helen straightened and released her hold on the weapon when a woman moved into the light.

  Helen walked toward her. "Irene?"

  The woman nodded and tipped her head back to meet Helen's gaze. She raised a delicate hand to brush loose strands of straight black hair from her face. Irene had the exquisite features of an international model. Helen guessed her to be in her late thirties. The overall picture suggested both wealth and status. She wore a dark pant suit, white blouse, matching two-tone pumps, and exotic perfume. Calix, Helen guessed.

  Irene looked familiar, but Helen couldn't place her. "Do I know you?"

  "We met years ago at a dinner party honoring my husband, Dr. Andrew Kincaid."

  "Kincaid? The gerontologist?" Helen stared at the woman's flawless porcelain skin. Irene hid her age well. She had to be at least sixty.

  Irene's dark eyes misted. "Yes, as I mentioned on the phone, my husband is dead."

  "I'm so sorry. I'm sure he will be greatly missed." Dr. Kincaid had received national acclaim for his work with the elderly.

  "Many people owe their lives to him."

  "When did he die? I try to keep up with the news, and I'm sure his death would have made the headlines, especially if he was murdered."

  "Four weeks ago. It was not well publicized. I…" Irene glanced behind her, then turned back, apparently satisfied no one was listening. "They say he had a heart attack, but I have recently discovered the truth. My husband was murdered."

  "Why come to me? You should be talking to the police."

  "They do nothing. Even after my home was burglarized and my husband's files searched, they do not believe me. They are sympathetic but tell me they do not have sufficient evidence to warrant a murder investigation."

  Helen scrutinized the woman's face, not sure what she hoped to see. Honesty, maybe. Or mental stability. "What do you want from me?"

  "I would like to hire you to find my husband's murderer."

  "I'm not sure I can do that. I'm not with the police anymore, but my son, Jason McGrady, works in the homicide division. I could talk to him."

  "No, it will do no good. Paul, Andrew's son, has turned them against me. I thought perhaps you would investigate more thoroughly and not be swayed by his lies. I know you have done this type of work before." Irene drew the strap from her shoulder and reached into her handbag.

  "I'm not sure I can help you. If the police…"

  "I have evidence. I believe Paul…” She hesitated, peering nervously into the darkness.

  Helen whipped around at the sound of footsteps. A figure approached. At first glance, she dismissed the man in shorts, T- shirt, and tennis shoes as another late-night jogger. When he neared the light under which she and Irene stood, she saw the nylon mask distorting his features, and the gun.

  "Don't try anything stupid." He waved the semiautomatic pistol between the two of them. To Irene he said, "Give me your purse, lady. Now!"

  Irene hugged the handbag to her side. "No."

  "Do as he says," Helen urged, unhooking the leather pack from her waist and letting it drop to the ground. If he stooped to pick it up, she'd gain the advantage with a kick to his knees and a fist to his throat.

  "No!" Irene shook her head, still clutching the bag. "I cannot."

  The assailant yanked the bag out of Irene's hand and backed away, not bothering to pick up Helen's pack. "Stay put and you won't get hurt." The handbag swung wildly from his arm as he ran back in the direction he'd come.

  "Don't let him get away!" Irene called, pursuing the thief. "He has the disk!"

  "Irene, stop!" Helen drew her gun and sprinted after them.

  The thief vaulted over the railing onto a boat ramp. A moment later, he popped back up and opened fire.

  "Get down!" Helen pushed Irene aside, managing to fire off three quick shots.

  The gunman returned fire. Helen dove for the sidewalk as a bullet tore into her right arm. Pain exploded through her shoulder when she collided with the concrete. The gun fell from her hand and skittered out of reach. Blood pounded in her ears, nearly drowning out the motor of what sounded like a Jet-Ski.

  Helen rose to her knees. The lights merged into a fuzzy gray, then black.

  Chapter Three

  The high-pitched squeal of police cars and a rescue unit from the nearby fire station drew Helen back into consciousness.

  "What have we got?" a woman asked.

  "Two victims, both gunshot wounds," a man answered. "This one got it in the chest. She’s lost a lot of blood."

  "Irene?" Helen scrunched her eyes shut to minimize the glare from the flashing lights and tried to sit. The pain in her arm and shoulder drove her back to the ground.

  "Take it easy, ma'am." A police officer who looked no older than her sixteen-year-old granddaughter knelt beside Helen. "The EMTs are looking after your friend. They'll get to you in a minute. Can you tell me your name?"

  “Bradley… Helen Bradley.”

  "What about your friend?"

  "Irene Kincaid. Is she…?" Helen gritted her teeth as another jolt of pain scattered her thoughts.

  "She's alive. Just rest now, ma'am."

  "The gunman," she panted. "Did someone go after him?"

  Helen didn't know whether he answered or not as a wave of nausea rumbled through her and sent her world spinning. Consciousness stayed just out of reach as paramedics cut the turtleneck and jacket away from her wound, hooked up an IV, and transported her to the hospital.

  When Helen awoke more fully, the sirens had been replaced by the din of an emergency room. At least a dozen figures in scrubs bustled around her, poking and prodding.

  A sturdy gray-haired woman in blue scrubs stood to her left, pumping up a blood pressure cuff. Another nurse hung a bag of fluid.

  A young man in wire-rimmed glasses scrutinized Helen's shoulder. "Better get an x-ray. And clean up this wound so we can see what we're dealing with. Looks like she might have a dislocated shoulder under all that blood."

  "Sure thing." The curtains swished apart as one of the nurses stepped out.

  His blue-green gaze moved to Helen's face. "I'm Dr. Long." He shined a light in her eyes and checked her ears, then asked her name. She gave it.

  "How are you doing?"

  "Not bad as long as I don't move or breathe."

  He nodded. "We'll get you something for pain and throw in a muscle relaxant. Are you allergic to anything?"

  At the shake of her head, Dr. Long called out an order, and a few seconds later a nurse stood over her with a syringe and deftly deposited the contents into Helen's IV.

  Helen drifted in and out of consciousness as various technicians, doctors, and nurses drew her blood, x-rayed her, and injected her shoulder with a local anesthetic. Once she'd supposedly relaxed, Dr. Long popped her shoulder back into place and sewed up the wound.

  "Mrs. Bradley," the gray-haired nurse told her. "There's a police officer outside who wants to talk to you if you're up to it."

  "Up to it?" Helen manage
d a smile.

  "I could put him off."

  "No. I'll talk to him."

  Helen's son approached the gurney looking none too pleased. Jason McGrady's still-handsome face bore the scars of serving his country in the war on drugs. He'd recently quit the Drug Enforcement Agency to take what he thought would be a less demanding job with the Portland Police Bureau as a detective in the homicide division. Jason came forward and kissed her cheek. "What happened?"

  Helen took a deep breath, wishing she hadn't. She waited a moment for the pain to subside, then told him about Irene's phone call.

  Jason shook his head. "I can't believe you went out alone like that. Why didn't you call me? I'd have come with you."

  Helen attempted a smile but didn't quite make it. She patted his hand, then let her arm drop back on the sheets. "I don't suppose they caught the gunman?"

  "Not yet. We do have an eyewitness, a vagrant. I'm hoping you can give us a more accurate account. With all that booze pickling his brain, his testimony isn't worth spit. According to him the guy jumped over the seawall and took off on a Jet-Ski."

  "That's possible. I thought I heard one. I..." It was getting harder and harder to keep her eyes open and to think. "I saw someone on a Jet-Ski a few minutes earlier. It seemed odd he'd be out that time of night." She recounted as best she could the incident with the purse snatcher. "I wouldn't have gone after him, but Irene chased him. How is she?"

  "Don't know. She's in surgery. The doc said she had a punctured lung, among other things." Jason rested his elbows on the raised bedrail and rubbed his chin. "Want to tell me why you were meeting Mrs. Kincaid in the park at midnight?"

  Helen's eyes drifted closed. Her mouth felt dry. "Irene insisted her husband had been murdered. Wanted me to…investigate. I'm sorry, I can't…"

  "I'll have to ask you to leave now," someone said. Helen didn't bother to open her eyes when the gurney moved.

  The rest of the night, she wavered on the edge of awareness. Nurses and aids bustled in with pain medication, ice packs, and miscellaneous equipment at regular intervals to assure themselves and her that she was still among the living. At times Helen found herself thinking that at least the dead got some sleep.

  Sunlight pouring into the room made the memories of the purse snatcher and the shooting seem like a bad dream. Helen winced as she turned her head to look at her shoulder. Pain and the white gauze dressing bore witness to its reality.

  Little by little her other senses awakened. Despite the occasional sips of water, her mouth felt as if it had been left in a food dehydrator all night.

  Her vision cleared and focused on a blank television screen. Not blank exactly. In it, she could see her reflection. The unflattering image startled her and she looked away.

  Helen chewed on her lower lip. Oh, Lord, how could I have been so stupid? She wondered what JB would say when he found out she'd been shot. He'd probably lecture her for not confessing what she'd planned to do, but only after he'd kissed her and given her flowers and put her fears to rest. He'd take good care of her and nurse her back to health.

  Helen bristled, partly because JB wouldn't be there and partly because she hated the thought of needing care at all. She'd become fiercely independent after Ian's death. Now a buried fear assaulted her. Would this injury put an end to that independence?

  She glanced back up at the reflection and murmured, "Helen Bradley, how could you even think such a thing?"

  A movement to her right startled her. The curtain parted to admit Jason. "How are you doing this morning?"

  Without waiting for an answer he approached the bed, bent over the rail, and kissed Helen's cheek. "I have to admit I've been pretty worried." He looked exhausted.

  "No need to concern yourself about me. The wound isn't that serious. I'll be up and around in no time." Helen followed her announcement with a silent prayer.

  "I haven't been able to get a hold of Kate or JB."

  "I'd rather you didn't try." Helen's daughter and Jason's twin, Kate Calhoun, her husband, Kevin, and their two children, Lisa and Kurt, were on their way to Montana for vacation. Since they were driving and sightseeing along the way, they wouldn't arrive at their final destination, a dude ranch, for another three days.

  "Are you kidding? Kate would have a fit if we didn't let her know."

  "It's not necessary. I don't want to interrupt their vacation. They've been looking forward to it for months."

  Jason shrugged. "I suppose you're right. But what about JB? He'll want to know. I called his office. They wouldn't tell me anything."

  Helen pursed her lips. "He's on assignment. Top secret."

  Jason raked long slender fingers through his nearly black hair. "Did he say when he'd be back?"

  "Three weeks, maybe."

  "Hopefully he'll call me when he can't get you at home." Jason lifted up a burgundy overnight case. "By the way, Susan sends her love and said you might need this. She'll be in later."

  "That was sweet of her."

  Jason nodded. His dark blue eyes had taken on that haunted look they often did when he talked about his ex-wife. Helen started to ask how his quest to win her back was going but didn't. It wasn't something she wanted to deal with at the moment.

  "Could I get you anything?"

  "Water."

  "You got it." He hurried into the hall and had only been gone a few minutes when the door to her private room opened. The man who entered wore a white lab coat over a pale blue shirt and khaki trousers.

  "Mrs. Bradley?" The morning sun illuminated his blond hair, giving him a halo effect. Only this man was no angel. From the set of his square jaw and look of pure displeasure in his pastel blue eyes, Helen figured he was either constipated or terribly annoyed. "I'm Dr. Kincaid."

  "Andrew?" Helen shook her head to dispel the notion she was seeing a ghost. "But you can't be. Oh, of course, you must be Irene's son, Paul." Looking closely she could see his father's features, the high forehead and sandy hair. But blue eyes? That seemed strange considering Irene's Asian ancestry. A former marriage or adoption? "How is Irene?"

  "Alive, no thanks to you." The creases in his forehead grew more severe.

  "Excuse me?"

  "How dare you lure her out at that time of night?"

  "Now wait a minute." Helen grabbed the bed rail and tried to sit up. Pain forced her to retreat. Her stomach rebelled. She took several shallow breaths, willing the nausea to pass. It didn't.

  Dr. Kincaid grabbed a small plastic tray from the nightstand and placed it under Helen's chin, holding her forward while she vomited.

  After she'd emptied her stomach of what little it had in it, she fell back against the sheets. Moments later, she gratefully accepted the warm wet washcloth the doctor handed her.

  "I'm sorry if I've upset you—perhaps I should have waited until tomorrow." His anger had been replaced with a look of concern. "Are you feeling better?"

  Helen was afraid to answer. Afraid to move.

  "Here's your water." Jason set the pitcher on the bedside table. He looked at Helen, then shifted his gaze to Dr. Kincaid. "What's going on? Are you her doctor?"

  "No, I'm…. Look this isn't a good time. I'll come by later."

  "No, wait!" Helen's plea came out as little more than a whisper. She couldn't let him go without clearing up his obvious misconception. "I didn't lure your mother anywhere, Dr. Kincaid. She called me and asked me to meet her."

  He stared at her for a moment, his frown returning. "Why would she do that?"

  "Irene believes your father was murdered."

  He shook his head. "And you believed her?"

  "I had no reason not to."

  "Mrs. Bradley, my mother, um, stepmother,” he added the phrase as if disowning her,” lives in a fantasy world. My father had a massive coronary. It happened in the presence of several colleagues, medical doctors. I arrived within seconds of the attack, but we were unable to save him."

  "But she seemed so certain."

  Paul sighed. "Lo
ok, Mrs. Bradley, I'm sorry she dragged you into this. The truth is, Irene is an Alzheimer's patient."

  "But she's so young," Helen gasped. "I know it can affect younger people, but…"

  Dr. Kincaid smiled for the first time. "Yes, she does look young. Irene has been using some of our anti-aging products. They've worked wonders on her." He sobered again. "She may look young, but she's actually sixty-nine. She's had symptoms of Alzheimer's for five years. We thought she'd stabilized, but apparently she's getting worse."

  Helen closed her eyes for a moment, picturing the woman she'd met the night before. She tried to superimpose the image Irene's stepson had painted over the impression still fresh in her mind. The two didn't fit.

  Chapter Four

  Dr. Kincaid exited, looking rather like a peacock with his tail feathers at half-mast.

  "What was that all about?" Jason asked.

  "I'll tell you later." Helen's interest in the Kincaids vanished as her aching body reminded her all too abruptly where she was and why.

  The rest of the day went by much as the previous night, with the same regularity of interrupted naps, medications, ice packs, and periodic checks by nurses. Then there were the walks. Four times nurses who could have passed as army sergeants ordered Helen out of bed to walk to the toilet, then up and down the halls.

  By midafternoon the desire to be put out of her misery had dissipated. After a tedious bath, she'd ditched the open-backed hospital gown and, with the aid's assistance, donned the new cotton nightgown and teal velour robe Susan had packed for her. The clothes, a little makeup, and a brush through her hair made her feel and look almost normal. Helen eyed the reflection in the television screen. Much better.

  As much as she hated the idea of letting JB know what had happened to her, she had to try. If he'd been the one injured, she would want to know immediately. There had to be some way to get in touch with him. Helen eyed the telephone sitting on a bedside stand just out of reach. Jason had already called JB's office. Even if they knew, they probably wouldn't tell her anything. Maybe she'd try later. Helen tipped her head back and closed her eyes, then put her fears about her husband on God's much broader shoulders.