Secrets at Spawning Run

by Sally Roseveare

  “I never listen to the messages on Mr. Lampwerth’s answering machine. To me it’s like rummaging through somebody’s purse. But a little while ago I noticed there were twenty-three calls on it. I don’t know how many it will hold, and besides, some could be important. So I listened.” She paused, wanting assurance from Jill that she hadn’t violated Mr. Lampwerth’s privacy.

  “You did the right thing, Lucille. Please go on.”

  “Several messages were from you. But the last one—it came in several hours ago while I was at the market—was from a national dog registry. Evidently, someone in Virginia has Russell. Seems a woman found him and took him to a vet. He was identified through the microchip in his neck. Thought you’d want to know.”

  “Lucille, that’s good news. Where in Virginia is he?” Jill picked up a pen and reached for her notepad.

  “Oh, let me see. I wrote it down on a piece of paper … now where did I put that? I had it just a minute ago.” Jill waited while Lucille rummaged through papers stacked on the telephone table in the penthouse. “Here it is. Let me see, it says Smith Mountain Lake, Virginia, and gives a phone number to call for directions and information. A Dr. Eggleston reported Russell to the registry, then the registry called Mr. Lampwerth and left the message I just told you about.”

  Jill jotted down the information, thanked Lucille, and dialed the veterinarian.

  “Ms. Hathaway, I’m relieved the registry found you. Yes, the dog will recover. Mrs. Aurora Harris found him—he’d been injured—and she brought him to me. I had him for a couple of days. Aurora picked him up late yesterday. You can probably catch her at home.” He added, “Good thing you had a microchip implanted.”

  Jill didn’t tell Dr. Eggleston she wasn’t Russell’s owner. She poured herself a cup of coffee and called the number the vet gave her.

  “Hello.”

  “May I speak with Aurora Harris?”

  “This is she. What may I do for you?”

  “Mrs. Harris, my name is Jill Hathaway. I’m calling from Washington, D.C. A veterinarian, Dr. Eggleston, gave me your telephone number, said you had my dog. Actually, Russell belongs to my boss J. Melton Lampwerth, who hasn’t been seen since Friday afternoon. Maybe you’ve seen him. He’s in his sixties, short and heavy, has gray hair but going bald, wears expensive clothes, suits mostly.”

  “Afraid I’ve seen only a dog. What does your missing dog Russell look like?”

  “He’s a Jack Russell terrier, white with brown spots. He’s incredibly smart.”

  “The dog I found sounds like Russell. I’ve been calling him Little Guy. Afraid I haven’t seen anyone that matches Mr. Lampwerth’s description, though.” Aurora added, “Did Doc Eggleston tell you that Little Guy, sorry, I mean Russell, had been shot?”

  Jill gasped. Shot! Why? And how did Russell get to Smith Mountain Lake, and where was Lampwerth? Jill told Aurora she would make arrangements to have Russell picked up in a couple of days, and hung up.

  Aurora wondered if the body in the lake could be Lampwerth, but she hadn’t mentioned it to Jill. After all, there wasn’t a body for Jill to identify. She decided to tell Lieutenant Conner about Russell and Mr. Lampwerth.

  Jill waited impatiently at Reagan National Airport for Robert Reeves. She glanced at the clock on the terminal wall. Ten-thirty p.m. She was irritated and starving. If she’d known his flight would be so late, she would have eaten a decent dinner instead of a burger, fries and shake. She checked the arrival board. Robert’s flight should land any minute. This will be the first time in over five years that Robert and I have been alone together. Why am I so nervous? To her surprise, her heart fluttered when he walked into the terminal.

  “Fill me in, Jill,” he said as she rushed to keep pace with his long stride. She told him everything except that he was a suspected embezzler. That could wait.

  “Where at Smith Mountain Lake did the woman find Russell?” Robert asked.

  “Mrs. Harris said 210 Spawning Run Road.”

  “I own a house on Spawning Run Road,” he said. “I built it five years ago. To take my mind off you.” Robert stopped walking and looked straight at her.

  She turned her head away from his piercing eyes. Don’t do this to me, Robert.

  Man and woman walked in silence for a moment. Then he explained that he had often encouraged Lampwerth to spend some quiet time at Smith Mountain Lake, but that Lampwerth never had. “He has a key; I gave him one a couple of years ago. When you first tracked me down and told me he was missing, I assumed he’d finally accepted my offer. But no one answered when I called. That’s why I returned.” He glanced at her. “Sorry if I was curt on the phone.”

  “That’s okay. I understand.”

  Robert retrieved his luggage, loaded it into the trunk of Jill’s car, told her he’d drive, and sped away from the airport. He stopped at Wal-Mart.

  “Jill, I want you to buy yourself a change or two of clothes, a nightgown, and any toiletries you might need.” He looked down at her feet. “And get out of those heels. Buy some comfortable shoes. Here, use my Visa.” He pulled the credit card from his wallet.

  “I can pay my own way. And besides, why should I buy those things?”

  “Because we’re not going back to D.C. We’re driving straight to Smith Mountain Lake. Now.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Friday, April 23

  “What the hell …?” Robert Reeves stood speechless in the large foyer of his Smith Mountain Lake home. Once expensively appointed, the house now contained only a few large pieces of furniture and some room-size rugs. Smaller paintings, sculptures and art objects were missing. Small oriental rugs were gone, too.

  “I’ve been robbed! Stay where you are, Jill. Don’t touch anything. I’ll get the cell phone from the car and call the police.”

  “Robert, what if someone is still in the house?” Jill whispered. “I’ll be damned if I’ll stay in here by myself.”

  “Of course you won’t. Come with me. We can both wait in the car until the police arrive.”

  Jill figured it would be hours before she could get some sleep. She looked at her watch—3:57 a.m. The drive from Reagan National had been long, awkward, and quiet. She had wanted to say something, but somehow idle chitchat didn’t seem appropriate. And now she had a splitting headache.

  Two cars drove into the cobblestone drive, their flashing blue lights bouncing from window to window.

  “Really glad to see you fellows,” Robert said to the two deputies when they climbed from their vehicles. “I haven’t walked through the house yet; don’t know if someone could still be inside, although I doubt it.”

  The lieutenant instructed the other deputy to search the house, then he turned to Robert. “Can you tell me exactly what’s missing?”

  “No, I haven’t done an inventory yet; I thought I should wait until you checked out the house. When I realized I’d been robbed, Jill and I came straight outside and called from the car phone. Like I told you a minute ago, I haven’t walked through the house yet.”

  “That’s fine. We’ll dust for prints, Mr. Reeves, then when we’re finished you can work up a list of the stolen items.”

  Three hours later, Jill sat at the kitchen counter and feasted on warm apple cinnamon buns and strong coffee—black, just the way she liked it. Robert had remembered. Had food ever tasted so good? She silently thanked Robert and his resourcefulness. While she had bought clothes and toiletries in Wal-Mart, he had stocked a newly purchased cooler with a small bag of ice, the buns, a loaf of whole wheat bread, orange juice, butter, cream, bacon, and a dozen eggs. The French-roasted coffee beans came from the freezer in the house. She’d watched while he measured out the correct amount, ground it, and started the coffeepot before joining the policemen fifteen minutes ago. She was glad the cops had said she could use the toaster oven to warm the buns.

  Jill looked around for an ashtray, settled for a Styrofoam cup, and plucked a pack of Virginia Slims and an initialed gold lighter from her p
urse. This definitely isn’t the day to quit smoking, she thought.

  Robert and the lieutenant pored over the inventory list that Robert retrieved from his desk drawer. Now he was glad he’d followed his insurance agent’s advice and listed everything in the house, even though it had been a pain at the time.

  “It seems that the larger valuables were spared,” Robert said, glancing at the Picasso still hanging on the wall. “Smaller original paintings—a Reubens, another Picasso, a Perigal—are gone. All the Repoussé sterling flatware, the antique silver service, a Ming vase, and a framed, original letter signed by Patrick Henry are all missing, as are five Persian rugs.” Suddenly, he hurried to the hall closet. He groaned. “They took my autographed Babe Ruth baseball bat, too.” Robert slumped into a chair.

  “Does anyone check the house periodically?” asked a deputy.

  “Good thought. Yes, the housekeeping service cleans monthly. I’ll call them, they should be opening any time now.” He glanced over at Jill, still in her suit. He wondered how anyone could be that tired and still look so gorgeous. “Is it okay for Jill to change her clothes in the bedroom now?”

  “Sure.”

  Jill flashed Robert an appreciative smile, picked up her bag with the newly purchased items, and hurried to the bedroom Robert had assigned to her. She dressed quickly in dark blue gabardine slacks, plaid navy and teal cotton blouse, and a white crew neck long-sleeved cotton sweater, socks, and sensible walking shoes. She ran a comb through her hair, touched her lips with a medium wine lipstick, took a deep breath, and walked out to join Robert.

  He hung up the phone as she entered the kitchen, turned back to the lieutenant, and said, “Ella Mae last cleaned the house two weeks ago. Everything was in order then.”

  “You’d better come here.” The other deputy poked his head in the doorway and motioned to the lieutenant.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” the lieutenant said.

  “Jill, you said Russell is at 210 Spawning Run Road? That’s the house over there.” Robert pointed in the direction of the rambling stone and wood house on the hillside. “You can’t get a good look at it right now because it’s still too dark out. I tried to buy that house, said he could name his price, but the owner, Jack Anderson, wouldn’t part with it for any amount of money. Said there really were some things money just couldn’t buy. I didn’t like his answer, but I admired the man for his integrity. So he sold me this five-acre piece of property and I hired a contractor from Moneta to build this house. Does it look familiar to you, anything like the villa we visited on the French Riviera?”

  Jill knew she’d never forget those romantic weekends, the perfect days and nights in Villefranche sur Mer, but she bit her lip, looked down at the floor, and remained silent.

  “Sad thing happened a few months ago, though,” Robert continued. “Jack drowned. He’d gone fishing early one morning, and when he didn’t show up at a friend’s house for supper and couldn’t be reached the next day, the friend called the authorities. They found his overturned rowboat, then discovered his body. Somehow he’d gotten his foot tangled in the anchor rope. When the boat overturned, the anchor sank to the lake bottom. And, of course, so did Jack.”

  “How awful.”

  “Nearly broke his daughter’s heart. His wife never missed him, though. She’d been in a nursing home in Lynchburg for a while by then and never even realized he’d died. She had Alzheimer’s. Horrible disease, horrible.”

  The lieutenant hurried into the kitchen. “I need to get the lab guys here,” he said as he reached for the phone. “There’s a faint trace of blood on the foyer floor.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Later on Friday morning, Sergeant Johnson stopped by Aurora’s house to return the video. “It’s okay for you to give the house a good cleaning now.”

  “Good. Don’t think I could put up with this mess much longer.” Then she asked, “What do you think caused all this vandalism?”

  “We’re guessing the vandals wanted the videotape. When they couldn’t find it, they went ballistic.”

  “They’re crazy.”

  Johnson shrugged. “We’ll check back with you later. Put the video in a safe place, lock your doors, and call us if you suspect anything unusual. And if you think of anything else, call one of us immediately. You still have our number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has the body surfaced again?” he asked.

  “No.” She shuddered at the thought.

  “By the way, Ms. Harris, there was a burglary in your neighborhood. Lieutenant Graham investigated it early this morning. A lot of expensive items were stolen. You should be extra cautious, keep your doors locked.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  “I’ll check in with you later,” Johnson said as he left the house.

  Aurora’s mind raced. Who knew about the tape? Other than herself, she could think of only four people: Carole, investigators Lieutenant Conner and Sergeant Johnson—and Luke. She eliminated Carole, of course. Aurora didn’t suspect Conner and Johnson. And she didn’t want to think Luke capable of such a violent act.

  But what do I really know about him? He’s told me nothing about his background. And Johnson and Conner hadn’t heard of the boat attack, even though Luke promised me he’d call the police.

  Frowning at the mess around her, Aurora bent over and picked sofa cushions up from the floor. Those responsible for this must have enjoyed creating it.

  The corner of a gold leaf picture frame poked out from under the bottom cushion, and Aurora froze. Not the N.C. Wyeth painting. Surely even maniacs wouldn’t destroy such a treasure. She carefully extricated her dad’s favorite painting from under the pile and breathed a sigh of relief. The frame was chipped, but that could be fixed. The only damage other than to the frame was a neat slice approximately six inches long on the brown paper backing. That would be easy to fix later. She blew off traces of fingerprinting powder, hung the painting back in its place of honor over the massive stone fireplace, and resumed cleaning.

  An hour later, with little to show for her work, she thumbed through the telephone book in search of a cleaning service. The ringing phone interrupted her.

  “I just heard about Sam, Aurora. That’s terrible. How is he? He will recover, I hope.” She recognized Harold Johns’ voice.

  “It isn’t as bad as we first thought, Harold. He’s home, but needs to stay calm for a few days.”

  “I’m glad to hear he’s recuperating nicely. I imagine your house is a wreck, so I’ve arranged for a cleaning crew to come over today. They’re professionals and will do a good job.”

  “Why, Harold, that’s very kind of you.” Aurora thanked him and hung up. She didn’t like Harold, but she knew she could certainly use the help. And, she admitted to herself, it really was a thoughtful thing for him to do. I’ll go tell Sam. He’ll be pleased.

  Hearing faint singing, she stood outside the bedroom door and listened. She would’ve entered the room, but didn’t want to interrupt Sam’s performance.

  When the singing and strumming stopped, Aurora, laughing, pushed opened the bedroom door. “You must be feeling better. But whatever possessed you to start singing a Carl Perkins / Elvis Presley song? I haven’t heard you sing ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ in years.”

  “I’ve no idea, but it’s been playing in my head for the last half hour, and it finally just popped out.” He put his hand on her shoulder as Aurora bent over him to plump the pillows behind his back. “Come sit with me a while. I’m lonesome.”

  “You have Little Guy for company. What could you possibly want with me?” Aurora teased. She smiled at the mischievous expression on his face. “Later, dear heart. You heard Dr. Cameron say you shouldn’t exert yourself.

  “Seriously, Sam, how do you think Little Guy got here from D.C.? No one that I know of has seen his owner. Ms. Hathaway told me when she called Thursday that the owner’s name is Lampwerth, or something like that, said he owns his own company. Sounds like some big-sho
t businessman.”

  Sam took a good, long look at the woman he loved more than life itself. Worry lines replaced her usual joie de vivre attitude. I’ve been so wrapped up in myself and my injuries that I hadn’t noticed the subtle changes in Aurora. What’s she keeping from me?

  “We really haven’t talked about you, Aurora—it’s all been about me. I haven’t been much help to you. I was in Japan for three weeks, then someone beat up on me. So what’s been going on?”

  He listened as Aurora, sitting beside him on the bed, her legs stretched out on the white matelassé coverlet, reminded him about that first evening after her mother’s funeral when she saw a boat enter the boathouse. “And remember, King woke me one night, and when I turned on the boathouse light a boat sped away. I told you about that. I’m sure someone had been in the house, too. And King and I heard what sounded like gunshots one evening, but then I figured it was either a car backfiring or thunder.” Sam nodded. “You know about Carole’s telephone call—you convinced me to do the promo for her. And I told you about King bringing Little Guy home, and the afternoon fact-gathering tour of the lake with Luke.”

  “Yes, I know all that. But something else is weighing on you, Aurora. What is it?”

  “Where do I start?” She thought for a minute, then said, “Okay, here goes. You remember the day Carole called and asked me to produce a promo for her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The next morning—Wednesday, the same day you were bonked hard on the head—I met Luke on our dock at 4:30 to film the sunrise.” Aurora smoothed a wrinkle in the bedspread. “We were anchored, waiting for the sun to pop up, when suddenly a speedboat nearly rammed Luke’s boat. King fell overboard.”

  “King fell overboard?”

  “Yes. He wasn’t hurt, thank heavens. Luke pulled him back on board. Anyhow, when we returned to the house, I invited Luke in, told him to check out the videotape while I fixed breakfast. It’s amazing, but we had captured a clear shot of the attacking boat. It appeared that the two men on board were looking straight at us, so it couldn’t have been an accident.”