Secrets at Sweetwater Cove

by Sally Roseveare

  “Okay, I guess.” He tossed his backpack into the seat behind him and looked out the window.

  “That’s good.” She patted his leg. “You’re growing so fast I can hardly keep you in clothes. The stores at River Ridge are having great sales,” she’d announced, “so I took off early from work. We are going shopping.” She beamed at him.

  “Aw, Mom. I have plans,” he’d said.

  “Well, they’ll just have to wait.”

  That was four hours ago. Now he hurried to the phone and dialed the number for the umpteenth time. “Mrs. Harris,” he said when Aurora finally answered the phone, “I’ve been trying to call you for an hour, but your line’s been busy. Oh, this is Kurt.”

  “Hey, Kurt. I’m sorry. Our phone’s been tied up. I didn’t get your message from this morning until after you left for school.”

  “Like I said in the phone message, I saw the black van at 2:30 this morning. What I forgot to tell you was that after I saw the van, I sneaked in my parents’ bedroom and took my dad’s night vision goggles out of his closet.”

  Goosebumps raced down Aurora’s arms. “Surely you didn’t get close enough to get the license number.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did. Got it written right here on this piece of envelope.” He grinned when he heard Aurora’s shout. “You want it?”

  “Would you like to catch a 50-pound striper? What do you think? Of course I want the license number. Hold on a sec while I find a pencil with a point.”

  With the phone still to his ear, Kurt grabbed his backpack and hurried upstairs to his bedroom. He had a lot of homework tonight.

  “I’m back,” said Aurora.

  Kurt read off the license number. “And guess what else? It’s a Chevy cargo van. Don’t know the year, though.”

  “I owe you a big one, Kurt. Thanks a lot.”

  “No problem. Uh, I mean you’re welcome.” His grandmother had fussed at him for saying “no problem” instead of “you’re welcome,” said it was bad manners. He thought about trying to break the habit, but decided he wouldn’t say it when she was around. She lived out of state. How hard could that be?

  “One more thing before we hang up. What were you doing up at 2:30?”

  “I was working on a science project that’s due tomorrow. Still have more to do, so I’d better go.” He plopped down on his bed and pulled a notebook from the backpack.

  “Okay. Thanks again, Kurt. I’ll let you know what develops.” As she hung up the phone, she hoped if she ever had a son he’d grow into the kind of kid Kurt was.

  “Aurora, you’d better stay off the phone. Robert’s secretary might call you any minute,” Sam said when his wife started dialing again. He opened the kitchen door and let the dogs in.

  “You’re right. I’ll use my cell.” Quickly she located her cell phone and called Dixie Lee.

  “Hello, Aurora dear,” answered Dixie Lee as soon as she recognized her new friend’s voice. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. But I have an important question to ask you. Do you still have the license number Hessie blurted out a day or so ago? You know, the one she said was on the black van?”

  “I’m not sure, dear. Maybe. Why?”

  Aurora told her about Kurt’s message that morning, about talking to the cleaning lady at Kurt’s house and discovering that she knew Dixie Lee. “I just hung up from talking to Kurt. He has the license number of the black van. I know you already gave the number to me, but I can’t find the napkin I wrote it on. I want to see if his numbers match Hessie’s.”

  “Well, so do I. Now wouldn’t that be exciting. Hold on and I’ll go look in my purse.” Aurora heard “How Sweet It Is to Be Loved by You” by James Taylor playing in the background at Dixie Lee’s house. She tapped her foot to the beat.

  “I’m back. Would you like me to read it to you?”

  “You found it! You are one amazing lady. Yes, please do.” Each number and letter Dixie Lee read off matched Kurt’s except for the last number, which was missing.

  “You know, dear, I bet your Uncle Charlie would think it’s interesting that we have a license number for that van. Do you think I should call him?”

  “I think he’d like to know about the license number, too, Dixie Lee. Yes, why don’t you call him?” Aurora guessed that Uncle Charlie would feign interest just to hear from Dixie Lee.

  “Thanks again, Dixie Lee. I’ll call Lieutenant Conner right now.”

  The minute Aurora started dialing the cell phone, the other phone rang. Sam answered and passed the phone to his wife. “It’s the call you’ve been waiting for.” Aurora turned off the cell.

  “Ms. Harris, this is Georgeanne, Robert Reeves’ secretary. I have a report on Jill. And the baby, too.”

  Aurora sat down on the sofa. Sam moved over beside her. “I’m ready,” Aurora said into the mouthpiece.

  When she hung up a few minutes later, Sam handed his wife a tissue, cradled her in his arms. She wiped her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, Susie-Q. I know more bad news is hard for you to take.”

  Aurora lifted her head, smiled at him. “The news is good.” She blew her nose.

  “Good? Then why are you crying?”

  “Because I’m so happy.” She laughed, wiped tears from her cheeks. “I’m sorry, but you know I cry when I’m happy or sad. I can’t help it.”

  “True. So what’s the word on Jill and the baby?”

  “Georgeanne told me that the front and side air bags saved Jill’s life. The baby’s, too. Jill has some bruises from the force of the bags, a black eye, a concussion, and her left wrist is broken. The baby—a boy, by the way—seems to be doing fine. Jill will remain in the hospital for a few days just to be on the safe side.” She patted the two dogs’ heads when they rubbed against her leg. “And that’s good. We don’t want her developing complications.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Tuesday Morning

  “Field Lieutenant Conner isn’t in right now,” said the receptionist. “Sergeant Johnson, his partner, is available. Would you like to speak with him?”

  “Please,” said Aurora.

  When Sergeant Johnson picked up the phone, Aurora identified herself and told him that Kurt saw a black cargo van across the street at Hessie Davis’ house at 2:30 Monday morning, and that he had the van’s license number.

  “Not only that,” she said, “but now Hessie is missing.”

  “Yeah, Lieutenant Conner and I have been looking into that. This is the first I’ve heard that a black van may be involved, though.” He wrote the license number on a piece of paper. “I’ll run a check on it right away.”

  “You do know Hessie has Alzheimer’s, don’t you?” Aurora asked.

  “Yeah, we’ve been operating on the premise that she just plain wandered off. Happens often. We’ve been searching within a one-mile radius. She’s old; we didn’t think she could’ve gone far. Guess now we’d better enlarge the search parameters.”

  “The other interesting thing that I haven’t told you or Lieutenant Conner is that Hessie was almost hit by a black cargo van near the intersection of Spawning Run Road on Saturday morning.” She shifted the phone to her other ear.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. The driver was rude and hateful to her, called her a retard. King and I witnessed the way he treated her. Dixie Lee Cunningham, Hessie’s caretaker, told me that later on Saturday Hessie blurted out a license number—the same number I just gave you except for the last digit—and she also remembered that the man was driving a black van. And Hessie hadn’t forgotten that the man had called her a retard, either.”

  “Thanks for the info, Ms. Harris. I’ll call you when we find the the van’s owner. You can help identify him.”

  “Okay. And it’s Aurora, remember?”

  After hanging up she wished she’d thought to ask Sergeant Johnson about the hit and run driver who had totaled Jill’s car and nearly killed her and the unborn baby. Had they found him? Had they located any w
itnesses? She called him back and told him about Jill.

  “Yeah, we’re investigating the accident, too. Haven’t found a witness yet, but we will eventually. I’m heading to Westlake in a few minutes to see if I can dig up some witnesses.” He thanked Aurora again for her interest and hung up.

  Aurora looked at the kitchen clock, drummed her fingers on the counter, poured a third cup of coffee. She took a couple of swallows and dumped the rest in the sink. She needed to be doing something. Beside her, King whined, rubbed his head against her knee. Little Guy whined. She decided to work on the Lexington travelogue project for a while.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Tuesday, 10:15 a.m.

  At Sweetwater Cove Country Club, Blanche sipped on a Bloody Mary, glanced at her diamond-encrusted gold watch. So what if it was only a little past ten on Tuesday morning. She didn’t give a hoot. Tomato juice and V-8 juice were breakfast drinks, right? The vodka just added a little kick, a kick she seemed to need more often these days. She was antsy, different, but she didn’t know why. Could it possibly be because Tom was gone? Surely she couldn’t miss him so much. For all these years she’d thought of Tom as a meal ticket, someone to pamper her, shower her with trinkets, smother her with the finer things in life. And, in her opinion, she deserved the attention Tom gave her. She was spoiled; she always had been. Her parents had seen to that. She enjoyed being spoiled, liked having underlings kowtow to her every whim. But without Tom, something was missing. Could she actually care about him? Miss him just a teeny bit? Or maybe a lot?

  The club bartender appeared at her shoulder, refilled her glass, stuck a fresh celery stick in it. “Any word on Mr. Southerland?” he asked.

  “No, Jip. But my fingers are crossed.” She smiled at him.

  The buzzer signaling other arrivals sounded and in walked Lillian, Mary Ann, and Estelle. “It’s chilly in here, don’t you think?” asked Estelle. She rubbed her hands together.

  Both Mary Ann and Lillian agreed.

  “Not to me,” quipped Blanche.

  “You’re never cold, Blanche,” said Mary Ann. Except in your heart, she thought, as she laid the cards on the table and the four of them drew for deal.

  “Looks like I deal,” said Lillian, as she turned over the five of diamonds. She wondered if the three of hearts, the four of hearts, and the two of clubs the other three had drawn meant the cards would be lousy today. Or would it be a bad day period? She shivered.

  The bartender interrupted their conversation. “Mrs. Southerland, you have a call.” He handed her a portable phone. “It’s your housekeeper.”

  Blanche frowned. Maria had orders to never call her at the club. “This had better be important,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am, it is. The sheriff called here. He’s been trying to find you. He asked if I knew where you were. I know you don’t like nobody calling you at the club, so I figured I’d pass the message on and you can call him back if you want to.” She paused, dreading the string of expletives that would fly out of the receiver. “It’s about Mr. Southerland.”

  “About Tom?” The color drained from Blanche’s face. “Did the sheriff say what?”

  “No, ma’am. But he gave me a number for you to call.”

  Blanche grabbed the score pad and pencil, jotted down the number, and hung up. She picked up her Bloody Mary and the portable, walked away from the bridge table. She identified herself to the woman who answered the phone and was connected to the sheriff immediately.

  “Mrs. Southerland, we found your husband,” he said. He heard her gasp. “He’s alive.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Blanche sank into an overstuffed chair, fought to control her emotions. She didn’t want the bridge girls to see her crying.

  “He’s in a coma. But for right now, he’s alive.”

  “Where is Tom? And where did you find him?” Suspicions of Tom being found in some kind of love nest ran through her brain. Could she ever forgive him for that? And what would her friends think?

  “I’m not sure we should go into detail right now. Is anybody there with you?”

  “My three bridge buddies are here. I’ll call them.” Blanche gestured frantically to Mary Ann, Lillian and Estelle to come. They hurried to her side, and Blanche quickly told them about the phone call.

  “Sheriff, what’s wrong with my husband?” Her hand shook as she raised the Bloody Mary to her lips. The celery stick bumped her nose.

  “Mrs. Southerland, your husband is at a hospital in Charlottesville.”

  “How in heaven’s name did he get there?”

  “He was airlifted off Smith Mountain. The EMTs on the scene thought it best that he go there immediately.”

  “What was he doing on Smith Mountain?” Blanche asked.

  “We don’t know why he was on Smith Mountain. He can’t tell us anything; he’s in a coma, remember?” He didn’t mention that Tom had been found in a freezer, that part of a toe had been chewed off, and that he wasn’t expected to survive. She’d learn that soon enough. “His condition is critical.”

  “Oh, my,” said Blanche. She stared at her friends, took a sip from her glass. “I’m going to Charlottesville.”

  “Are you up to driving yourself?” the sheriff asked.

  “Estelle will take me.” She looked at Estelle. “Right?”

  “Well….”

  Estelle didn’t want to drive Blanche to Charlottesville. Each way would take over two hours, not counting the time she’d have to spend waiting in the hospital. And she’d be with Blanche, a person she could barely stand, the entire time. The one thing that would make the trip to Charlottesville tolerable would be if Tom died and she’d no longer need to pretend when around Blanche. She had nothing against Tom. He was a nice, honest man. But he was incompetent. He never deserved the contractor job. And if Tom died, her husband Dave would be the contractor—a position that should have been awarded to him three years ago.

  “Right, Estelle?”

  “I’ll need to make a few phone calls first,” Estelle said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Tuesday, 10:30 a.m.

  “No, deputy, I didn’t see a thing. I heard the crash, though. It was loud. Made me jump. Figured surely someone was killed in the wreck,” said the shop employee to Sergeant Johnson. She put her waiting customer’s purchase in a bag, smiled, told her to have a nice day, and turned her attention back to the deputy. “Surely someone shopping or working here witnessed the accident, though.”

  A frustrated Sergeant Johnson was beginning to think everyone who came to Westlake wore blinders. He’d checked twelve stores so far. Nothing.

  The employee rang up another customer, told her how much she’d enjoy the Halloween sweater and said goodbye. “Have you thought about leaving flyers in the shops? Or handing them out as people come out of the grocery stores? Maybe if you checked around the same time the wreck occurred, you’d run into people who saw something,” she said.

  “The department’s working on flyers right now. Should be ready soon. A deputy will come back later to distribute them. Thanks for your help.” He left the store.

  Outside, he drove to a parking space near the traffic light at Booker T. Washington Highway and the entrance to Westlake Center. He studied the intersection Jill Reeves had pulled into when she left Westlake. Traffic, this time of day, was light. He thought about the pictures he’d seen of Jill’s wrecked car, marveled at how she’d survived the impact. That meant the hit and run vehicle had been heading north. A thought occurred to him. Had the “bad” car turned right at the next light? If so, maybe someone in one of the shops on Scruggs Road had seen the car.

  He drove into the intersection and took a right. He made another right at the next light, and parked at the first strip mall. He stopped in each shop and asked if anyone had seen a badly damaged vehicle pass the store on Monday afternoon between 4:45 and 5:15. No one remembered seeing anything. Sergeant Johnson continued to each store in the other shopping strips, asked the same question.
No luck. He sighed, crossed Scruggs Road and into The General Store’s parking lot.

  “Ma’am,” he said to the woman behind the counter, “I’m Sergeant Johnson. I’m hoping you can help me.” He told her about the wreck.

  “I saw it on the 11:00 news last night. This morning, too. They said the driver of the one car is alive,” she said. Sergeant Johnson nodded. “It’s a miracle she survived,” said the clerk. “I can’t believe the other car didn’t even stop.”

  “Do you remember seeing a car that looked as though it had been in a wreck drive by here late yesterday?”

  “I didn’t, but let me go ask the girls downstairs.” She returned a few minutes later with another woman. “Ruby, this is Deputy Johnson. Tell him what you just told me.”

  “Lessee. I’m guessing it was a little after five. I’d left a little early—we close at 5:30—and I pulled out of the parking lot onto Scruggs Road. This car came up behind me, real close, you know. The driver blew his horn like a crazy person. I could see in my rearview mirror that the front end was all bashed in. The driver sure was in a hurry. He couldn’t pass me because cars were coming in the other lane. I turned into the Dairy Queen’s parking lot to get out of his way. When I did, he floored it, ‘cause the car sped out of sight. That’s when I saw that the front right side was messed up, too.”

  “Did you see his license number? Could you tell what kind of car it was?” Sergeant Johnson could hardly contain his excitement. This was the news he’d been searching for, not much information so far, but at least something.

  “The car was dark, black, or dark gray. I didn’t see a license plate on the front.” She smiled at a customer who walked by. “I don’t know what kind of car it was. Not a truck or an SUV or a minivan, though. I’m sure of that. My guess is it was some kind of small car. At least it looked pretty low to the ground to me.”

  “You’ve been a big help, Ruby. We’ll probably want to talk to you again.” He started to leave.

  “Wait. You asked earlier if I saw the license number. I didn’t see the front plate. But I saw the first digit on the back plate. It was either the number ‘1’ or the letter ‘I’.”