Secrets at Spawning Run

by Sally Roseveare

  “I’ve never liked you. You’re a creep, a jerk. Now I can add ‘sick’ to the adjectives describing you. Just wish I’d told Sam how I felt.”

  “Pity. I really admire you both. Was hoping you could get out of this alive. Even the pictures Aurora delivered to the cabin can’t identify me. You see, Aurora, I really didn’t want you dead, either.” Aurora glared at him. “But I learned just thirty minutes ago that the cops searched the cabin in the park. Won’t be much longer before they’ll trace Sheila’s involvement.”

  “Sheila?” Aurora wondered how Harold knew Sheila.

  “Yeah. She helped clean your house. Sheila’s my sister. It’s only a matter of time before she squeals. She’ll do anything to get her drugs. My guess is she’s either finished her supply or is close to it. She’s really not a bad person, just a typical addict—and she’s under my control.” Harold stroked his chin.

  “Pity both of you have to die. What a waste.”

  “You have everything, Harold. Why’d you ever get involved in crime?” asked Sam.

  “For the money and the power, of course. And revenge. This lake cost me my inheritance. Haven’t I told you about that sad period of my life? That’s a story I’d like you to hear, but I’m afraid there’s no time.”

  “Is Melinda involved, too?” Sam asked.

  “That empty-headed, perfect little heiress wife of mine? Hell no, she’s too busy with the spa I bought her in Paris. One of the best moves I ever made; keeps her out of my business. Occasionally she comes home for a week or two, maybe a month, but she always returns to her precious Paris. She flew back yesterday, got furious when she saw a certain photograph in my wallet. Stupid of me to forget I’d left it there.

  “Do you want to see it?” he asked, and he pulled out the picture of a beautiful woman standing on the houseboat’s upper deck.

  “Not a smart thing to do, Harold, to let your wife see a picture of your girlfriend,” Sam interrupted. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want Harold to know they recognized Carole.

  “Turn yourself in to the police. I’ll testify on your behalf. So will Aurora.” Aurora shot Sam a speak-for-yourself look.

  “You’d never suggest that if you had any idea of the things I’ve done. Earlier you mentioned robbery and kidnapping. Add drugs and murder to that. Or maybe you didn’t know about those?” Harold shrugged. “I’m not sorry for past transgressions, mind you, only sorry you two got in the way. But I do what has to be done to accomplish my goals.

  “Look around you, notice the paintings, the art objects. They’re priceless. I could sell every one of them in a heartbeat if I wanted to, but these particular ones are my favorites, my private collection, you might say.” He hollered out the door. “Clyde, bring me the Perigal. I want them to admire my most recent acquisition before we kill them.”

  Aurora had an uncanny feeling that the painting they were about to see was the same one that had hung in Robert’s house. She was right.

  “Ah, Aurora, I see by your expression that you know the painting.”

  “Yes, I recognize it. The Scotsman A. Perigal painted it in 1865. You stole it out of Robert Reeves’ house. Murdered Lampwerth, too, I bet.”

  “Actually, Lampwerth’s murder is one of the few I didn’t order. My men killed him when he surprised them at Reeves’ house. Not too bright, those two.”

  “I used to think you were smart, Harold,” Aurora said. “But you’re not. These items you’ve stolen, killed for, don’t make you important. And you know why? Because—and I’m so glad—you can’t show them to anyone. You can only view them in your small confines with small people who bow and scrape when you say ‘Jump.’ These so-called priceless objects only serve to make you smaller, a peon. And even if you kill us, you’ll still be a peon, a nobody. You’re stupid, Harold. And you’re small.”

  Harold raised his fist, but checked himself. “Killing you won’t be so bad after all. Jimmy Ray’s been begging to have some fun with Aurora first, though. Sam can watch. I’ll enjoy your screams immensely.” He smiled and left the room.

  The second she heard the door lock, Aurora pulled the knife out of her shoe and began cutting on Sam’s ropes. If she could free him they stood a slim chance of escaping. If not….

  “Hey, mister, you cain’t bring a dog in here,” said the restaurant hostess. “It’s against the law.”

  “Lady, I am the law,” Charlie said. He whipped out his identification. “I’m a judge, and I’m on police business. The dog stays.”

  “Sorry, sir. It’s not that I have anything against dogs, you understand. Just tryin’ to do my job.”

  “I understand.” He pulled a photograph from his wallet. “Did this woman come in this afternoon? Her name is Aurora Harris. She’s in great danger.”

  The hostess studied the picture he shoved in front of her. “I don’t remember anyone who looks like her coming in today. But my shift didn’t start until six this evening.”

  “Please send the wait staff to me right away. Maybe one of them remembers her,” he said as he put his I.D. away.

  “Yes, sir.” The hostess hurried from the lobby.

  One by one the waiters and waitresses tramped out to peer dutifully at the picture. They all shook their heads and returned to their customers.

  When the hostess came back, Charlie asked, “Could I see a list with names and phone numbers of those who worked earlier today, say from three o’clock on?” His fingers drummed on the counter as he waited for her to look up the information he needed.

  “Hey, Doreen, like, what’s happenin’, girl?” called a young blonde to the hostess as she entered the restaurant.

  “Tami, you’re the person this man needs to see. I was just fixin’ to give him your name,” answered Doreen, relieved to see her co-worker. “What are you doing back here?”

  “Got lonesome and hungry, thought this place would be swinging, so here I am. Besides, I wanted to see the Mr. Muscle contest across the road later. Where the loser, like, French-kisses a carp? Wanna go?”

  Yuck, thought Charlie.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot about the contest. I have to work, though. Cain’t go.

  “This here’s a judge; he wants to ask you some questions. Judge Anderson, this here’s Tami Pittman. She hostessed the noon-to-six shift. Maybe she can help. Excuse me, I’ve gotta get back to work.”

  “Miss Pittman, you certainly walked through that door at the right time. I’m searching for a missing person, someone in a lot of danger. I understand she may have come to this restaurant today, sometime between three-thirty and six. Do you recognize this photograph?”

  “Sure do. She, like, sat at a table in the next room. Asked for a seat over by the window there. Lady ate, like, only one grilled cheese sandwich and drank one glass of wine the whole time. She must have stayed close to two hours. Seemed, like, well, real fidgety, kept lookin’ up every time someone came in the room. Finally jumped up and left when the waiter gave her the check.”

  “Did anyone meet her?”

  “Cain’t be sure, but I don’t think so. You could, like, ask her waiter, though. He probably knows more about her than I do.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Rick.” Tami pointed to the list on the counter. “That’s him. His phone number’s there, too. Don’t think you’ll catch ‘im tonight, though. He, like, bar hops nights, crashes mornings, and works here afternoons. But there’s a chance he could, like, come for the contest. I’ll have him call you if he shows up. I won’t be going anywhere except across the road later on.

  “Oh, I just thought of something. Hey, Doreen,” she called when the hostess walked by, “Do you, like, still have Rick’s cell phone number? The judge needs it.”

  “I think it’s in my purse in the back room. I’ll go check,” said Doreen.

  “That would be helpful.” Charlie pulled out his wallet again, handed Tami one of his business cards, and put one on the counter to give Doreen when she returned.

  “By
the way, Tami, the carp you’re talking about. That’s a fish, right, the kind the kids throw popcorn to?”

  “Yeah, like a really gross fish with big lips and all.”

  “Ugh,” Charlie said. “And just what does the winner get out of this contest?”

  “Who cares,” Tami answered. “We all want to see the loser.”

  King whined and tugged on the leash.

  “Wait, King, you can’t go out yet,” the judge said.

  Ignoring Anderson, the big dog pulled harder and barked.

  “He’s upsetting the customers, Judge. Cain’t you just take him outside and let the poor dog pee?” asked Doreen when she came back and handed him a piece of paper with Rick’s cell phone number on it.

  “Guess I could do that,” he said. He pushed his business card over to her. “Be sure to call me if you think of anything.” He stuck Rick’s phone number in his shirt pocket and folded the paper Doreen gave him. “You don’t need this back, do you?” he inquired over his shoulder as King pulled him out the door.

  Once outside, King stood, nose twitching, as he analyzed the scents floating in the wind. A distant, high-pitched bark traveled through the night air and King bounded from the restaurant parking lot. The judge stumbled along behind as he fought to maintain his footing on the damp grass and still hold onto the leash. Man and dog crossed the wide expanse of grass, then veered toward the marina on the other side of the road. King ran to the finger of piers and turned right, casting, nose to the ground as he picked up a familiar smell along the bank.

  A high crescendo of barks and yelps greeted them. Tied to a cedar tree near the shore, a Jack Russell terrier wiggled and jumped at the end of a short rope. A heavy-set woman in lime green and royal blue striped polyester slacks and matching jacket attempted to calm him. She looked up when King and Charlie rushed up.

  “Mister, is this your dog? How dare you leave him tied to a tree! I should report you for cruelty to animals. You didn’t even leave him food and water. I supplied that. What kind of low-life are you? I’ve half a mind not to let you have him back.”

  “Ma’am, he’s not my dog.” The judge frowned up at the sky when he felt a few drops of rain.

  “Right,” she answered sarcastically. “Do you expect me to believe that? I can see how glad he is to see you, although I don’t for the life of me understand why.”

  “Ma’am, he’s glad to see King here, not me. He’s not my dog. He looks like one my niece recently adopted, though. She’s in danger, and we’re searching for her. I’m Judge Charlie Anderson. What can you tell me about this dog? If he’s the dog I think he is, my niece Aurora’s been calling him Little Guy. Do you know how he got here?” He knelt down to check the collar for identification.

  “Whoa, what have we here?” he asked as he fingered the thick, studded collar. Looping the rope around Little Guy’s neck so he wouldn’t run off, he shoved the end of the rope toward the irate woman. “Hold this.” Then he removed the dog’s collar. On the inside was a thin zipper. “Interesting. It’s like a man’s money belt.” He pulled the zipper and removed a piece of folded paper from the collar.

  Taking a small flashlight from his pocket, he aimed the beam at the note. The words that leapt out in the dim light read: Help! Held prisoner on big houseboat at Hale’s Ford Bridge. Call police! Sam Harris. The judge whipped out his cell phone and punched in a number.

  Within fifteen minutes, police, including Conner and Johnson, swarmed the marina, but found no boat matching Sam’s description. The judge put Little Guy’s collar back on, removed the rope from around his neck, and followed as the terrier dashed toward the boardwalk leading to the end of the piers. He skidded to a stop at the last berth. It was empty.

  “What’s all this here ruckus ‘bout?” asked a man lounging on the deck of a small cabin cruiser. “You’re disturbin’ the peace,” he slurred. He drained a beer, then pitched the can into a five-gallon bucket. Anderson noticed the stash of empty beer cans in the bucket, and a woman, two sheets to the wind, stretched out on a chaise.

  “How long have you been tied up here?” asked Charlie.

  “Don’t see as how that’s any of your damn business.”

  Anderson sighed and pulled out his I.D. for what seemed like the umpteenth time that day. He remembered the thrill this simple act gave him in the past. Now it seemed a chore. Maybe his golf buddies were right; maybe he should retire. He shook his head and focused on the obviously inebriated couple on the boat.

  “We’re the police. Once again, how long have you been docked here?” asked Lieutenant Conner.

  “Since noon, I reckon.” The man leaned over and shook the woman. “Paige, how long we been here, darlin’? Paige?” He glanced at Anderson, then whispered in his companion’s ear. “Paige, baby, it’s the cops. Please, baby, wake up.

  “She’s asleep. But I’m sure we docked ‘round about noontime today.” He burped loudly.

  “More like passed out,” Anderson mumbled to Conner. Then he asked the man, “Was a large boat berthed over there earlier today?”

  “Sure was. A houseboat, a real honey. Bet it was fifty feet long, maybe more. Anyhow, it was long. Left ‘round six o’clock. I remember ‘cause Paige and me’d just started on another case of beer.”

  “How many were on board her?”

  “Saw two, naw, reckon three guys. Then a woman joined ‘em, a real knock-out. Little old for my taste—I like ‘em real young like Paige here—but hell, to each his own, right? Figure they called her. Know what I mean? A call girl? Get it?” He laughed, and grabbed the railing to steady himself.

  By now the rain beat so hard on the tin roof that Judge Anderson could barely hear the intoxicated man. He turned to leave, then stopped and pointed to Little Guy. “Did you see this dog on the houseboat?”

  “Naw, didn’t see no dog. But I heard one. A real yapper. ‘Bout drove me crazy. Paige and I were down in the cuddy cabin tryin’ to get a little, uh, rest, see. Started to go complain, but Paige wouldn’t let me, said I could go later, when we finished restin’ an’ all. Then the barking stopped.” He put his hand over his mouth. “Hey, can I go now? Gotta barf.”

  The man and his companion disgusted Charlie, but he’d learned a lot. He smiled, then walked away with King and the deputies, dreading the soaking they’d get as soon as they left the protection of the covered boat slips.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The air felt damp and cold. Luke pulled his foul-weather jacket tight around him. He scanned the sky, hoping for stars. The darkness didn’t bother him, but he didn’t like thunderstorms, especially at night in a boat on a lake. He’d meant to fix his marine radio, but a fishing buddy had hollered over to him on the dock—told him the stripers were biting—and Luke had forgotten all about the radio repair. When the fishing was good, Luke had to go. His marine radio was important, but so was the chance of landing a citation striper.

  Now, however, his thoughts centered on Aurora and Sam. Where could they be? Lightning sliced through the sky and thunder roared. That was close. Luke knew the lake could quickly change from a smooth, slick surface to angry waves with whitecaps. Time to vamoose. The State Park wasn’t far; maybe he could make land before the downpour began, find shelter in one of the buildings there, possibly check out Cabin 171E at the same time.

  He motored slowly, searching the water as best he could for obstacles as he crossed the main channel and guided the boat toward the park.

  Too soon, huge drops of rain pelted him. The lake turned rough and choppy. He hugged the shoreline as closely as the buoy markers allowed, attempting to maximize any shelter from the wind and pounding rain. Good thing he knew the lake so well. Landlubbers didn’t realize it, but you could get disoriented, even lost, on this lake at night.

  The boat dropped hard into a trough of water, then rode the swell back to the top. Lightning flashed. Luke got a split-second glimpse of a large houseboat bouncing and straining at anchor ten yards ahead, running lights off. Any good boater kn
ew that watercraft not docked should have running lights on after sunset, even if just anchored out in the lake, but some boaters ignored this. He yanked back on the throttle and carefully navigated around the houseboat.

  “Whaddaya know. That’s the boat that attacked Aurora and me.” Tied parallel to the starboard side of the houseboat, protective fenders between the two craft, the hated speedboat sat in the water. A short rope ladder dangled from the deck of the houseboat. Luke attached a line from his boat to the stern of the speedboat. He waited for a large wave to pass, then struggled quickly into the speedboat. He checked to see if the keys were in the ignition. He couldn’t find any. Grabbing the rope ladder, Luke hauled himself up on the houseboat. The wind tore at his footing.

  On board, he crouched low and listened for any sounds. When the sliding glass door on the bow opened, he pressed his body against the side of the boat. He saw, silhouetted in the doorway, the two men who had tried to capsize him. Between claps of thunder, Luke heard enough to tell him that Aurora and Sam were captives on the boat.

  “Think the boss is gonna kill ‘em?” asked Clyde.

  “You can bet on it.” Jimmy Ray laughed. “But first we’ll have some fun with the woman.”

  Damn, Luke thought, Aurora’s gotten herself in a real jam this time. Sam, too. Where are the cops and her Uncle Charlie? If I go for help, the houseboat might pull anchor and leave before I can get back. Damn! Why didn’t I fix the marine radio? And put new batteries in the cell phone. He scratched his rain-drenched head. I’ll stay. Somehow I’ll find a way to help Aurora and Sam escape.

  “Yes!” The last strand of rope snapped.

  “Good job, Aurora!” Sam said.

  “Oh, Sam, your wrists are rubbed raw.”

  “We’ll worry about that later. Someone’s coming. I hear footsteps.”