And then she understood.
Dad’s favorite painting. And the brown backing paper was slit. Aurora opened a drawer in the antique sideboard, removed a stack of place mats, and arranged them on the Hepplewhite dining room table for padding so she wouldn’t scratch the finish. She took the beloved Wyeth from the wall and placed the painting upside down on the place mats. Excitement mounted. She picked up a pair of sharp scissors and carefully cut away the brown paper backing.
Five Polaroid photographs stared back at her.
The first photo she picked up showed a man hoisting a large black bag on what appeared to be a type of pulley. It was obvious to Aurora that the man was in her parents’ boathouse; the Maggie A, their speedboat named for Aurora’s mother, hung on the boatlift high above the water. She studied the man carefully, finally deciding she had never seen him before.
The second picture showed a man she had seen right here in Spawning Run; he was the one who had assisted the diver in Bad Boat just a short while ago. In the picture, he was modeling a hip-length fur coat, pointing to himself and grinning. Beside him a large, black bag dangled from a hook attached to the pulley.
Four men were in the third photograph. One she recognized as the same guy who was wearing the fur coat in the previous picture. Another, the man wearing the diving suit, she had seen in the same diving gear a short time ago in her cove. The third man in this picture was the same person in the first picture she looked at, someone she didn’t recognize. He held a painting and, again, an empty-looking black bag hung from a hook. The fourth man in the photograph had his back turned to the camera.
The Maggie A was visible in each of the three pictures.
In the fourth photo, a large fish lay on the dock, its empty belly split open down the center. The cavity held what appeared to be a plastic bag stuffed full of something. Aurora thought the fish was a striper that weighed maybe 35 pounds. But something about it looked strange, almost artificial.
She set that picture down with the other three and picked up photo number five. She stared at the same fish, but in this photo the plastic bag had been opened, its contents spread on a pale yellow towel beside the fish. Aurora sucked in her breath when she realized the bag had contained precious stones, necklaces, bracelets and rings. She guessed the contents were worth a small fortune. Aurora grabbed a magnifying glass to get a better look. That’s the necklace I took off the grebe!
All strength drained from her legs, and Aurora sank into one of the eight dining room chairs, their padded seats needle-pointed by her mother a lifetime ago. Or so it seemed to Aurora. “Oh, Lord. Dad must have become suspicious of the activities in the boathouse, investigated, and took these pictures,” she said aloud. King put a paw on her leg.
She looked helplessly around the room as tears rolled down her cheeks. The knowledge that her dad hadn’t drowned accidentally hit her. The pictures proved it.
Her dad was murdered!
CHAPTER THIRTY
When he looked through the peephole and saw investigators Conner and Johnson standing on the porch, Robert Reeves hesitated a moment, then jerked open the door. The tremor in his hands was barely noticeable.
“Hello, gentlemen, what may I do for you?”
“Mr. Reeves,” said Conner as he flashed his badge, “you’re under arrest for the murder of J. Melton Lampwerth IV. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak with an attorney and to have the attorney present during questioning. If you so desire and cannot afford one, an attorney will be appointed for you without charge before the questioning begins.”
“What?” said Robert. “You’ve got to be joking!”
“Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?”
“I don’t believe this.”
“Do you waive and give up those rights?”
“No, damn it! I do not.”
Robert knew he was a suspect, but never did he expect to be arrested. After all, Jill would call any minute to say she and Louis Beale had examined all of Lampwerth International’s accounting records and that Robert had been cleared of any wrongdoing. But for now he’d call his lawyer; no way would he waive his rights.
“I understand my rights, and I want my attorney present,” Reeves said.
“You can call your lawyer when you get to the police station.”
“I need to call Jill Hathaway at Lampwerth International, too. I believe I’m entitled to do that, right?”
“You are. But like I said, you’ll have to wait until you get to the station.” Johnson frisked Reeves, Conner handcuffed him, and the two men led him to the police car.
“Jill, I’ve been arrested. They’re accusing me of murdering Melton,” Robert said when they finally let him use a phone.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me; I’ve been arrested for murder. I’m at police headquarters right now.”
“Robert, how could that happen? You weren’t even in the country when Lampwerth disappeared.”
“His body floated up today. And his blood is on my Babe Ruth bat. The cops say I had motive—the embezzling thing, you know—and opportunity. They believe I arranged for Lampwerth to come to the lake, killed him, dumped his body right there in Spawning Run, hid his car, then flew out of the country to establish an alibi.”
“Have you contacted your lawyer?”
“Yeah, he’s flying down tomorrow.”
“I’ll come tomorrow, too.”
“As much as I’d like to have you here, I believe you’d be more help continuing your search of the records. How are you coming with that?”
“It would be easier if you would allow me to confide in Louis Beale, tell him what really happened.”
“No, I want Tinsley’s widow protected. She doesn’t need to know what her husband did. You’re smart, Jill. You and Beale can come up with something.”
Before Jill could answer, Detective Conner reached for the phone, said “Time’s up,” and hung up. Shaken, Jill hurried to Beale’s office.
She and Louis had worked ever since she returned to Washington that day examining Robert’s bank records. They planned to continue late into the night. Something screwy was evident, but neither knew what. They discovered large deposits to Reeves’ checking account over the past year, then large withdrawals. Where was the money coming from, and where was it going?
“Louis, can you get me Mr. Tinsley’s personal bank records?”
“Why?”
“Because Robert told me something in confidence, something he wants kept secret. But I don’t see any way we can clear him unless I tell you everything.” She looked him straight in the eye. “Now is there any way you can get hold of Mr. Tinsley’s personal bank records? Believe me, it’s important.”
“Maybe, if there’s a good enough reason. And I have to know the reason up front, right now. I’m not going to prison to save Robert Reeves or anyone else.”
“I can trust you completely?”
His black eyebrows shot up. “I can’t believe you even asked that question. Of course you can trust me.”
Jill knew Robert wouldn’t approve of her telling Beale the truth, but she was sure that unless Beale knew what to look for, Robert would go to prison. She paused a moment, then began.
“Here goes, then. Mr. Tinsley and Mr. Lampwerth go way back to almost the beginning of Lampwerth International thirty-five years ago. Lampwerth was a nobody with an idea. He started the company, hired Tinsley as bookkeeper three years later, and paid him a minimal salary with the promise of huge financial rewards down the road. Tinsley believed in Lampwerth and agreed. Tinsley’s wife June took a job working long hours as a seamstress in a sweatshop to help support them. Anyhow, Lampwerth International slowly grew. After six years, Tinsley moved into the position of accountant. Then he worked his way up to Senior Accountant, the job you now hold. Anyhow, June worked for five more y
ears, then quit her job to raise a family.”
“What does Mrs. Tinsley have to do with this?”
“The years of working in the sweatshop had taken their toll. June’s health declined. Ten years ago she became gravely ill. ‘Lymphoma,’ the doctors said. ‘Sorry, but there’s nothing we can do for her. She has two years at the most to live.’ Tinsley wouldn’t accept that. He searched this country for alternative treatments. When nothing materialized, he expanded his search to Mexico and Europe, and eventually located a doctor in Lyon, France, who agreed to use June in an experimental study. But it would be expensive.
“Doctors in the U.S. warned him that this French doctor was a quack, that Tinsley would be throwing his money away, said he should keep his wife comfortable and let her die in peace. He didn’t listen. He worshipped June and vowed to sink every cent he had into her treatment if necessary. He moved her to Lyon, rented a small apartment near the research center, and hired a housekeeping staff and round-the-clock nursing care for her both in the apartment and when she stayed in the hospital.
“Very slowly she improved. Very quickly Tinsley spent his money. You see, not only did he shell out money for his wife’s treatment, but he also had the additional cost of hiring a nanny and a housekeeper for his house in Fairfax. By that time they had a fourteen-year old daughter and a twelve-year old son in a private school, which also added to his expenses. When the doctor in Lyon announced June cured, five years had passed, and Tinsley had mortgaged his house to the hilt. His daughter was in college. He was close to bankruptcy.”
“Why didn’t he just sell the house? I heard it’s worth a small fortune.”
“Well, June was plagued with feelings of guilt for having been away all that time, for causing her husband to worry so much. And even though the French doctors deemed her cured, the treatment had left her weak and frail. Tinsley vowed not to cause her any more worry, so he never told her their true financial situation. Strapped for funds, he discovered the occasional rewards from betting on the horses at the racetrack up in Baltimore. Occasionally he won, so he placed larger and larger bets. And he couldn’t stop. The bookies loved him.”
“What does this have to do with Robert Reeves?”
“When Tinsley couldn’t pay the money back, and the bookies threatened him and his family, he started embezzling from Lampwerth International. Then, on top of everything else, a year ago he had the heart attack that killed him. But before he died, he told Robert what I just told you. Ashamed of himself and what he’d done, he didn’t want June to learn the truth. That’s when Robert devised a scheme to pay off the bookies and even put the embezzled money back into Lampwerth International. He’s been using his own money; that’s why you’ve seen so many large deposits and withdrawals. Robert’s not taking money out of Lampwerth International; he’s putting it back in.”
Louis Beale’s mouth dropped open and he stared at Jill. “That’s impossible.”
“No, it isn’t. Now help me prove it, Louis. Okay?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Aurora dialed Uncle Charlie’s home phone and prayed his answering machine would pick up. She couldn’t talk to him, not right now. He would insist she tell him everything, wouldn’t leave her alone until she did. The caller had instructed her not to notify the police, or Sam would die. Yes, a message would work better.
“Judge Charles Anderson here. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
She left a message. “Uncle Charlie, this is Aurora. I can’t explain now, but if you don’t hear from me by mid-day tomorrow, Sunday, please come to the house and turn on the computer. You know where Dad kept a house key hidden out in the barn in Frosty’s old stall; the key is still there. My password is ‘crossstitch,’ and the file name is ‘Wyeth’ located on drive C.”
Then she gathered up the pictures and stuck them in a large Manila envelope. She pulled the necklace out of the junk drawer in the kitchen, wrapped it in paper towels, and stuck it in a zip lock bag. She stiffened as she started to close the drawer. Her dad’s old scout knife stuck out from under a piece of paper. The motto “Be Prepared” stared up at her. You’re telling me something, Dad. And I hear you. She snatched up the knife and wedged it inside her sneaker. She grabbed her car keys, fed King, and put him in the dog pen. He whined and looked hopefully at her.
“Sorry King, you can’t go.” Aurora climbed in the car and drove off.
Normally, the drive along Route 626 relaxed her, but the rolling fields, gray-blue mountains, and green forests didn’t affect her today. She swerved to avoid hitting a dead skunk on the road. Funny how buzzards don’t pick skunks clean the way they do other animals. She wondered if it was sight or smell that attracted buzzards. Soon she reached the park entrance and stopped at the gate to pay the park ranger.
Senses alert, Aurora drove into Smith Mountain Lake State Park. She met a few cars near the entrance gate, and passed a couple of hikers just as she turned onto Interpretative Trail Road. Were the two hikers part of the scheme? She decelerated, studied them through the rear view mirror, and decided the elderly women were harmless. On most days, she would stop the car to gaze at a red tail hawk circling high in the sky searching for prey. But not today. She slowed when she reached Overnight Road and began looking for Cabin 171E. Aurora didn’t notice the young fawn, dressed in nature’s spotted camouflage, that watched her progress, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation.
When she located Cabin 171E, she saw that the cabin was accessible both by car and boat. Blue jays squawked and crows cawed, upset over this human intrusion, but Aurora never heard them. She parked the car, shut off the engine, and re-read the instructions. She couldn’t afford to foul up; Sam’s life was too precious. Picking up the necklace and the picture packet from the passenger seat, she walked to the cabin and, per instructions, looked neither to the right nor left. She felt the hairs standing up on the back of her neck. She knew she was being watched.
She opened the cabin door, placed the envelope in the white Styrofoam cooler to the left of the door, and backed out the door. Resisting the temptation to look back, Aurora turned and walked directly to her car, climbed in and drove out of the park.
The deed was done. Now she would drive to Hales Restaurant at the bridge to wait for further instructions and for the kidnappers to release Sam. She prayed they would keep their part of the bargain.
“Do you believe it? Like, did he really think I would, like, fall for that old excuse?” The young woman seated at a table near Aurora waved her arms as she poured out her woes to her girl friend. Aurora’s ears perked up, then dismissed the conversation when she learned it concerned a two-timing fiancé.
More snatches of restaurant conversations registered in her head, but none seemed relevant to her situation. A group of ladies from the Red Hat Society talked and laughed at two tables across the room. A building contractor and his foreman, each on his third beer, laughed about the money they would pocket by using cheaper grades of lumber, concrete, and roofing materials than specified in the contract. At the table next to Aurora, a lone woman sat by herself, tapping her foot impatiently as she looked at her watch. She’s like me. Alone, waiting for someone. Wonder if her husband is a prisoner, too.
A tall, well-dressed man entered the room, glanced in Aurora’s direction, and headed toward her. This is it. This is the contact I’m waiting for.
Aurora half stood as the man advanced. When he held out his hands and tenderly grasped those of the woman seated at the table beside hers, Aurora blushed, glanced around the room to see if anyone noticed, and sat back down. She felt like a fool. She picked up her fork and pushed the slice of sweet pickle around on her plate, bit into her grilled cheese sandwich, now cold, and sipped her white wine, now warm.
She jumped when a feminine voice beside her said, “Aren’t you the lady who designs cross-stitch kits?” Not waiting for a reply, the heavy-set, middle-aged woman wearing red and white checkered slacks, babbled, “I’ve been looking
at you from across the room for almost an hour, trying to figure out where I’ve seen you. Then it dawned on me; you’re the lady who designs cross-stitch kits for fanatics like me. Your picture’s on the back of the packages. My husband, he’s the man over there in the parasailing T-shirt, said I’ve lost my mind. But I haven’t, have I? I just love your creations. I collect your kits whenever I see one. Are you here to produce another?”
“No, I’m here for my mother’s funeral,” answered Aurora. Is this my contact? She wondered. She would find out soon enough.
“Oh, I’m so sorry I bothered you. But you do design cross-stitch kits, do you not?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’ll leave you alone, but first, would you please autograph my napkin?”
“I’ll be happy to,” said Aurora as she dug in her purse for a pen. “What’s your name?”
“Nadine.”
Aurora forced a smile, signed the napkin, then expecting written instructions for her to follow, she turned the napkin over. No message was there.
“I can’t wait to tell my friends in our cross-stitch club that I met you and show them your autograph. They’ll be so envious. Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome,” Aurora said as the woman scampered back to her table and waved the napkin triumphantly in her husband’s face.
An hour and a half passed. Nothing unusual had happened. The waiter looked in her direction and started toward her. Aurora wished she were invisible. She groaned. All this time she’d ordered only one sandwich and one glass of wine. The waiter had asked several times if she wanted her check. Now he was probably going to tell her that people were waiting to be seated. She glanced around the room and saw no empty tables. But instead of asking her to leave, the waiter handed her a slip of paper and walked off.
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