Secrets at Spawning Run

by Sally Roseveare

  She heard the telephone ringing when she opened the door. Her hand shook as she answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Susie-Q, how’s my favorite girl?” said the familiar voice on the other end of the line.

  Aurora smiled at her husband’s pet name for her. “Sam, I can’t even begin to tell you how good it is to hear your voice. How am I? Physically, I’m fine. Emotionally, I’m a basket case. I wish you were here with me. Are you back in Augusta or still in Japan?”

  “I’m in Augusta now, just walked in the front door.” He paused, then asked in a gentle voice, “How’d your mother’s funeral go?”

  “As well as any funeral, I guess.” She reached into a cabinet and took out a glass. “The folks at St. Stephen’s were wonderful. The choir sang Mom’s favorite hymns, the same ones they sang at Daddy’s funeral—’Hail Thee, Festival Day’ and ‘Amazing Grace.’ The ladies of the church came through with a wonderful reception afterwards, too. I kept looking for you, knew you’d be with me if possible. When you didn’t come, I prayed you were safe.” She filled the glass with tap water and sipped it.

  “I wanted to be there, but my flight from Japan was delayed. Don’t know why, but after we boarded, the plane sat on the tarmac for a couple of hours. I think it was some kind of security problem. Then all passengers were ordered back to the terminal. We re-boarded three hours later. Once we finally took off, an engine quit about thirty minutes into the flight and forced the pilot to return to Tokyo. And, of course, I missed my connection from D.C. to Roanoke. I’d planned to rent a car and drive in for Margaret’s funeral. So sorry I couldn’t be with you. Are you all right?”

  Aurora jumped at a crack of thunder. The lights blinked.

  “Aurora, are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here. We’re having a bad storm. What were we talking about?” She pushed a strand of wet hair away from her face.

  “I asked if you’re okay. You know, okay with the funeral and all. Are you?”

  “As well as can be expected, I guess. But Mom’s death is hitting me harder than I ever dreamed it would. And I don’t understand it. We both know she’s better off now.” Aurora swallowed a sob.

  “I’ve always believed the survivors suffer more than their loved ones who’ve died. Margaret’s gone to a better place, honey.”

  “Your theory may be true in most cases, but I think Dad suffered more than I’m suffering. I think drowning would be the most horrible death of all. Or maybe fire.”

  “But not in Margaret’s case, Aurora. You know that.”

  “Yes, you’re right, of course.

  “There’s something else, Sam. Someone’s been in the house.”

  “What?”

  “I said someone’s been in the house.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The books on the bookshelves in the living room are out of order, and several other things in the house have been moved around. And I sense it. I know someone’s been in here.”

  “Are you and King locked safely inside now?”

  “Yes.” She leaned over and locked the dead bolt on the kitchen door.

  “Was anything taken?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll bet you a long, passionate kiss that the cleaning service moved things around, probably took all the books off the shelves to dust, too. They have a key.”

  “I know, but after Dad’s funeral, I called and told them to stop coming.”

  “They just forgot, Aurora. Erase it from your mind.” Sam added, “Guess it wouldn’t hurt for you to call and ask if anyone cleaned the house, though. Say you want your key back.”

  “I really don’t think the cleaning service was here. After all, things were never out of place when they came on a regular basis before. But I’ll call them tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  “Let me tell you what King did today.”

  “What’d he do?” Sam was glad she’d changed the subject.

  She recounted the grebe’s plight and subsequent rescue. “King has such a gentle, soft mouth that the bird’s feathers weren’t even ruffled. You trained our dog well.”

  “Wouldn’t be much of a retriever if he damaged the goods, now would he?”

  “That’s true. But why would a necklace be on a duck? What do you think?”

  “That’s not something you see every day, I’ll admit. The necklace is costume jewelry, right?”

  “Well, yeah. At least I assume so. I want you to see it, tell me what you think.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I left it in the storage shed on the dock. I was concerned about the grebes, and then the storm came up and I forgot about the necklace. Besides, I know very little about jewelry. You know that.”

  Sam laughed. “Yeah, I surely do. I remember every time I bought jewelry for you. Seems to me you kept only one pair of earrings—I think they were one-carat diamonds—and always returned the other gifts. Then you bought cameras and special lenses. It took me a while to finally learn that you prefer practical presents.” Sam chuckled. “I think your favorite present was the year I inundated you with rolls of 16mm film.”

  “Can you blame me? Rolls of 16mm film are expensive. Besides that, you only get about two minutes and forty seconds of filming per roll. Thanks again for getting me the film.”

  “You’re welcome, Susie-Q. Now back to the necklace. My guess is someone accidentally dropped it from a boat, and the luckless grebe, attracted to something shiny, investigated and got himself in a bind—literally. Good thing you found him.”

  “King found him. King’s the hero here, Sam, not I.” She reached down and patted the Lab’s head.

  Sam and Aurora chatted a few minutes longer. When King whined and pulled on her wrist, Aurora laughed. “I need to feed our canine hero. We walked up from the dock to fix his supper, but the thunderstorm hit as soon as I came inside, and I rushed back down for my book. Still haven’t fed him.

  “One other thing before we hang up, though. Sam, when I ran down to the dock to get my book, a black fishing boat—I think there were two men on board—went in the boathouse. It made me uneasy. Any thoughts on that?”

  “I think fishermen were seeking shelter from the storm.”

  “But they didn’t stay long; they were in and out in seconds. Don’t you think that’s odd? And I heard a splash, too.”

  “Susie-Q, you need to curb that vivid imagination of yours. They were probably fishermen trying to find shelter from the storm, then figured they could outrun it. I wouldn’t worry. After all, you have King there to protect you.”

  “You’re right, I guess. Will you call me tomorrow?”

  “You know I can barely go more than a day without hearing your voice.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I love you and I’ll talk to you tomorrow. ‘Bye.”

  “‘Bye, Sam.”

  An hour later, the rain still beat against the three skylights in the living room. Aurora finished her microwave dinner and cleaned up the few dirty dishes. She lit the gas logs in the fireplace and settled down on the cream colored, overstuffed sofa with her novel. She was glad she had retrieved it before the deluge began. She pulled a blue and white crocheted afghan over her legs to ward off the damp, spring chill from the storm. Tonight she’d escape into fantasy. Tomorrow she’d deal with reality and face the memories lurking in this house.

  King nudged Aurora’s leg, then stretched out on the hearth rug.

  Friday, April 16

  With the sunrise came a clear, fresh dawn. The wet leaves on the trees sparkled in the early morning light, and the ripples on the lake danced and shimmered. Aurora leaned over the deck railing and admired the view of mountains and water.

  Aurora’s dad Jack, an architect with a head for business, had recognized the lake’s potential and invested heavily in lakefront property in 1970. A few years later, he built a two-story cottage and, for a decade, his family spent their summers and weekends at the lake. They moved the
re permanently when Aurora was ten years old. Over the years, Jack added rooms to the home, but the rambling, friendly house still radiated the original cottage warmth and charm.

  “What a paradise,” Aurora said to King as her fingers caressed the big Lab’s head. “This lake never loses its hold on me. Why did I stay away so long?”

  She turned and went inside for her first cup of coffee. She never saw the black boat glide into her boathouse.

  Her breakfast was simple: half a grapefruit (no sugar), a bowl of Total cereal with skim milk, and a second cup of strong, black coffee. At 33, Aurora was slim, attractive, and health conscious. Even though she yearned for a plump, jelly-filled doughnut, she knew she’d better resist the impulse. She’d learned from experience what too many sweets would do to her 5’5” frame, especially her hips.

  After breakfast, Aurora donned a pair of faded jeans, white T-shirt, and a teal sweat shirt with yellow Lab puppies printed across the front. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Big green eyes with flecks of golden brown stared back at her. You’re stalling. Time to get on with it, old girl.

  “King, come,” she called. She opened the basement door. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, she looked around. She hadn’t been in her father’s workshop since he’d drowned; yesterday she’d gone only to the bottom of the stairs. Arranged neatly on the wall to the left hung his drills, hammers, screwdrivers, and hand saw. Another section housed his three power saws. His wood planer stood nearby, ready for use. She noticed his lathe that could turn twelve-inch thick pieces of wood. He’d made it himself.

  Aurora ran her fingers over a picture frame crafted from curly maple. On the workbench an unfinished frame waited for her father to add his final touch. I didn’t know you’d finished a frame for me and started another. Oh, Dad, why were you so careless in that damn boat?

  When she was a junior in college, her film production professor urged Aurora to produce a commercial for the owner of an apple orchard. Only five minutes long, the film was well received by the customer—he liked the quality of her work and the price—and earned her an “A” in her film production class. Her mother suggested that Aurora start a tradition of needlepointing a scene from any film work she produced, so Aurora had painstakingly transferred one of the shots from the commercial to fabric. She soon learned she’d not inherited her mother’s ability to do exquisite needlepoint; it was too complicated, required great concentration, and made her nervous. So she adapted that first design of apple blossoms from the Shenandoah Valley for cross-stitch and discovered she could relax while working on the design. With the completion of that first project, her dad had surprised her with a handsome, curly maple frame. From then on, Jack supplied his daughter with frames, always of curly maple and always with a short message intricately routed in the back of the wood.

  Her mother’s suggestion turned into an enjoyable and lucrative side business for Aurora. Once she finished a cross-stitch design from a promotional film, commercial, or travelogue, Aurora photographed it, selected the correct amount and colors of floss, printed directions, and produced cross-stitch kits. Soon the kits became hot items; gift and needlework shops located in areas where the travelogues were filmed gladly stocked the kits.

  Aurora stayed in her dad’s shop for almost an hour. Reminiscing and fingering tools whose wooden handles shone with the patina of years of use, she felt calm for the first time in months. Unable to face her dad’s death, she’d been furious with him, angry that he’d been so careless in the boat, that he’d drowned and left her to care for her mother alone. She’d depended on his love and support to help her accept the loss of her unborn baby five months before he died. Emotionally, she’d had no real closure since her dad’s death until now. She climbed the stairs and gently shut the basement door. No more suspicions, no more emotional ghosts, no more anger—just fond memories.

  Now she would deal with her mother’s death from Alzheimer’s disease four days ago. Aurora finished reading the many cards and letters she’d received, then picked up her pen and started writing thank-you notes. She wondered if her mother had known somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind that her husband had died.

  “Of course not,” the nurses assured Aurora when she broached the question. But she wasn’t sure, and now she’d never know.

  At 10:30, Aurora pushed herself away from the desk and stretched. I need a break. The thank-you notes can wait a while longer. She hurried to the bedroom and changed into an old blue swimsuit. She picked up her camera bag, called King, and walked down to the lake while the Lab raced ahead of her.

  She held onto the ladder and stuck a bare foot in the water. Brrr. I should have known the lake wouldn’t be warm enough for a swim until mid-May or later. To be honest, I don’t think I could swim in the lake even if it were warm. Dad drowned here. His precious lake killed him. Aurora blinked back a tear and spread her thick towel across the green lounge chair. She stretched out to let the sun warm her.

  King brought her a stick and barked until she said, “Fetch, King,” and hurled it into the water. She laughed when he returned with the stick a minute later and shook. Droplets of cold water sprayed her. After touching Aurora with his nose, King flopped down beside her.

  Lying there on the dock, Aurora reflected on the past ten years and how their lives—hers and Sam’s—had changed. Eight years ago they were living in Roanoke, only an hour’s drive from the lake, when Sam accepted an engineering design job in Augusta, Georgia. The job promised a tremendous opportunity for Sam’s career, and Aurora was thrilled at the chance to experience a new lifestyle. Besides, she reasoned, Augusta was only a six or seven hour drive from the lake; she could visit her folks and the lake every month or two.

  When they were settled in Augusta, Aurora started her own business. With excellent references and film clips of her work in Roanoke to present to potential clients, Aurora’s business soared. Within two years she was recognized as one of America’s top producers of travelogues and promotional films.

  Five years ago Aurora and Sam bought a wonderful old Craftsman-style house two blocks off Highland Avenue in Augusta. Aurora fell in love with it the minute she walked through the front door. The one-story house had huge rooms, a screened porch, and a large fenced-in back yard for King, then two months old.

  When her dad saw the house, he exclaimed, “It’s an authentic Craftsman bungalow, Aurora, built between 1905 and 1929, and it’s in great shape!”

  Aurora grinned at her dad’s enthusiasm. “So you really like it?”

  “Like it? I love it. You kids bought yourselves a real gem.”

  For a few months, life seemed storybook perfect. Then her mother’s behavior, temperament, memory all changed. On her way to a church meeting—at the church she’d attended for over thirty years—Margaret made a wrong turn and ended up 25 miles away in Rustburg, Virginia. A convenience store employee called Jack to come pick her up.

  “I must be losing my mind,” Margaret had said to Aurora when they talked on the phone that night.

  “No, Mom. You’re just not concentrating,” Aurora had answered.

  But a few weeks later when she questioned her father, he admitted his wife’s memory had been bad for nearly a year and was getting worse fast. “Aurora, I’m worried. She’s forgetting things. Last Thursday she tried to refill the same prescription three times in one day. The pharmacist called me and asked what was going on. And this week she called the dentist office four times to make an appointment to have her teeth cleaned. I guess I’ve been covering up for her because I don’t want to admit that something is wrong.”

  “Dad, you’ve got to take her to a doctor. Maybe it’s something simple that medication can fix,” Aurora had said.

  But it wasn’t something simple. The diagnosis was Alzheimer’s disease.

  Caring for his wife at home worked well in the beginning. Then Margaret left a frying pan filled with bacon grease on a lit burner. Jack extinguished the fire that developed, but not b
efore the cabinets above the stove were charred.

  “Margaret, you could have burned the house down. What were you thinking? You could have been killed!” Jack had said.

  “I’m so sorry, Jack. Do you still love me?”

  “Of course I love you, sweetheart,” he’d said as he cradled her in his arms. “I’ll always love you.”

  Concern for Margaret’s safety, plus the need for constant supervision, took their toll on Jack. Aurora pleaded with him until he hired round-the-clock help to assist with his wife’s day to day needs.

  Early one morning three years ago, Jack looked out the bathroom window and couldn’t believe what he saw. Margaret, wearing a pale blue cotton nightgown, stood alone at the end of the dock as her frantic, pajama-clad caretaker ran screaming down the hill toward her. Margaret smiled sweetly, waved, then turned and stepped off the dock into water fifteen feet deep. The caretaker couldn’t swim. Jack, wearing only his jockey shorts, dashed barefoot to the water, dived in, and hauled Margaret back to shore. The next week he moved her into a nursing home.

  Looking after Margaret had been difficult for Jack, even though Aurora tried to come home every two weeks to help. Then last May a glorious thing happened; Aurora discovered she was pregnant. The thought of having a precious baby in the family helped ease the stress during the tough times with her mother, but Aurora miscarried four months into the pregnancy. Still grieving for her unborn child, Aurora was devastated when her dad drowned five months later.

  After Jack’s funeral, Sam told his wife, “You are not running back and forth to Lynchburg to look after your mother. Aurora, this is just too much for you.”

  So Aurora moved Margaret from the nursing home in Lynchburg to one in Augusta. Even though she no longer spoke or recognized anyone, Margaret seemed calm.

  Aurora was in a meeting at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in the historic district of Augusta when her cell phone rang. Margaret had died.

  “All her organs shut down; her brain quit telling them how to work. She slipped away in her sleep an hour ago, a peaceful look on her face,” the kind doctor explained.