Secrets at Sweetwater Cove

by Sally Roseveare

  Monique looked up at them. Tears streaked her cheeks. “He’s not breathing and I cain’t find a pulse. We have to start CPR.”

  “Monique, I don’t know if CPR will help him. And it might even hurt. He’s lying in a lot of blood, and it’s spreading.” Beside her, King whined.

  “I have to do something. He cain’t die like this. He’s my Otis. I cain’t leave him.” Sobbing, she looked up at Carole and Aurora. “Otis ain’t a bad person.”

  A deep growl rose from King’s throat. He barked, ran to Aurora, barked again. Expecting the Humvee to pop back into sight, she stared up the road. She heard sirens, saw blue lights blinking in the opposite direction. Seconds later, three police cars and a rescue vehicle arrived. Luke and Sam followed.

  “Help!” yelled Monique. Two EMTs emerged from the ambulance. She waved them over to Otis. “He’s not breathing. Do something. Please don’t let him die.”

  Aurora squeezed Monique’s hand, patted her shoulder as the technicians examined Otis and loaded him into the ambulance.

  Sam and Luke rushed to Aurora and Carole and held them close.

  “What happened here?” asked the sheriff.

  The three ladies gave him a condensed version.

  “I’m so thankful you escaped,” said Luke to Carole. “If anything had happened to you….” He hugged her, kissed her, reluctantly released her. “I would have died if those men had killed you.” His eyes searched her for injuries.

  “Luke, I was terrified. I honestly think Win would have killed me.” Carole gazed up at her fiancé. “I’m sure he would not have bought a house, either.”

  “Did Aurora tell you what we discovered about Mr. I. Winston Ford?”

  “I haven’t had a chance, Luke,” said Aurora. “We were too busy trying to stay alive.”

  Monique stood in the road and watched the ambulance drive away as the siren blared and lights flashed.

  The sheriff said, “I. Winston Ford isn’t his real name. He’s wanted for murdering two realtors, both women. From what the three of you have told me, I think Carole was supposed to be number three. Don’t know why he picked lady realtors, though. But we’ll find out.”

  “I think I know why,” said Carole. “Win can be quite charming when he wants to be. He makes women feel special, like each one is the most gorgeous, important person on earth. I can see how females would fall for him. If I hadn’t had such a special guy loving me, I might have succumbed to Win’s charms myself.” She looked at Luke, squeezed his hand. “My guess is that wealthy people from all over the world would put in orders through La Grande Maison for particular boats. Win pretended to be interested in buying property on the water, insisted on seeing boat docks, said he needed to be sure the dock would work for his big powerboat. Ha! He fooled me. I thought I’d sell him a house, get a big commission. All the time he was looking for expensive boats to steal. Then he would hide them at La Grande Maison and fence them. I bet those women he killed sold high-end waterfront property somewhere. Am I right?” She looked from Sam to Luke.

  “Absolutely,” Sam said.

  “And Win nearly killed Jill when his Porsche slammed into her car,” said Luke.

  “Win’s the hit and run driver?”

  “Yep.”

  A wrecker arrived, hooked Monique’s destroyed car up, asked where to take it. “I want to ride with you, if that’s okay with everybody,” she said. “I’ll call my cousin to come get me at the garage. She’ll take me to the hospital so I can like check on Otis.”

  “Fine with us,” said the sheriff. “We’ll catch up with you later.” He jotted down her name, address and phone number.

  “Call me when you know something, Monique,” said Aurora. She pulled a business card from her purse, handed it to her.

  “Where’s your car, Carole?” asked Luke. “Do you need a wrecker for it?”

  She laughed, said she’d need a wrecker to pull Crappy out of the woods. “But first the cops need to get through La Grande Maison’s security and past the Dobermans.”

  “Dobermans? How many?”

  “At least two, probably more they haven’t turned loose. Yet.”

  “I think my car’s okay to drive,” said Aurora. “Looks pretty bad, though.”

  “I’ll follow you to the garage,” said Sam.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  La Grande Maison, 2:30 p.m.

  “I told you I need the chopper!” screamed Win at the security guards. They stared at him. “Now! Carole will blab everything to the cops. They know where to find me. I’m toast if I stay.”

  “What about us?” asked a guard. “You gonna leave us here to be handcuffed and hauled off to jail?”

  “They won’t arrest you. You were doing your job, following orders. You never did anything to Carole. And even if they did arrest you, you’d get a light sentence. Now get me a chopper and a pilot.”

  “The boss won’t like it.”

  “You can tell the boss if I go down, he does, too. They’ll take away his passport. He’ll never be able to enter another country again. He’ll rot in jail. And La Grande Maison will no longer belong to him and the other investors. Got it?”

  “You shot Otis.”

  “You’re damn right. And I’ll shoot anyone else who gets in my way, including the two of you. You understand me?” The guards nodded. “Good. Now get me that helicopter and a pilot. Fast.”

  At the same time in Charlottesville, Jasper’s frazzled nerves wanted pills. He fought the urge, promised himself that as soon as this job was finished he’d pop at least one, maybe two. He smiled. Unless he ran into major problems, he’d get his fix in approximately 10 to 20 minutes.

  He rode the elevator to the floor just below ICU and stepped into the men’s restroom. Setting his brown leather satchel down in the stall, he stripped off his clothes and replaced them with the green scrubs he’d donned just a day earlier in this same bathroom. This time, he promised himself, the outcome would be different. This time Tom Southerland would die.

  Standing in front of the mirror, he adjusted the cap and mask. He raised a hand in a nonchalant greeting to a doctor who scurried into a stall. The doctor didn’t bother to return the greeting. Jasper smiled. That was one man who wouldn’t be able to identify him. Jasper retrieved a clipboard—complete with official-looking documents attached—from his satchel, tucked it under his arm, and walked to the elevator.

  Doctors, nurses, and visitors crowded into the elevator with him. Most gazed toward the ceiling. One puzzled nurse’s aide, however, stared, couldn’t stop looking at him. When he stepped off the elevator on the ICU floor, she did the same. He shuffled the papers on the clipboard and headed in the opposite direction from where he wanted to go. As he was rounding a corner, he glanced back toward the elevator. The nurse’s aide still stood there watching him.

  He hurried into the men’s restroom and leaned against the wall. Why had she stared at him, watched him walk away? No way could she have recognized him from the day before. The mask had covered much of his face. Maybe she just liked the way he walked or something. Anyhow, he had no reason to worry. And soon this job would be over and he could forget about the aide.

  At the nurses’ station in ICU, the aide told her supervisor about the doctor on the elevator. “Something about him didn’t seem right. He just seemed, well, strange, nervous. And his eyes were different. You know, a person’s eyes can tell you a lot. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him before.”

  “When was that?” asked the supervisor.

  “I don’t know. I can’t seem to get it all straight in my brain. But don’t worry; I’ll remember eventually.”

  “While you’re trying to remember, I’d like for you to go to the waiting room and check on Mrs. Southerland, see if she’s back from the cafeteria. Her husband just returned to his room from recovery. I’m sure she’d like to hear how he’s doing.”

  “Happy to do it.” As she walked toward the ICU waiting room, a doctor in scrubs slipped into T
om Southerland’s room. He carried a satchel in his left hand. The guard hadn’t stopped him, had just waved him on.

  “Doctors almighty,” she murmured. She had her own opinions of doctors, opinions she’d learned to keep to herself if she valued her job. She ignored their advances, always had. Her mother had taught her values, had drilled into her the Ten Commandments, all those “Thou Shall Nots.” To be fair, though, she reminded herself that not all doctors were on the prowl. She shrugged, walked past Mr. Southerland’s room toward the waiting room.

  And then she remembered. The doctor she saw yesterday was carrying a satchel that looked exactly like the one she saw on the elevator, like the one she just passed. Yesterday she saw that doctor and that satchel come out of Mr. Southerland’s room after someone had tried to strangle him to death.

  She screamed for help and dashed into Southerland’s room. The guard on duty pulled his revolver, ran after her. The doctor leaning over Tom Southerland looked up at them. He held a syringe in his hand.

  “Leave this room!” he yelled. “You have no right….”

  “Stop him!” the aide yelled at the guard. “He’s going to kill Mr. Southerland!”

  “Drop the needle or I’ll shoot!” said the guard. He aimed the gun at the doctor, moved closer to him. The supervisor came in the room, stood beside the guard.

  “Okay, okay,” said the doctor, “but I don’t know what you’re so upset about.” Still holding the syringe, he edged closer to the door. “I was just doing my job.”

  “I want to see your face,” said the aide. She stepped toward him, reached for the surgical mask.

  “Back up, miss,” said the guard. “You’re too close to….”

  The doctor leaped forward, grabbed the aide, held the syringe at her throat. She struggled. He jammed the needle into her shoulder, pulled it out, laughed hysterically when she screamed. “Now stay still or next time I’ll go for your jugular. And there’s a drug in the syringe you really wouldn’t like. None of you would, so all the rest of you folks back off or I’ll kill her, maybe even pump some of this special cocktail into one of you.” He looked at his captive audience. “You wouldn’t want to be responsible for her death, now would you?”

  “I’ll shoot you,” said the guard. “I swear I will.”

  “You start to shoot and I’ll stab her before you squeeze the trigger. Move over beside the bed. All of you.”

  The supervisor inched toward the call button. With one arm around the aide’s neck and the syringe tucked between two fingers, the man in scrubs kicked the supervisor in the stomach. She doubled over and fell to the floor.

  “Hand me your gun, handle first,” he ordered the guard.

  “Not a chance in hell.”

  The door to the room swung open. Blanche stopped in the doorway, stared at the scene in front of her. “Tom! What’s wrong with Tom?”

  “Welcome to the party, Blanche. Join the crowd over there by your husband.”

  “You know my name. Who are you? And what are you doing to Tom?” She frowned. “Wait. I recognize that raspy, squeaky voice. And the scar on your forehead. You’re…!” She grabbed at his mask, missed. His fist slammed against her mouth.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Are you nuts?” She felt her lip, saw the blood on her hand.

  Jasper moved fast, shoved the aide into the guard. Wrestling the gun from the guard, he pointed it at them. “Now I have four hostages, five counting Mr. Tom Southerland who’s still sleeping like a baby after his successful amputation.”

  Jasper glanced around the room. “You,” he ordered the aide, “yank the top sheet off Mr. High and Mighty Southerland there. Tear it into strips.” He looked at the guard. “You help.”

  “You won’t get away with this,” said Blanche. “The cops will be all over you any minute.”

  “Don’t bet on it, sweetheart.” Jasper looked at his watch, frowned.

  “The sheet’s in strips like you demanded,” said the aide.

  “Aren’t you just the sweetest little Southern Belle,” said Jasper. “Now, you and Miss Priss there put your hands behind you and back up to each other. Cop, you tie their hands together. Tight, really tight. Understand?” The guard nodded, did as ordered.

  “Now, stuff a sheet strip in their mouths, make ‘em lie on the floor, then shove them under the bed. When that’s done, tie Blanche in the chair and give her some sheet to chew on.” Jasper looked at her and smiled. “Blanche, aren’t you pleased that I thought of your comfort? Such a gentleman I am.”

  “Think about what you’re doing. You won’t get away with this,” she said again. The strips of cloth tightened around her arms.

  “Sure I will.” Jasper ordered the guard to stuff rags in Blanche’s mouth.

  “I’ve done everything you asked,” said the guard. “What’s next?”

  “Come closer.” Jasper raised his arm and struck the guard hard in the head with the gun. “Sweet dreams,” he said as the guard toppled to the floor.

  Jasper shoved his body under the hospital bed and dropped the side rails. He picked up the syringe from the floor, jammed the needle in Tom’s IV, and pushed the plunger.

  Terrified, Blanche struggled against the sheets binding her. She tried to scream but couldn’t.

  “Blanche, you’re the only one who knows my name and what I look like. You gotta die. The others, except for your husband, may live.” Jasper pulled his gun with silencer attached from his satchel, aimed at Blanche’s chest, and pulled the trigger. He picked up the satchel and the cop’s gun, and walked from the room.

  “How you doin’?” said a man hurrying to one of the bathroom stalls.

  “Good,” answered Jasper.

  “Nice day, ain’t it?”

  “Um.” Jasper headed to a vacant stall and shut the door.

  “So what do you think about those Cavaliers? Think they’ll win the ACC this year?” asked the man. Jasper didn’t answer. “You like Virginia Tech or UVA?”

  Jasper ignored him.

  “You ain’t very talkative, are you? Problems in the operating room, or is it a woman that’s made you so unsociable?”

  Jasper ignored the comment. He removed his mask, cap and scrubs, changed into his street clothes. He waited on the toilet for the man in the next stall to leave. So far the man hadn’t seen Jasper’s face. Good. Now if he would just leave without seeing the clothes Jasper had changed into….

  “Hey, whatcha doin’ in there?” The man flushed, left his stall and banged on Jasper’s stall door.

  “Hey, man, I need to concentrate right now, don’t need any conversation,” said Jasper. “You were right; there was a problem in the operating room. My patient died. I’m trying to build up courage to go tell his wife. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Oh, sure. Hey, Doc, I’m sorry about your patient.” He washed his hands and left the bathroom.

  Ten minutes later Jasper dialed his mother from his car. Two police cars, their lights blinking and sirens blaring, passed him heading north.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Route 29 South, about two miles south of Charlottesville. We have a problem.” He told her what had happened in the hospital.

  “Not good. Your brother’s having a rough time, too. It’s really hittin’ the fan. And this time it’s at my back door. I don’t like this at all.”

  “So what are we gonna do?”

  “You and your brother are going to get the hell out of Virginia. I’ve already talked to him.”

  “Where will we go?”

  “That’s your problem.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  North Carolina, 3:30 p.m.

  Etta heard the tell-tale sound only a flat tire can make. She drove onto the shoulder and turned off the engine. Mouser, eager to escape his prison, screeched.

  “Hush,” she said. “I can’t think with all that noise. This is not what I need right now.”

  Etta tried to remember the road sign she’d passed hal
f a mile back. Had it said “Greenville?” If so, how many miles to Greenville? She didn’t have a jack. But a jack wouldn’t help anyhow—she didn’t even have a spare to replace the flat. She’d been meaning to get a spare and a jack, but things—mostly a lack of money—seemed to get in the way. Besides, she never went anywhere except to work and occasionally to the lake to take care of Hessie. Well, she wouldn’t be taking care of Hessie any more. By now Hessie was surely dead.

  Etta opened the door, draped her purse over her shoulder, reached in the back seat and lifted Mouser and his carrier from the car. His purring and crying irritated her, even though she knew he craved freedom. She locked the doors and began her trek toward Greenville—wherever that was. She hoped it was close to New Bern. She also prayed that Butch wouldn’t catch her walking.

  Twenty-eight minutes later she heard a car pull onto the shoulder behind her. The hairs on her neck stood up. Certain that Butch had finally found her, she broke into a trot.

  “Hello,” said the male voice. “Can we help you?”

  That wasn’t Butch. Etta stopped, looked behind her. A man and woman stood a few yards away.

  “Hello,” the man said again. “Was that your red Capri parked on the shoulder a ways back?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Looks like you have a flat. I’d be happy to change it for you.”

  She took a few steps toward their car. “That’s very kind of you. I don’t have a jack or a spare. But thanks for stopping.”

  “Well, can we drive you somewhere?”

  “I don’t even know where I am.”

  The woman put her hand on Etta’s arm. “I’m Sue, this is Mac. You’re in Pitt County, North Carolina, only a few miles from Greenville. We want to help you if you’ll let us.” She took the cat carrier from Etta, handed it to her husband.

  Etta looked into their eyes. These were people she could trust. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you so much.” She climbed into the back seat of their car.

  “Nice cat,” said Mac as he passed the carrier to Etta. “What’s his name?”

  “Mouser. I’m Etta.”