When Shadows Fall: A Helen Bradley Mystery (Helen Bradley Mysteries Book 5) Page 6

  "Did you?"

  "Of course not. I told you I didn't."

  "Then for goodness' sake, talk to Joe."

  "He'll never believe me. I need time to think. I can't let anyone find out about. . .."

  "About what?"

  Tears gathered in her eyes again, and Helen moved closer. "Rosie, please. Let the authorities handle this."

  "Stay back! I'll use this. I mean it. You're my friend, but there are things you don't understand."

  "Then explain it to me. And while you're at it, you can tell me why you have a gun. I thought you hated guns." Rosie's actions were so out of character, Helen wondered if her friend might be in the middle of a mental breakdown.

  "I can't. Not now." She waved the gun toward the door. "Move."

  "You're taking me with you?" Helen hoped that would be the case. It would give her time to talk some sense into her. And if that didn't work, maybe she could get the upper hand.

  "No. Do I look like an idiot? You'd have me on the floor with one of your karate moves before we got to the car." Rosie glanced at Helen's bag, which was still lying on the floor where she'd set it when she came in. "You don't have your gun in there, do you?"

  Fat lot of good it would do. Even if she had her gun, she couldn't get to it.

  "Rosie, please. You’re only making things worse for yourself."

  "No! Don't say any more. Get into the storage room behind you."

  Helen glanced back. The door to the room in question was slightly ajar.

  "Open it and get inside."

  "Rosie, please don't do this."

  "I mean it, Helen. Don't make me use this. just get in there."

  Helen pulled open the door. Storeroom nothing. It was a closet, lined with shelves. It still had a dowel reaching from one side to the other. Rosie's jacket hung there along with a clear plastic rain slicker. "You're not going to lock me in there, are you?

  "I have no choice. There's something I need to do. You wouldn't understand." She waved the gun again and Helen complied.

  She doubted Rosie would actually shoot her but didn't want to take any chances. As far as Helen knew, Rosie had little or no training in using the weapon. That and her present state made her extremely dangerous. She quickly assessed the situation. The door to the storage room was an original. It had a tendency to swing open, so Rosie had installed a latch on the outside to keep it shut.

  She considered throwing the door open before Rosie had a chance to lock it but decided against it. She didn't want the gun to accidentally go off and hit either one of them.

  "You'll be sorry, Rosie," Helen yelled as the door snapped shut and Rosie slipped the hook in place. "You'd be much better off going to Joe."

  "Maybe, but I don't have much choice."

  Grasping the antique knob, Helen made a final plea. "Yes, you do. Come on, Rosie. Let me out. Let's talk about this."

  Something heavy scraped across the floor, then hit the closet door.

  Helen could hear Rosie securing the front door, then ascending the stairs to her apartment. Moments later, she heard the garage door open and the car start.

  Stepping back a couple feet, Helen rammed her shoulder against the old wooden door.

  Big mistake. Pain coursed through her shoulder and radiated down through her entire body. Helen grabbed her right arm, sank to her knees, and rocked back and forth. She'd temporarily forgotten about the injury she'd incurred earlier last summer in an ambush. The bullet had been surgically removed, and she'd spent several weeks in therapy. She massaged the painful area, hoping she hadn't caused any permanent damage.

  Helen kicked at the door in disgust. Several hefty kicks later, she still hadn't dislodged the screws holding the latch in place. Probably because she was kicking too low. She needed to move her efforts up nearer the latch. She felt along the wall next to the door for a light switch. Nothing. She then reached above her for a light chain and found only air. Widening her search, her hand connected with a shelf toward the back of the closet, and under it was the rod she'd noticed on her earlier inspection. Helen closed her hands around the thick wooden dowel, thinking maybe she could hang from it and use more of her body weight in hitting the door above the knob. The dowel sagged and creaked under her weight. She closed her eyes to the pain in her shoulder and delivered one swift and furious kick. The door seemed to give a bit, but it wasn't enough. Finally, she released the rod and groaned as her shoulder spasmed in rebel­lion. Helen sank to the floor in defeat.

  How could she have been so stupid? Stupid, stupid, stupid. She shouldn't have confronted her. As soon as she realized the murder weapon was hers, she should have gone straight to the authorities.

  Helen couldn't have known Rosie would react that way. Or that she'd have a gun. Had she misjudged Rosie all this time?

  Of course not. Rosie has always been a kind and decent person. She’d do anything for people. She couldn't have killed Ethan.

  So why had she pull a gun on you ?

  Helen released a long sigh and drew her knees against her chest. Berating herself would do no good whatsoever. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she rested her head on her knees. Her anger, both with Rosie and herself, faded along with the adrenaline rush. Her painful joints settled into a dull ache. She'd have to give her body a rest, then try again.

  "Now what?" she asked aloud. No one was at home to miss her. Rosie had probably locked up the store. It could be days before anyone found her. She swallowed back an anguished cry. An overwhelming darkness permeated the closet, sucking the oxygen out and filling her with a deep unexplainable fear. She hated the dark, hated small spaces. Always had.

  Some time ago she'd decided it had something to do with her childhood, yet she had no recollection of anything so traumatic as being locked away in a small space. About the only thing she could blame was the ongoing eruption of violence in her homeland.

  Trying not to think about the tightness in her chest, Helen concentrated on the light slivers filtering in under the door and willed them to expand. Everything will be all right, she assured herself. Rosie wouldn't leave her here for long, would she? Surely not.

  Yet, the Rosie she knew would never have locked her up in the first place.

  Helen frowned as she thought again about her so-called friend. What would have caused her to behave so rashly? Could she have been wrong about, Rosie? Could she have killed Ethan?

  Helen shook her head. She couldn't believe that. Maybe Rosie hadn't killed him, but running away certainly wasn't going to convince the authorities of her innocence. She'd panicked, but why? It wasn't just her fear of being a suspect or being arrested. Rosie knew much more than she was telling. And she had seen Ethan after he'd returned from his trip. Was she protecting someone? Did she know who had killed Ethan? If so, wouldn't she be eager to share that information? Rosie's actions simply didn't make sense.

  "Lord," she whispered, "please get me out of this. And keep Rosie safe." She closed her eyes, meaning only to catch her breath before trying to break out again. She tried to relax and think positive thoughts. Eventually Joe would figure out where the murder weapon had come from and would question Rosie himself. Not many people would have a letter opener with a book-shaped handle. He'd see her easy-to-spot candy-apple red T-bird in the parking lot and notice that the store was closed. If Joe didn't come to her rescue, surely someone else would eventually notice it and realize something was wrong. With that assurance, Helen closed her eyes and tried to relax. Somehow she managed to fall asleep.

  Soon a shuffling noise woke her. She scrambled to her feet. Mice? Her heart hammered against her chest. The sound hadn't come from inside the closet. Someone was walking around on the front porch. A customer?

  "Is someone there?" Helen called. "Help! I'm locked in. Can you get in?"

  "Hang on!" a masculine voice yelled back. "I'm coming."

  "Joe." Helen rested her forehead on the door. "Thank you, Lord," she murmured.

  Several minutes later Joe moved whatever Rosie
had shoved in front of the door and unlatched the hook. Helen stumbled out and flung her arms around the surprised sheriff. "I'm so glad to see you!"

  "Yeah, I'll bet." Joe stepped back and lowered his hands to his sides, looking annoyed. "What happened?"

  "I came to tell Rosie about Ethan." Helen gave him a quick rundown of what had transpired.

  He stared at Helen in disbelief. "You knew that knife was Rosie's and you didn't tell me?"

  Helen shook her head. "I didn't know, not until Rosie and I started talking. I tried to get her to call you. I thought she was going to, but she pulled a gun on me instead."

  Joe ran a hand through his hair. "I knew that gun would be trouble. Tried to talk her out of it."

  "You knew she had it?"

  "While you were up north, she called to ask about getting a permit. Her brother-in-law bought it for her. Thought with so many crazies showing up these days, she needed protection."

  "But Rosie's not a gun person."

  "Tell me about it. She got all of one lesson on using it."

  "I thought as much. The fact that she pulled it on me. . .. Joe, she must be terrified."

  "Hmm. She did sound pretty upset when she called to tell me you were here."

  "Rosie called you?"

  "Yeah. To tell me where to find you. She kept saying she didn't have anything to do with Ethan's death."

  "I'm sure she didn't. Her shock was genuine. Judging from her reaction, though, I think she's hiding something. Or protecting someone." Helen stepped away from the closet and closed the door. In doing so, she noted that she'd pushed the screw holding the latch out about a quarter of an inch. She shouldn't have given up so easily.

  "I'm not convinced that Rosie didn't do it."

  "Joe, you can’t be serious."

  "Look, Helen. I like Rosie. But I have to look at the evidence. We have a witness who says he saw the mayor's car parked in front of the store here last night around five-thirty."

  "She told me that, but surely you aren’t considering her as a suspect."

  "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't. Just because she's Rosie?"

  "Yes." Helen rubbed the back of her neck. "She told me Ethan had been here. He'd come in for a book."

  "And you believe her?"

  "For the most part, I do. Besides, what possible reason would she have to kill Ethan?"

  "Maybe she just got tired of waiting."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Look, it's no secret the two of them were friends. My hunch is there was a lot more going on."

  "I asked Rosie if she and Ethan were having an affair, and she denied it."

  "One of the deputies that went to school with them says Rosie and Ethan dated in high school. He was surprised when Rosie left town. A few months later Ethan up and married Eleanor. Personally I think the flame was still burning. Something was going on between the two of them, that's for sure."

  She sighed. "To be honest, I wondered about that myself. There's something else you should know. Eleanor suspected Ethan was having an affair. I told her I wouldn't say anything just yet. I wanted to check it out. She may have known it was Rosie."

  "Are you suggesting Eleanor killed him?"

  "I don't know." Helen closed her eyes and folded her arms. "I can't imagine either Eleanor or Rosie killing anyone."

  "Yeah, well, we both know how that goes. With enough provocation, just about anyone could do just about anything."

  "I realize that we can't make assumptions, but just the same. . .. Helen stifled a yawn.

  Joe's lips twisted in a reticent grin. "Go on home. I hoped you would work with us on this one, but I'm not sure you can be objective enough."

  Helen managed a smile. "You may be right. Don't give up on me just yet, though. I need time to think on it. Rosie took me by surprise." She shrugged into her jacket and grabbed her bag from the spot on the floor where she'd set it when she came in. "You'll keep me posted?"

  "Will do." Joe stood on the porch with his hands on his hips and watched her drive away.

  Helen didn't need to think too long about being part of the investigation. By the time she pulled into her driveway, she knew she'd have to see it through. She had to find out who had killed Ethan, even if that person was her best friend.

  Chapter Eight

  Once home, Helen tossed her keys onto the coffee table, dropped her bag on the floor, and dragged herself upstairs. Depositing articles of clothing on the way, she padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower. With the temperature to her liking, she stepped under the spray. The hot water pelted her shoulder, easing some of the nagging ache, but not enough. After shampooing, she filled the tub, dropped in a fizzy ball of mineral salts, then settled in to soak away the soreness and, hopefully, her concerns about Rosie.

  It didn't happen. Helen kept envisioning Rosie's reaction to Ethan's death. Though Rosie had denied it, there had obviously been something between them. Were they lovers, as Joe suspected?

  Joe had been right when he questioned her ability to remain objective. Helen couldn't cast Rosie as a killer and so far hadn't come up with a motive. Joe had suggested that maybe she just got tired of waiting. Helen didn't buy that. Yet, in a love triangle, jealousy provided a strong motive for Rosie and perhaps even more for Eleanor.

  Not wanting to think about Rosie, Eleanor, or Ethan, Helen closed her eyes and took several long, lingering breaths.

  She began singing a favorite hymn. Eventually the voices in her head took their battle elsewhere, but in their place trooped in concerns about J.B. Then Ethan and even Chuck. She tried to come up with something to be thankful for, but her mind refused to empty itself of the day's troubles.

  The roof, she finally decided. Alex Jordan was gone, and that most likely meant their roof no longer leaked.

  Twenty minutes later Helen blow-dried her hair, then slipped into her favorite sweats. J.B. had given her the pale pink reverse terry top and pants as a birthday gift. Wearing it made her feel closer to him. She ran a hand over the plush fabric and hugged herself. She'd come to several decisions during her soak. First, she trusted J.B. and knew he would not intentionally hurt her. Second, she refused to expend too much energy worrying about him. He'd probably come back pleading forgiveness. She just wished he'd do it soon.

  Third, she would not try to find Rosie, at least not today. It was already four p.m. and rainy. Dark clouds covered the sky, nearly occluding what little light the day had left. Besides, the hot water had left her so relaxed, she could barely walk.

  Picking up a novel from the nightstand, Helen went downstairs and into the kitchen in search of a snack. She drank a glass of vegetable juice and ate a piece of string cheese. A motherly voice in the back of her mind told her she should eat a proper meal, but she ignored it. She wasn't in the mood for anything substantial, and the snack would take the edge off her hunger. She made peppermint tea, then turned on the gas fireplace in the living room and settled into her Brentwood rocker, putting her feet up on the matching ottoman. Using the remote, she turned on the stereo. She sighed as it began to pour out Vivaldi's The Four Seasons.

  Helen thought about calling Joe to get the status on Rosie but decided against it. She'd promised herself a quiet afternoon and evening, and that was exactly what she intended to have. Hopefully, reading would take her mind off everything, including J.B.

  The book yielded a beautifully crafted story: a historical suspense set in the highlands of the Great Smoky Mountains. Helen found it captivating and was soon lost in the drama and the characters.

  After about an hour of reading and sipping tea, Helen rose from the chair when she noticed the blinking red light on her answering machine. She hadn't seen it earlier when she'd come in. But then she'd been too tired to notice much of anything.

  "You have one message," the automated voice announced. "Monday, eleven-ten." That was about the time she'd found Ethan's body.

  "Hello, luv, it's me. Sorry to have missed you." J.B.'s deep melancholy voice sen
t her heart skittering. "I was hoping to catch you before. . .." After a long pause, he said, "I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about the way I acted this morning. The call took me by surprise. I'll try to reach you later. I'll be away for another day or two."

  "Before what?" Helen asked aloud when the machine clicked off. Another day or two doing what? She tipped her head back. "Where are you, J.B.? What are you up to?"

  Grabbing the receiver, she punched out the number on the Caller ID. The prefix identified it as a Portland number. A few rings later a woman answered.

  "Hello," Helen said. "Is J.B. there?"

  "Hang on a sec. I'll check." Helen heard a shuffling sound, then a muffled, "Hey, anybody here named J.B.?"

  Helen could hear the clatter of dishes, laughing, and talking. He'd apparently called from a restaurant pay phone. At least a full minute went by before the woman came back on the line. "Sorry, nobody's answering. What's he look like? Maybe I waited on him."

  "Tall, silver hair, blue eyes."

  "Big guy and gorgeous. I know who you mean. For an old dude, he was pretty awesome. He and his lady friend had lunch around one."

  Lady friend? J.B. had lunch with a woman? "This woman. Can you describe her?"

  "Blond. Pretty—if you're into tall and skinny. I remember thinking she looked a little too young for him, but whatever. They seemed pretty taken with each other, if you know what I mean. Left around one-thirty, maybe a little before."

  "I see." Helen swallowed back the sudden lump in her throat. "Thank you. Oh, what was the name of your restaurant?"

  "Antonio's Deli. We're down on the waterfront."

  "Thanks." Helen hung up, feeling as if she'd been split open and hung upside down to drain. J.B. with another woman?

  "No," she told herself firmly. "Don't even think it. J.B. wouldn't be having an affair. He loves you." There had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation for his being on the waterfront in a deli. With a woman. Perfectly reasonable.

  She picked up the phone again and dialed the number to J.B.'s condo in Portland. It was also on the waterfront, not far from the deli. They'd talked about giving up the condo after he retired but had never gotten around to listing it with a Realtor. Maybe J.B. hadn't wanted to. Maybe he still used it for. . ..