Secrets at Spawning Run
Page 1
Copyright © 2005 by Sally Roseveare
All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to
my loving and supportive husband
Ronald N. Roseveare,
who fell asleep reading the
first page of the first draft.
On the following pages is
the 35th revision of
Secrets at Spawning Run.
I hope, dear Ron,
this version will keep you awake.
and
To the many dogs—past and present—in my life
who have given me unconditional love
and never-failing loyalty.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deepest gratitude to Marilee Earle, Carol and Jerry Downey, Betsy McLean, Ron Roseveare, Jr., Lou and Bob Womack, and Nancy Fitzgerald for reading my manuscript in its various stages and offering helpful suggestions and critiques; to Derek Lee of Scuba Schools of Virginia for his technical advice; to Mary Lou McDonald for hervaluable input; to Karen Wrigley for her suggestions and encouragement.
Special thanks to good friends Marilyn Fisher, Wanda Garner (who convinced me to put my stories on paper), and Janet Shaffer. Without you three ladies, our monthly meetings and your support, I may not have continued. I wish you great success with your books.
The Lake Writers, sponsored by the Smith Mountain Arts Council, allowed me to bounce ideas—some good, many bad—off them and offered constructive criticism and encouragement. Many of these talented folks are published authors themselves; others will soon be published.
Becky Mushko—fellow Lake Writer, author of three published books, newspaper columnist, winner of numerous contests and awards—became my “literary midwife.” I laughed and learned every time she scrawled “Aarrgghh!” and “Cliché!” and “Passive Voice!” (among other things) across my pages. Thank you, Becky. If any portions of the book still need fixing, the fault lies not with Becky or with any of the people listed above. I am a stubborn Southern gal who occasionally ignores excellent advice.
To Carolyn Egan, friend and artist, thank you for the original art work for the book cover. From the moment I started believing Secrets at Spawning Run would actually be published, I hoped you would be available to do the cover. You didn’t let me down.
CHAPTER ONE
Tuesday, January 13
Luke followed the overturned boat’s anchor rope into the depths of Smith Mountain Lake, slid his gloved hand down the rope until he hit a knot, then flipped on his underwater light. He didn’t like winter diving in Virginia, disliked wearing the necessary dry suit instead of a wet suit, but at least visibility was better than in summer. And he knew that winter temperatures and forty-degree water always slowed the decomposition and bloating of victims’ bodies.
He found the body suspended several feet above the bottom of the lake, the anchor rope twisted around the dead man’s ankle, the anchor partially buried in the mucky bottom.
Luke forced himself to pay attention to the task ahead of him. Relaxing his guard for even one second in this manmade lake with its underwater secrets could make him a victim also. He’d tag the boat, the police would take over, and his job would be finished.
On shore, spectators who’d gathered to watch were saying the victim most likely had committed suicide. Luke had heard them talking while he put on his diving gear, but he didn’t believe the man had killed himself. Luke had this gut feeling about the man’s death, kind of a sixth sense that said….
Well, it’s out of my hands, anyhow, none of my business. A damn shame, though. I bet all the poor guy wanted was to catch a striped bass.
Late that afternoon, three hundred fifty miles south of Smith Mountain Lake, Aurora Harris stood on the River Walk in Augusta, Georgia, and tossed a red Frisbee to a black Lab. She tripped on a tree root and fell. The dog galloped back to her, licked her face. Laughing, she pushed the Lab away. She stood and plucked dead leaves out of her blonde hair, and brushed twigs and dirt from her Land’s End jacket.
A man stepped out from the shadow of a century-old live oak tree and whistled. The dog barked a greeting and Aurora smiled. The man walked toward them.
“Sam, what a wonderful surprise!” Aurora pulled her camera from its case. “Do you have time to help me get some shots of King catching the Frisbee?”
“Aurora, I have bad news.” Sam took her hands in his. He watched her bright smile disappear and tears well in her eyes.
“It’s happened, hasn’t it? I knew this day would come, but I hoped I’d have more time with her.”
Sam wrapped his arms around his wife. A single tear ran down his cheek. He didn’t bother to wipe it off. “It’s not Margaret, Aurora.”
“Not Mother? Uncle Charlie, then?”
“No.”
Aurora pushed away from Sam, her green eyes searching his blue ones. “Not Dad. Sam, don’t tell me it’s Dad.”
“My darling Aurora, I’m so sorry.”
“But Mom’s the one who’s sick. Not Dad. He’s healthy as a horse.”
“It was an accident, Aurora.” Sam refused to accept the cops’ theory that Jack killed himself. He hoped no one would suggest such a thing to Aurora. She’d miscarried five months ago, and now this. He wondered how much more his wife could endure.
“How …?”
“Jack apparently went fishing. Seems a couple of fishermen found his fishing cap snagged on a log near the shore and his rowboat turned over. Somehow Jack’s ankle became twisted in the anchor rope, and….”
“No! I don’t believe it. Dad was always so careful in his boat. There must be some mistake.”
“No, Aurora. There’s no mistake.”
CHAPTER TWO
Thursday, April 15
Why couldn’t she shake this feeling of danger? She wanted to run, to escape, but she couldn’t go back to Augusta now. Aurora steered her Jeep into the driveway at 210 Spawning Run Road and drove past the barn and paddocks. Today the cedar and stone house on the wooded knoll didn’t beckon her, didn’t promise the usual warm, uplifting thoughts of family and friends. She dreaded opening the front door of her parents’ house at Smith Mountain Lake, Virginia.
“This would be easier if Sam were with us, King. I wonder where he is. He should have met us at the funeral. Hope he’s not still in Japan.” She parked near the flagstone walkway.
King whined and licked her face. His thick, black tail beat staccato-fashion against the back of the passenger seat.
“You know where we are, don’t you?” King barked. Aurora opened the door and watched her dog leap from the car and race down the steep hill to the lake.
Aurora stared at the house. She didn’t want to go inside. She wanted to leave, drive back home to Augusta. Today would be the first time she’d entered the house since her father’s funeral three months earlier. And here she was, back for her mother’s funeral. At least her mother’s death was expected. A blessing, some folks said.
Hooking her purse over her shoulder, she blinked back tears, then pulled the house keys from the pocket of her black linen jacket, picked up a bag of groceries and an open can of Sprite, and walked toward the house. With shaking hand, she unlocked the door. Instead of the closed-up, stuffy house smell she expected, familiar scents of her dad’s Sir Walter Raleigh pipe tobacco and her mother’s lavender and rose potpourri greeted her. She could almost feel the presence of her parents.
She set the grocery bag and the soda can on the kitchen counter and looked around the room. Someone’s been in the house. I can feel it.
Nothing seemed out of place, and yet…. Something’s wrong, different. But what? She crossed into the large living room, turned, and stared at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves flanking the massive stone fireplace.
“Someone’s moved the books!” she said aloud. “They’re no longer in alphabetical order by author or in their correct section!” She ran a finger along the books’ spines, pulled The Black Arrow by Robert Louis Stevenson from the reference section and stuck it back in with the classics. The skin on the back of her neck tingled.
She hurried to the kitchen door and called, “King, come!” The Lab grabbed a stick and bounded up the hill.
“Good boy. We’re going to check out this house, see if anyone’s hiding inside.”
They searched every room. Two antique vases rested on the living room mantel as they had for over twenty years, but not in their usual spots. On the kitchen counter, the Kitchenaid mixer faced the wall. Her mother had always turned it toward the kitchen. “The counter just looks tidier that way,” her mother had said. Aurora knew her dad hadn’t changed it. He probably never even used the mixer after his wife moved into the nursing home three years ago. If he had, Aurora would have noticed when she closed up the house after his funeral.
Clack! Clank-clink! She jumped when she heard the noise behind her and whirled around.
“That’s a relief! I guess I didn’t close the door all the way, and the wind blew the Sprite can off the counter. I half expected to see an axe murderer standing there. That can made lots of noise when it hit the tile floor, didn’t it, King?”
King licked up the few drops of Sprite dripping from the can and sniffed around for more. “Come on, boy, we still need to check the basement. I’ll mop the floor later.” She set the can in the sink, then left the kitchen. King followed.
Aurora opened the basement door, flipped on the light, and peered down the steps. She and King stood motionless as she strained to hear the slightest sound. Then with King leading, she started slowly down the stairs. A board squeaked under her foot, and she jumped. She stopped and listened. Her heart pounded. She reached the bottom step and glanced around her dad’s tidy workshop. Satisfied that no one was hiding in the basement, she went back up the stairs and closed the door. I know I have to deal with the memories in the basement, but not until tomorrow.
King whined and Aurora let him outside. She mopped up the mess caused by the spilled soda, then made several more trips to the car for her cameras, luggage and the rest of the groceries. After putting the perishables away and opening a few windows to freshen the house, she stepped out the door to inhale the essence of the lake she loved so much. Why can’t I stand being in this house? Got to get over that, stop dwelling on my grief.
When she heard King’s high-pitched bark, Aurora went back inside, snatched a mystery novel from her tote bag, then hurried along the winding path to join her dog at the dock.
“King?”
The Lab, trembling with the anticipation inherent in all good hunting dogs, teetered on the edge of the dock. Aurora scanned the lake’s surface. Less than five feet away a water bird struggled on its side. Aurora recognized the bird as a pied-billed grebe—a chunky, brown, duck-type bird with very little tail, a dark ring around his short bill, a black patch on his throat. And this one needed help.
Oblivious to King’s barking, another grebe farther from the dock squawked to her mate. Aurora unlocked the boathouse storage shed and grabbed a long-handled net. She leaned out over the water to scoop up the frightened bird, but he flapped out of her reach.
“Fetch, King!”
King hit the water with a splash. When his head and shoulders surfaced, he swam straight toward his quarry. Panicked, the grebe screeched and tried to swim away, but King caught it. With the bird firmly in his mouth, King swam back to the dock. He dropped the grebe in Aurora’s out-stretched hands and shook water from his black coat. Then he stretched out next to her feet.
“Good boy, King. Good boy.”
Sitting on the dock, Aurora cradled the terrified grebe between her thighs while she examined the bird’s body. Something was twisted tight around his neck and one of his legs. “You poor thing. Every time you try to paddle with your feet, the pull on your neck chokes you and causes you to topple over. Ouch! Don’t peck me again, okay? I’m trying to help you.
“A necklace? That’s weird. Bless your heart, how’d you ever get yourself all tied up like this?”
Despite his struggling, Aurora managed to free the bird’s leg. Then she worked on unwinding the necklace from around his neck. “Whew, that was trickier than straightening out a knotted ski rope! Hope you make it, sweetie.” She placed the exhausted bird in shallow water and moved away. Aurora worried that the released grebe wouldn’t respond to the throaty calls from his mate, but finally the bird slowly swam toward deeper water and the other pied-billed grebe.
“Don’t go dressing up again with bangles and beads, okay?” Aurora hollered. She thought about running back up to the house to get her camera, but worried that the bird might need more help. She couldn’t risk leaving until she was sure he was okay.
As she watched from the dock, Aurora wondered if the grebes had a nest hidden, if there were eggs or chicks to be cared for. She waited until both birds dived below the surface. When they popped back up, she smiled and yelled, “Yes!”
She picked up the necklace from the dock and fingered it. How did the grebe get the necklace? Did someone accidentally drop the necklace in the
lake? Threw it away, maybe? Did a woman wearing the necklace fall into the lake and drown? Was the woman’s body under the dock? Aurora shivered.
Stop it. You’re letting your imagination run away with you again. That’s what Sam would think if he were here. “Surely there’s a simple explanation,” he’d say. And he’d probably be right.
She hung the necklace on a peg in the storage shed and dragged a lounge chair onto the dock. Aurora settled down to read, but couldn’t concentrate on her book. Instead, she watched the pair of grebes diving and swimming in the cove. She decided she’d take time to canoe the shoreline, try to spot their nest before she returned to Augusta. The early evening wind whipped her hair. She looked up at the dark clouds whizzing across the sky and frowned.
King tugged on her shirt. “I know. It’s getting dark, we’re about to be hit with a bad storm, and I bet you’re ready for your supper.” Aurora returned the lounge chair to the storage shed, took one last glance at the grebes, and climbed the path to the house.
Huge raindrops pelted her seconds before she opened the door, and a sharp clap of thunder echoed across the cove. “Darn, I left my book on the dock,” she said and dashed back outside. “Stay, King!” she commanded as the door banged shut behind her.
Angry gray waves slammed against the dock pilings. Dark storm clouds cast eerie shadows over the dock. Despite the rapidly cooling air, beads of perspiration dotted Aurora’s forehead. She bit her lip and tasted fear. What’s wrong with me? This is the home I grew up in; there’s nothing to be afraid of.
As she leaned over to retrieve her book, something moved in the water close to the dock. Instinctively, Aurora flattened her back against the gray boathouse wall. A black bass boat glided silently into the boathouse. She heard muffled voices, then a splash. The boat exited the boathouse as quietly as it had entered.
Aurora exhaled, then took a deep breath. She was scared. Her fear, which started when she left Augusta at 4:00 this morning, had intensified with each passing mile. Now this same fear almost controlled her. Another roll of thunder made her jump as jagged lightning sliced through the sky. Clutching her book, she ran back up the hill to the security of the house.