Secrets at Sweetwater Cove

by Sally Roseveare

  Mac started the engine, looked back at Etta. “Where are you headed?”

  “New Bern. Is that far from here?”

  “No, only about an hour,” said Sue. “Where did you come from?”

  “The Lynchburg, Virginia, area. I got all turned around. Somebody’s chasing me, so I took back roads a person wouldn’t normally take to get to New Bern from Lynchburg. I’ve been on the road since a little after eight this morning.”

  “I have a jack. We’ll drive to your car and get the flat, then take it to a service station, see if they can fix it. If you’re worried about leaving all your stuff in your car, we could probably squeeze most of it in ours.” He turned the car around and headed back toward Etta’s Capri.

  “I don’t want to be near my car long, only long enough to get my suitcase and Mouser’s food. If Butch finds me….”

  “Is Butch the person chasing you?” asked Sue.

  “Yeah. And if he finds me he’ll kill me.” She frowned, looked at Sue and Mac in the front seat. “You have to let me out. Now.” She unbuckled her seat belt, reached for the door handle.

  “Hold on,” said Mac. “Don’t try to get out while the car’s moving. You’ll get hurt. Why do you suddenly want to leave?”

  “Because if Butch finds me with the two of you, he’ll kill y’all, too. You’ve been really nice to me; I don’t want you to die because you’re nice. Please stop the car.”

  “Etta, we’re not scared of Butch,” said Mac. “What kind of car does he drive? We’ll watch out for it.”

  “He drives a dark blue Ford 150 truck, no camper shell. It’s got four-wheel drive. The tires are extra big, and there’s a row of lights on the top of the truck.”

  “Does it look like that truck coming toward us?”

  “That’s him!” cried Etta. “I knew he’d find me!”

  “Quick! Get on the floor!” said Sue.

  Terrified, Etta slid down in the seat as far as she could and held her breath.

  “You can sit up now,” said Mac several seconds later. “He’s gone on down the road. Probably thinks he’ll catch up with you trying to hitch a ride. We’ll hurry to your car, grab your luggage, and get out of here.”

  “Look at all that dark smoke down the road,” said Sue. “Wonder where it’s coming from.”

  “Omigosh,” said Etta as they drove closer to the fire ball, “that’s my car! Butch set my car on fire!

  “I’ve gotta call my sister, warn her that Butch somehow found out where I’m going.” Etta dug in her purse for her cell phone. “I can’t find it. It must still be in the car. My sister will die and I can’t help her!”

  “Do you know your sister’s number?” asked Sue.

  “Of course.”

  “Here, use my cell,” said Sue.

  Etta flashed Sue a grateful smile and dialed. When there was no answer, she left a message and passed the phone back to Sue.

  “He’ll kill her if he finds her,” said Etta. “Maybe he already has.”

  “He hasn’t had time to get to New Bern. We just saw him, remember? Calm down, Etta,” said Sue.

  “We need to get you to a police station, let you tell them what you know, tell them how dangerous this man is, what he’s capable of doing,” said Mac.

  “No. I can’t go to the cops. Butch will kill me if I do. And cops can’t be trusted, anyhow.”

  “He’ll kill you regardless. At least with the cops you stand a chance.”

  “I won’t do it. Stop the car.”

  “First he’ll kill you, then he’ll go after your sister. You know that. Do you want to be responsible for her death?”

  Etta slumped in the seat, looked out the window. “I can’t take any more of this. Do whatever you think is best.”

  Mac nodded. “We’ll take a different road into Greenville in case Butch is still searching for you on this one. I’ll have you at the police station soon. And if it makes you feel any better, one of the detectives is a fishin’ buddy of mine. Detective Stein will take good care of you.”

  “What about my sister?”

  “The Greenville police will alert the New Bern cops. They’ll protect her.” Mouser meowed.

  “My cat’s hungry, and he needs more water.”

  “We’ll take care of that,” said Sue. She looked at Mac, raised an eyebrow. He nodded. “You and Mouser can stay at our house, Etta. You’ll be safe there.”

  An angry Butch cruised the highway. When he found Etta—and he would—she’d beg him not to hurt her. He’d like to torture her, prolong her agony, but this had gone on long enough. Jasper wanted her dead, had ordered Butch to take care of “our little problem.” Butch couldn’t take his time killing her the way he’d like. Jasper had called his cell several times, but Butch had ignored the calls. If Jasper knew how far Etta had gotten, he just might come after Butch. Jasper didn’t like it when things didn’t go the way he’d planned.

  He frowned. Etta’s sister might be a big problem. Butch slapped the steering wheel. He’d give anything to know how much Etta had told her. And there was no way in hell Butch would let Jasper know about Etta’s sister.

  Butch looked at his watch. He’d set Etta’s car on fire 10 minutes ago. Only one person had pulled over and asked if he could help put the fire out. Butch had told the man that he’d stopped to help when he saw the smoke, had checked the interior of the car, but nobody was inside. He told the goody-goody he’d already called 911. Of course he hadn’t. The driver had waved and driven off.

  Smiling, he remembered the rush he’d gotten when the Capri started smoking, then burning. The explosion and the leaping flames had excited him. He wished he could have just stood there and watched it burn, but the situation hadn’t allowed that. The last fire he’d set had been in that new house in Sweetwater. The flames then had seemed to dance, kind of bend and twist to some type of rhythm. He’d forgotten how much he’d enjoyed watching. He wished he’d set Etta’s house on fire. Maybe he’d start more fires just for fun. But first he had to take care of Etta and her sister.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Thursday, 4:00 p.m.

  Miss Nosy Neighbor blinked, opened her eyes, looked around the room. She watched the IV dripping liquid in her arm. “Where am I?”

  “Ms. Patrick, you’re in the hospital in Rocky Mount. How do you feel?” asked the detective.

  “Like a horse kicked me in the head and then an elephant stomped on it. What happened?”

  “A bullet struck you in the head. Fortunately it lodged in your skull instead of traveling through important stuff like the brain.”

  “I guess that’s good. But I have a really awful headache. And who shot me?”

  “We have no idea, but we’re investigating. I’m guessing it was accidental. Probably somebody target practicing near by and missed. The guilty party most likely doesn’t even know he hit you or that his bullet could have killed you.”

  “I disagree. I betcha anything my neighbor’s guardian is responsible for shooting me. I bet he intended to kill me.”

  “Why would your neighbor’s guardian want to kill you, Ms. Patrick?”

  “Because he knows I saw him in the neighborhood. He was acting strangely.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, I left my house to take a book back to the library. I didn’t want to get a late charge, you know. Anyhow, I saw my neighbor’s guardian—his name is Mr. Smoot—parked on the road. He was sitting in his car, said he was waiting for somebody to come pick up the elderly woman’s furniture.”

  “Doesn’t seem unreasonable to me.” The detective glanced at his watch, stood up to leave.

  “What would you say if I told you that when I came home, I saw his car parked in the driveway in front of the Karvers’ garage? The garage door was wide open; Mr. and Mrs. Karver’s cars were gone. I’m certain he’s the man who entered their home. And I guarantee he’s the person who shot me.” The detective sat back down.

  “You may have heard of the old woman.
Her name’s Hessie Davis. She disappeared, was found way over on Smith Mountain. She has Alzheimer’s, but she couldn’t have traveled that far in her bathrobe and slippers by herself. She had help. In my opinion, Mr. Smoot is responsible for driving her to the mountain and leaving her there to die.”

  The deputy stood, looked down at the woman with bandages on her head. “I’m familiar with the Hessie Davis episode and wondered how she got on the mountain. Ms. Patrick, we’ll look into what you said, check out Mr. Smoot. You feel better, okay?”

  “I just remembered,” said Ms. Nosy Neighbor. “I snapped a picture of his car in the Karver’s driveway.”

  “Where’s the picture?”

  “In my digital camera. I left it in the laundry room.”

  “When can I see it?”

  “Get my purse out of the closet there and I’ll give you a key to the house. I don’t know when the doctor will release me and you need to see it. Actually, I took several pictures, one close-up that shows his car’s license plate.”

  “Good girl,” he said as he took the key. She beamed. No one had called her a girl for decades.

  As soon as he left her room, he called his office. “You know that Mr. Smith we heard about from Mrs. Karver? The woman who was shot believes Smoot is responsible. And get this. She thinks he’s the guy who entered the Karver house. She took pictures of his car in their driveway; one shows the license plate. After talking to Ms. Patrick, my guess is Mr. Smith is really Mr. Smoot. I’m on my way to her house to get her camera, then I’ll head to the office. I’ll fill you in when I get there.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Thursday, 5:00 p.m.

  Back home in his Sweetwater Cove townhouse, Jasper wanted to sit down with a beer and relax. But he couldn’t now. Soon, though, he promised himself. His drive from Charlottesville had been nerve-wracking. Every time he’d seen a police car, he’d cringed, waited for the chase to begin. But now it looked like he was almost home free.

  Quickly he packed two suitcases and set them by the door. Hurrying to his safe, he grabbed fake IDs, credit cards, and three passports—each with different names. He stuffed everything in his satchel. Unzipping a larger bag, he pulled bundles of fifty- and hundred-dollar bills from the safe and transferred them to the bag. Most of the hidden money he’d stolen from Sweetwater Cove and Tom Southerland—kind of cooked the books, some would say. He laughed. Initially, the deceased Southerland would be blamed. But auditors weren’t stupid. Jasper was the accountant; they’d soon suspect him because he handled the money.

  “What have I forgotten?” he said aloud. He’d called his brother Win, warned him that the cops would be coming soon, that he’d meet Win and the chopper in Altavista. He’d packed his passports, financial stuff, his laptop, computer backup, and contact book.

  The front door opened. Quick footsteps sounded on the ceramic tile floor. Jasper froze.

  “Where are you, Jasper? I know you’re here.”

  Jasper relaxed, poked his head around his bedroom door. “I’m right here, Mom.”

  “You moron. Will you never learn to do as I say? You should have been out of the country by now.” Mommy Dearest wagged a gloved finger at her older son. “What is your problem?”

  “Hey, I’m not your only kid who’s in trouble. I talked to Win. He expects the police to raid La Grande Maison any minute.”

  “Well, right now he’s trying to commandeer La Grande Maison’s helicopter. He won’t be able to return to the bed and breakfast to get his makeup kit, passports and other papers. I assured him that you would take his backups with you. You do still have copies of all his papers, right? You will keep your baby brother safe, won’t you?” said Estelle.

  “Of course I have his documents, and of course I’ll take care of him.” Just like I always have, he thought. Jasper smiled. Part of him secretly hoped his handsome, perfect baby brother would be captured by the police, thrown into prison for the rest of his life. He certainly deserved it. But unlike Jasper, Win would talk, implicate Jasper and Mommy Dearest. The thought of spending the rest of his life in prison didn’t appeal to Jasper.

  What had happened to Butch? Jasper had called and left messages numerous times, but Butch never answered. Surely he wasn’t still on Etta’s trail. Somehow he had to find Butch and kill him before the cops did.

  “Have you heard the news?” his mother asked.

  “No, what?”

  “I heard through the rapid-gossip line that the neighbor who lives next door to Hessie told the police about you coming out of the Karver’s garage, said she thinks you’re the one who shot her in the head.”

  “Impossible. She’s dead. I shot her, watched her fall. You know I never miss.” He zipped his satchel closed. “Naw, they’re plain out wrong. Gotta be.

  “‘Bye, Mom.” Jasper started to walk out the door.

  “Where will you be? How can I get in touch with you?”

  “Not sure yet. My guess is Win will want to run to Iran. I’ll go with him. He’s got important connections there. We’ll call you when we get settled.”

  Estelle cupped her son’s chin in her hands. “You’re a good boy. Remember what I taught you and you’ll end up a rich man.” She kissed his cheek.

  “Yeah, Mom, I’ll remember what you always told Win and me—’Do unto others before they do it unto you.’” He patted her shoulder. “You take care of yourself.”

  “You, too. And remember, Jasper.” She pointed a finger at him. “I’m counting on you to look after your baby brother.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  La Grande Maison, 5:35 p.m.

  The long-awaited helicopter lifted off and headed north. From the air, Win watched the line of police cars snake along the curvy road to La Grande Maison. He’d escaped just in time. In a few minutes the cops would crash through the main security gate.

  “I win again. I always do.” Win smiled, settled back against the seat, looked below as the chopper skimmed the treetops. A large buck ran into an open field, turned, and dashed back to hide once more in the forest.

  On a piece of paper, Win checked his to-do list: Pick up Jasper in an Altavista field off Highway 29; gas up the chopper at a private airstrip in Lovingston; rendezvous with Middle East cronies in New Jersey; shoot the pilot then blow up the chopper; fade into obscurity; get rich and live happily ever after.

  He also needed to decide his next identity so that he could get that particular passport ready when he met up with Jasper. He hated to give up his I. Winston Ford identity, his favorite. The name suited him perfectly.

  Win decided on the disguise that called for brown hair flecked with gray, a mustache, and brown eyes. He liked that one because even though it changed his appearance dramatically, it didn’t hide his good looks; he’d still be handsome, a chick magnet. Before they reached New Jersey, he’d pop in the brown contacts and comb gray coloring through his hair and mustache. When he left the helicopter he wouldn’t look anything like the man Carole knew. He figured Jasper had planned on an identity change, too, wondered what he’d picked.

  Turning on his laptop, Win typed in his password and opened the site for I. Winston Ford’s savings and checking accounts. Minutes later he’d transferred $700,000 dollars to the account of Ira M. Smartt, his new identity. He grinned. Even though this name wasn’t as perfect as I. Winston Ford, he liked it. He’d go by I. Smartt, or Martin, or I. M. Smartt—and he was. He congratulated himself on his ingenuity.

  Jasper drove his car onto the dirt road. He knew where to meet the chopper and his brother. Surrounded by thick forests that provided privacy, the farm field was a good choice, one they’d used before. He looked at his watch. He’d barely made it in time. He knew Perfect Baby Brother wouldn’t wait more than five minutes. When Win hadn’t come after 10 minutes, Jasper started worrrying. What if the police had raided La Grande Maison, captured Win before he could escape? Normally, he wouldn’t really care if Perfect Baby Brother got caught. But if that were the case now, no helic
opter would come to whisk him off to safety. Jasper wiped perspiration from his brow.

  The distant drone grew louder. Relieved when he saw the helicopter, Jasper waited beside his luggage for the chopper to set down.

  “You’re late,” he said when Win jumped to the ground and walked a few yards away. “And where do you think you’re going?”

  “I gotta pee. Load your stuff. I’ll be right back.”

  Jasper hoisted his luggage into the chopper and hurried back to his car.

  “Whatcha doing?” Win asked. “We’re ready to take off.”

  “Almost forgot to get the license plates off the car. When they find the car it’ll take them a little longer to trace it to me if there are no plates.”

  “Did you remember to empty the glove compartment?”

  “Of course. Did that while waiting for you and the chopper. You were late.” Jasper tucked the license plates under his arm and climbed aboard. Win tapped the pilot on the shoulder and nodded. The helicopter lifted into the overcast sky and disappeared in the clouds.

  “Did you bring my stuff?”

  “Of course.” Jasper handed the bundle to Win.

  “So what disguise will you use this time? And what should I call you?”

  “Call me Martin, short for Ira Martin Smartt. Two ‘t’s in Smartt.” He grinned.

  Jim, the pilot, had just delivered four La Grande Maison guests to the Boston airport when the head security guard contacted him and ordered him to return to home base immediately. Now he glanced back at his new passengers. He knew these guys, had never liked either of them, didn’t trust them, would have preferred not to work with them. La Grande Maison’s boss, a U.S. Senator with strong ties to the Middle East, hadn’t given him a choice. He’d like to quit. But Jim knew better than to argue with a man who’d just as soon chop him up and feed him to the Dobermans as look at him. Death by Doberman didn’t appeal. No, he never questioned the boss. If he’d known in the beginning that once you work for the boss, you always work for the boss, that the only way to quit was to die, he’d never have taken the job.