That evening at Smith Mountain Lake, Aurora hugged Uncle Charlie. To most folks in the Lynchburg area, Uncle Charlie was either “Judge Anderson,” “Judge Charles,” “Charlie,” or simply “Charles.” It just depended on how close—or in what capacity—the person knew him. When he had asked if he could take Sam and her out to dinner, she insisted they eat at the house. Unfortunately, most of the home-cooked meals Uncle Charlie had eaten since his wife Annie died from cancer five years earlier were either those Aurora cooked or the ones his widow neighbor insisted he share with her. Aurora knew Uncle Charlie missed Annie terribly. She made a silent vow to call him more often, invite him to spend more time at the lake.
So many things about him reminded her of her dad, Jack Anderson. She missed her dad. Her mother, too. Aurora had fond memories of her parents and Uncle Charlie and Aunt Annie as they gathered around the piano and sang songs from the Big Band era, as well as ‘50s and ‘60s tunes. The family spent most holidays together. Since Aurora had no siblings, she’d often wished her aunt and uncle had produced cousins for her to play with. But they never had. Aurora didn’t know if they couldn’t, or if they just didn’t want any. She’d never asked.
As though reading her thoughts, King poked Aurora’s leg with his nose, stretched out beside her. She smiled at him.
“Let me look at you,” Uncle Charlie said, grabbing both her hands. Aurora smiled at the same greeting he’d given her for as long as she could remember. She waited for him to finish.
“I declare, girl, you keep getting prettier and prettier. Are you taking pretty pills?”
Aurora laughed, gave the expected response. “Uncle Charlie, you’re the bestest uncle any girl could have.” They both grinned and hugged.
Sam welcomed him. “I need to pick your brain, Charlie. That okay?”
“Fine with me. I’m always glad to help if I can.” Charlie liked being needed, appreciated it when anyone considered his opinion worthwhile.
“Let’s eat in the sunroom,” Sam said. He carried the three place settings of silverware and napkins Aurora handed him to the porch.
As he set the table, Sam told Uncle Charlie about Tom Southerland’s disappearance and finding his cap, but not Tom, in the portable toilet.
“How do you know the cap belonged to Tom?” Charlie asked.
“His wife Blanche identified it a few hours ago.” Sam frowned. “That woman’s another story. Maybe even a horror story.” He told Charlie how Blanche had acted that morning.
“Hey, you guys, dinner’s ready,” Aurora called. “Come fill your plates.” She pointed to the bowls of shrimp, grits, and asparagus on the kitchen counter, then carried the French bread and an open bottle of Hickory Hill Winery’s Vidal Blanc to the porch and set them on the table.
Over dinner, the three discussed Win Ford and his explosive temper. “Sounds like a rich, spoiled jerk to me,” Uncle Charlie said. “Did he say why he wanted a house at the lake?”
“I asked Carole that same question a little while ago,” Aurora said. “Seems one of Win’s rich, boat-crazed buddies told him about the annual Poker Run held here and invited Win to help crew a powerboat this past May. He did, and now he’s hooked. Carole said Win’s looking for a house of his own and a faster boat than his friend’s. According to Carole, his wealth is as big as his ego. Which must mean he’s loaded.”
“I didn’t think the Poker Run was a race. Isn’t the object to draw a card from each of the participating marinas? Best hand wins?” asked Uncle Charlie.
“Yeah. But try telling that to some of the skippers.” Sam knew many of the locals were against the Poker Run. He had mixed emotions. The sleek, fast boats excited him. He owned a classic ‘50s Chris-Craft, knew the thrill of opening her up, seeing her perform. And he also understood how folks in small boats would feel threatened when a 35-foot or larger craft zoomed by, its wake nearly swamping them. Then again, the Poker Run raised thousands of dollars for charity each year. And wasn’t that a good thing?
The phone interrupted Sam’s thoughts. He started to ignore the ringing, but figured it might be the cops or Blanche Southerland reporting on Tom, so he answered it.
“Aurora, it’s for you—a Dixie Lee Cunningham. I told her you’d call back after dinner, but she said it was urgent.” He handed the phone to Aurora.
“Dixie Lee, what can I do for you?” Aurora asked.
“I’m sorry to bother you, dear. I know you’re eating dinner. But Hessie is carrying on about a van, probably the one you told me nearly hit her. She said the van was black.”
“She’s right.”
“She rattled off a license number, swore it was correct.”
“You’re kidding. This morning she couldn’t even remember my name,” Aurora said.
“I know. And get this. She said she’s seen the van driver before in Sweetwater and in her house. And, according to Hessie, he called her a ‘retard.’”
“He did. Doesn’t she have Alzheimer’s?”
“That’s what the doctors say. But they don’t really know, do they? I thought an autopsy was the only way to know for sure, although I understand the medical people have come up with some pretty accurate tests. She hasn’t had the tests, and of course, she hasn’t had an autopsy.”
“Sometimes the mind does strange things, Dixie Lee. I remember when Mother was in the nursing home. We didn’t think she could still use a phone, but we kept it in the room for our convenience when we were there. She didn’t even have a phone book in her room. But on my birthday I received a phone call from her. ‘Happy Birthday, Aurora. I love you,’ she said. And then she hung up.”
For a moment Aurora fought to control her emotions.
“Tell you what, Dixie Lee. Give me the license number and I’ll see what I can find out.” Sam handed Aurora a pen from his shirt pocket. She scribbled the number on her paper napkin. “I’ll let you know.”
Sam noticed a puzzled look on Charlie’s face. “Anything wrong, Charlie?”
Charlie sipped his wine, buttered a piece of garlic bread. “I knew a Dixie Lee Cunningham. Annie and I played bridge twice a month with a Dixie Lee and her husband Ernie when we guys were young lawyers practicing in Lynchburg. Then they moved west to Washington. To the Sequim area, I think. We lost touch.” He closed his eyes for a moment, embracing the memories. “But that was a lifetime ago, before you and Aurora came into the world. Couldn’t be the same Dixie Lee.”
“Maybe it is, Uncle Charlie. After all, how many Dixie Lee Cunninghams could there be?” She looked at her uncle, saw a spark in his eyes she’d not seen often since Annie had died.
“What did this Dixie Lee look like? Not that my Dixie Lee would look the same after all these years. I certainly don’t.” Charlie took a bite of bread.
Aurora tried not to grin. She wondered if Uncle Charlie realized he was referring to the lady as my Dixie Lee. “She’s slim. Her hair’s kind of a strawberry blonde with some gray mingled in. She’s a pretty lady.”
“My Dixie Lee’s hair was strawberry blonde. She wore it chin length, as did Annie. Those gals enjoyed each other so much. I remember them lugging portable sewing machines to each other’s homes. Sometimes they’d sew together all day. Dixie Lee and Annie were the same size, used each other’s patterns. Annie made most of her clothes, you know.” Aurora nodded.
“Maybe you should call Dixie Lee and find out if she’s your long-lost friend.”
“I’ll think about it.”