“This is some sweet setup,” said Jimmy Ray. He opened his pack of Red Man.
“None of that chewing tobacco stuff in here. Put it back in your pocket,” Harold said as he hung up the telephone.
“Sorry.”
“You said this was a sweet setup? You’ve no idea.” Harold picked up a remote control and pressed it. Slowly, the rear wall of the apartment opened to reveal electronic tracking equipment and a detailed computer system. He motioned for Jimmy Ray to follow and walked into the secret room. He pressed a button. Another movable wall opened. Boxes, wooden crates, and packing materials took up a large portion of the room. Scattered around were small antique tables and chairs, oriental rugs, and valuable paintings. Jimmy Ray stared at wall shelves loaded with gleaming silver services, large footed tea pots, trays, sugars and creamers, candle sticks, coffee urns. Jewelry, sorted by value, filled several small see-through bins. Numerous patterns of sterling flatware rested in stacked divider trays.
“How much is all this stuff worth, Boss?”
“A fortune.” Harold removed the diamond and ruby necklace from his pocket and put it on a shelf. “For instance, this’ll fetch a big wad, upwards of a hundred thou.”
“Whatcha gonna do with all this stuff?” Jimmy Ray asked.
“Sell it, Jimmy Ray. And get filthy rich.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The strong antiseptic hospital smell irritated her nostrils. From the nurse’s station an urgent “Code Blue!” blared through the halls. A gurney returning from the recovery room rumbled down the corridor. Aurora groaned and tried to ignore all her aching bones and muscles. When she heard a knock at the door, she pushed herself into a sitting position. A pleasant looking, middle-aged nurse pushed open the door and smiled at Aurora.
“You’re awake. How are you feeling, Mrs. Harris?”
“Awful.”
“That’s understandable. You’ve been through a lot.”
“How’s my husband? And is he still in Intensive Care?”
“I heard he’s doing better. I think they’ll move him out of ICU some time today.” The nurse smiled. “I understand you created quite a scene here earlier.”
“Yeah, I guess I did. I can understand the need for Sam to be in Intensive Care. That’s where he needed to be. But I wanted to be with him, or at least be where I could see him. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t allowed to be on a gurney in the hall where I could watch my husband through the glass.” Aurora grinned. “Think I acted a little irrationally?”
The nurse smiled, patted Aurora on the hand, and said, “Perhaps just a tad. I’m Estelle. Let me know if you need anything. And by the way, a guard is stationed outside this door. Seems the police are concerned your attackers will try again.”
“Is someone guarding my husband, too?”
“That’s my understanding. Don’t worry, Mr. Harris is in good hands.”
“Nurse, uh, Estelle, will my husband and I be allowed to share a semi-private room once he’s moved out of Intensive Care?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll be happy to check on that for you.” She patted Aurora’s hand again, turned, and left the room smiling.
Aurora swung her legs off the bed and onto the floor. She clutched the open back of her dull-green designer hospital gown with one hand as she padded across the room in her bare feet, quietly opened the door, and peeped out at the uniformed guard seated, legs crossed, in a metal folding chair. He was a large, black man with curly black hair and a neat mustache. A pistol rested snugly in the holster at his side. He looked up from his NASCAR magazine and smiled at her.
“Just checking,” she said as she shut the door. For the first time in days, she didn’t feel anxious or afraid. She climbed back in the hospital bed, pulled up the covers, and slept.
Hours later, Judge Anderson flashed his I.D. at the cop guarding Aurora’s door. Yep, time to get out of this business, he thought. Dick knew him, had appeared as a witness in his court a few times, but still insisted on seeing the judge’s ID. Anderson knew this was standard operating procedure, but the act still irritated him. He knocked lightly on the door and slipped into the room.
Aurora opened her eyes and recognized Uncle Charlie sitting in the chair beside her bed.
“Aurora, dear,” he said, “how are you feeling?” He bent over, kissed her gently on her cheek, held her hand.
“Better, thank you. Much better. Guess I must’ve needed that sleep.” The relief on her uncle’s face caused her to smile. “Thank you for all you did. And I’m glad you didn’t follow my instructions, or Sam and I would probably be dead. Is King okay? And Little Guy?”
“Both dogs are great. I think they rather like the rewards that come with hero status.” The judge laughed. “Lieutenant Conner, Sergeant Johnson, and Captain Vincent have bought each of them all-beef hamburgers, not those already-cooked burgers at the fast food places. I’m talking going to the grocery store, buying high-quality, lean ground beef, then cooking the burgers medium-rare on the George Foreman Mean Lean Grilling Machine that Conner brought to the police station.”
She laughed. “I can hardly wait to see them. They both played a part in rescuing Sam and me. King saved my life, you know.”
“I know.”
“How did he happen to be on the coast guard boat?”
“I insisted. They wouldn’t allow me or Little Guy on board, but when I told them about the uncanny bond you and King have, the way you seem to communicate with each other, they agreed to take him.”
“Uncle Charlie, the nurse said Sam is doing better, but I really need to see for myself. Would you get a wheelchair from the nurses’ station and push me to ICU? I don’t think they’ll let me go under my own power yet.”
He planted another kiss on her cheek and left the room. He returned several minutes later with the wheelchair.
“I’ll be back soon,” she said to the guard as the judge wheeled her from the room.
As she and Charlie entered ICU, she saw her husband lying in bed, a puzzled expression on his face as he softly hummed “Blue Suede Shoes.”
“Sam?” She touched his arm.
“Susie-Q. Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine. How are you?” She pulled his blanket up over his legs.
“All things considered, I’m not feeling too bad. The nurse told me I was lucky; the word I would use is blessed. The gunshot wound in my forehead is more of a deep graze than what I would call an honest-to-goodness gunshot wound. The one in my side is deeper, but no vital organs, arteries or veins were hit. And they removed the bullet easily, I understand. I wouldn’t want to run a marathon any time soon, though. Or even walk down the hall. Bet my headache would improve if ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ would stop stomping around in my brain.
“You look well, Susie-Q.” He smiled and shook hands with Charlie, then turned his attention back to Aurora.
“I am, but tell me about ‘Blue Suede Shoes.’”
“I can’t get that song off my mind.”
“You were singing it several days ago,” Aurora said.
“I know. There’s something about it that’s nagging me, ready to surface any minute. It’ll come, just hope it’s soon. Do blue shoes, or suede shoes, or blue suede mean anything to you?”
“When I was in high school,” Aurora said to Sam and Uncle Charlie, “I owned a pair of royal blue shoes. They were my favorites. The heels were three inches tall with pointy toes, my first pair of spikes, a perfect match for my royal blue Easter suit. I wore it with a white silk, jewel-neck blouse. And there was this little matching purse…. But I digress. I don’t think my old shoes are the ones you’re singing about. Other than those, blue shoes mean nothing to me. But I’ll think about it.”
“So you say you’re doing okay, Sam?” asked Charlie.
“I am. Dr. Cameron came by a little while ago, said I’m mending. Plans to release me in a couple of days if nothing unforeseen develops. Will probably move me from ICU to a private room later in th
e day.”
“If I’m still here, would you be willing to make it a semi-private room so we can be roomies, Sam?” asked Aurora.
“You betcha, sounds good to me.”
Sam paused, then drawled, “So have the good guys corralled the bad guys yet?” He started humming “My Baby Loves A Western Movie.” Aurora stifled a giggle.
“Afraid not,” answered the judge. “They’ve vanished. Even their houseboat’s disappeared. How do you conceal a fifty-foot boat on a body of water this size? I’d understand the problem if we were looking on the ocean, but not on Smith Mountain Lake. Helicopters continue searching the lake, police are checking all marinas, but no luck yet.
“We’ve located Luke Stancill, though.”
“How is he?” Aurora asked.
“Okay. He made it to shore during the storm, took shelter in a boathouse until dawn, then found a kind woman who invited him into her house and called 911. When the cops arrived, Luke was feasting on a Texas-size breakfast the woman cooked for him. Doesn’t seem to have any injuries other than bruises. He’s already left the hospital.”
The three discussed Luke’s heroic actions of the night before. “Guess I’ve misjudged him,” offered Charlie. “If he had something to hide, it’s unlikely he would have risked his life for yours.”
Sam asked the question he knew was troubling Aurora. “What about Carole? Do you know the part she played in this?”
“I was just about to get to her. Appears she was engaged to Harold Johns, but broke up with him several months ago when she discovered he was married.”
“But she was engaged to a Fred, she told me so,” Aurora said.
“Harold Johns’ middle name is Frederick; Carole knew him as Fred, not Harold.”
“But the pictures of her, the one on his boat, the other one in his wallet? And how do you know all this, Uncle Charlie?”
“Lieutenant Conner called me about an hour ago. He and Johnson checked out your friend’s story, everything she told them can be proven. And a mutual friend of Harold and Carole said that Johns kept pictures of his conquests, has an album somewhere in the houseboat full of photos of unsuspecting women. Even has the dates when each affair began and ended. The friend hadn’t told Carole because of that good-old-boy mentality that never rats on a cheating buddy. It’s a guy thing.”
“Are you sure of this? Have you talked with Carole yet?” Aurora felt relief. Her friend had not betrayed her after all.
“I believe Lieutenant Conner has interrogated her. I know she’s very concerned about both you and Sam. She wants to talk to you as soon as you’re up to it.”
“You will have to leave now,” the nurse said to Aurora and Anderson. “We don’t want to tire our patient, now do we?”
Aurora stood up and gave Sam a quick kiss on his lips. “See you soon, darling. Get some sleep, now.”
As her uncle pushed the wheelchair into Aurora’s room, his cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, and reached in his coat pocket. Several minutes later he hung up and said, “Well, well, well. We’ve had some interesting new developments.” He smiled and withdrew a small pad from his breast pocket, fumbled in his coat pocket for a pencil, and jotted down some notes. After returning the pad and pencil to their proper places, he strolled over to the window. “Not a bad view,” he said. “Nice little flower garden out there. Have you seen it?”
“For heavens sake, Uncle Charlie, what’s happened?”
“Seems Mr. Stancill’s fishing boat washed up on shore.”
“And?”
“There was a body in it, a man. He’d been stabbed several times. Fortunately, he’s still alive. The boys are running a check on him right now.”
“Is he here in the hospital?”
“Yep.”
“What room?” Aurora pushed the wheelchair’s footrests back, stood up and, remembering to hold the gown shut in the back, hurried to the room’s one tiny closet. From the paper bag, she removed the fresh clothes Uncle Charlie had brought her, disappeared in the bathroom, and called out through the closed door, “What room did you say?”
“I didn’t.”
“You might as well tell me, Uncle Charlie. Maybe I can identify him, save us all some valuable time.” Dressed, she emerged from the bathroom and smiled sweetly at her uncle. “You know I can find out for myself. You might as well tell me.”
“Your physician hasn’t dismissed you yet.”
“I’m still in the hospital, aren’t I? Just clothed instead of baring my derriere to the entire world.”
“Okay, he’s in Intensive Care, too. I’m going there now. You may as well accompany me.”
Aurora and Charlie had just passed the nurses’ station when one of the nurses called them over to the desk. “Mrs. Harris, your husband just buzzed, asked us to call your room, tell you to go to ICU fast. Something about ‘Blue Suede Shoes’?”
Aurora didn’t wait for the judge; she stepped out of the wheelchair and ran ahead of him down the corridor to ICU.
“Stop, ma’am. No visitors allowed,” said the guard stationed outside the Intensive Care unit.
“It’s me, the lady in the green hospital gown you saw earlier, just clothed this time. I was in the wheelchair….”
He looked her over carefully and smiled. “Oh yeah, I recognize you now.” He stepped back for her to enter.
Sam sat up as best he could in the bed, his face twisted with pain. “The shoes, Aurora. They were blue leather sandals. And they were standing beside my head at the lake house, the last thing I remember seeing before passing out.”
Aurora stared at him. “I’ve seen them, too. And I know who was wearing them.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Sheila stared at the bleached-blonde hairs clinging to her brush. She tried to tell herself the hair loss was normal, nothing to worry about. Who am I kidding? She flung the brush down on the dressing table and picked up the magnifying mirror. Is that a new wrinkle around my mouth? She stroked it and gazed at her reflection in the oval mirror. Red glazed eyes stared back at her.
How had she come to this? Why, she’d always been the best looking, sexiest girl wherever she went. Everyone said so. All heads turned when she swept into a room. The guys’ eyes radiated appreciation, lust; the gals’ stares shot daggers of pure jealousy. And Sheila thrived on her looks. Never did she lack for boyfriends, but when their compliments came less often, when she thought they were taking her for granted, she moved on to someone new, someone who would be impressed with her beauty, her sexuality, and her ability to use both. Until she met Clyde, that is.
He was such a hunk, like a suntanned Greek god, his light brown hair clipped crew-cut style to suit his diver’s occupation. The instant she saw him, she wanted him. Somehow this man was different. For the first time in her promiscuous life, she played hard to get—and it worked. Since that day, she’d never had another man, never needed one. And Clyde—dear, sweet Clyde—after all these years of marriage, he still adored her and sacrificed everything for her. They were in all this trouble because of her, and she hated herself for that and for what she’d become.
She glanced at the gold-framed picture on the vanity, the one of their daughter Red standing beside Clyde on the family’s 60-foot yacht only days before the mortgage company repossessed it. Sheila had to admit that her daughter was gorgeous, looked a lot like she had years ago, except for the flaming red hair. Sheila’s hair had been blonde through third grade, then it turned a dull brown. Her loving mother had started then to bleach it. “No mousy-colored head of hair for a daughter of mine,” she’d said.
Sheila remembered how thrilled, how proud she was when she brought her perfect newborn daughter home from the hospital six months after she and Clyde married. Red always looked so pretty, so sweet. Sheila loved to dress Red in dainty outfits, put matching bows in her bright-red hair. Sheila would smile demurely and say “Thank you” as strangers stopped her on the street, looked in the baby carriage, and said, “Honey, I declare, you just don
’t look old enough to have a baby.” And she heard these magical words for years, changed periodically to say, “You don’t look old enough to have a child five (or ten or twelve) years old.”
But Sheila’s world fell apart when her daughter turned 16. On a family vacation to Aruba to celebrate Red’s birthday, Sheila and Red returned to their hotel after a day of shopping, and discovered the lobby full of men attending a plumbers’ convention. Sheila watched as her daughter—poised, beautiful, and sexy—sashayed across the lobby. Conversation ceased as every man turned to stare. When Sheila crossed the room, no one even glanced her way. From that day on, Sheila never took Red with her in public, ceased being a loving mother. Red rebelled at Sheila’s sudden coldness and vowed to get even with her mother. At the same time, Sheila began to drink heavily.
Sheila grabbed the tweezers to pluck her eyebrows, but her hand shook too much. Damn, I need a fix bad. Where the hell is Clyde?
Sheila jumped when the doorbell rang. She wiped a tear from her cheek, checked her appearance in front of the full-length gilt-framed hall mirror, sucked in her stomach, and answered the door.
“Good morning, ma’am. I’m Field Lieutenant Conner, and this is Sergeant Johnson.” Johnson nodded a greeting. “Could we talk with you for a minute?” asked Conner.
“What’s this about?” asked Sheila.
“Ma’am, if we could come inside, I’ll explain.”
“I do not let strange men in my home. I don’t see a badge. How do I know you’re really cops?”
Both men flipped out their badges.
“A woman can’t be too careful these days. I want to see your driver’s licenses, too.” They groaned, but complied.
“This is about Clyde, isn’t it? Is he okay?”
Conner and Johnson exchanged glances. “We don’t know anybody named Clyde. This is about something else,” said Conner.
“Did Harold send you?”
“No, ma’am. Can’t we come in?”
“I guess so.”
Sheila walked to the coffee table, pulled a cigarette from the half-empty pack, and stuck it in her mouth. She tried to light it with the gold lighter beside the ashtray, but her hands trembled too much. Johnson walked over to Sheila and cupped his hand over hers, steadying the lighter.
Secrets at Spawning Run Page 21