In his Washington, D.C. penthouse, J. Melton Lampwerth IV adjusted his hand-painted silk tie and flicked a gray hair from the shoulder of his navy, chalk-stripe Italian suit. He snatched up his laptop, stepped into his private penthouse elevator, and pushed the button to the executive parking garage. Last night he’d loaded all the papers his accountant had thrust at him into a brown calfskin briefcase, packed a few clothes in a small suitcase, and quietly taken them to his car undetected. He’d been furious then, and even now his anger had abated only a little.
“When I’m through, somebody’s head will roll,” he said aloud.
Lampwerth hadn’t told anyone he was going, not even Jill, his assistant. He’d only decided the night before. Well, he’d call her from the lake on Monday. She’d be wondering why he hadn’t come back to the office after lunch today. This wasn’t like him—he’d never done anything on the spur of the moment before. But he knew he needed solitude to think this dilemma through. Besides, Robert Reeves, Vice President of Lampwerth International, had always made the seclusion of his Smith Mountain Lake home sound inviting. Lampwerth deserved some time away from the office. He would stay at Robert’s lake house for several days. The house was equipped with a fax, and he had his laptop, so he could keep in touch with the office. And when he returned to Washington, he’d have a good idea of how to handle his problem.
Lampwerth drove into the parking lot of Executive Pet Grooming, parked, and hurried inside. Pictures of champion AKC dogs covered the walls.
“How are you, Mr. Lampwerth?” asked the receptionist. “I’ll tell them in the back to get Russell for you.”
“Thanks.” He was glad he’d remembered to pick up his Jack Russell terrier before leaving D.C. If he hadn’t, the groomer would have called his office, then his penthouse, and the search for him would have started three days too soon. Lampwerth recognized the shrill bark coming from the hall. The door opened and in burst Russell, his body wriggling with delight and his groomer in tow.
“Mr. Lampwerth, good to see you, sir.” Danny was always glad to see big-tipping Mr. Lampwerth. “I bathed and trimmed Russell today, clipped his nails, the whole shebang. As usual, he was a pleasure to work with.”
Lampwerth paid his bill, tipped Danny, and walked out the door with Russell.
“In all the time I’ve been grooming Russell, this is the first time Mr. Lampwerth didn’t seem excited to see his dog,” Danny said to the receptionist. They watched Russell relieve himself on the plastic fire hydrant outside the building, then eagerly leap into the front seat of the BMW.
“I know what you mean. Usually he lets Russell jump in his arms and wash his face with yucky wet kisses. Odd, isn’t it?” said the receptionist.
In the car, Lampwerth looked down at Russell perched contentedly on the passenger seat. Lampwerth had never planned to love anything, much less a dog. Four years ago Marian had filed for divorce after 30 years of marriage. “You’re not capable of love,” she’d said. “You only married me for my money and social status.” And she was right. Lampwerth’s lawyer insisted he get a dog or cat or some other animal to convince the judge that he was lonely, that he indeed needed someone or something to love. So he bought Russell and the strategy worked. His lawyer estimated that Russell saved him half a million bucks in alimony payments. Lampwerth had planned to keep Russell a while, then give him away, but in the interim the puppy squirmed his way into Lampwerth’s cold heart.
The silver BMW purred along Interstate 66. Traffic wasn’t nearly as heavy as it was when Lampwerth left Washington, and the heavy rain had now become a drizzle. Lampwerth reached Gainesville and turned off 66 onto 29 South. He was glad he decided to accept Robert’s long-standing offer to stay at the lake house. Lampwerth had been very angry last evening when Louis Beale, the firm’s accountant, had told him someone had been screwing around with the books, even hinted that some funds had been skimmed off the top. And that look on the accountant’s face, almost as if he suspected Lampwerth. Ridiculous. He was President and C.E.O. of Lampwerth International. He would never do anything to hurt his own company, the company he’d built thirty-five years ago. Everyone knew that.
He slowed the BMW, turned onto 460 West, and skirted Lynchburg. The rain started again. He turned on his windshield wipers. Thirty-five minutes later he reached his turn onto 122 in Bedford and glanced down at the directions. Good, only about forty minutes left according to Robert’s notes. Lampwerth pressed harder on the accelerator.
Nearing Smith Mountain Lake, Lampwerth slowed. In the dark and the rain it would be easy to miss his turn off 122, one of the last turns before he reached Spawning Run Road. Robert had assured him there were only a few houses on Spawning Run Road. Most were vacant for one reason or other, and Lampwerth would have complete privacy.
“Finally,” he said to Russell as the car’s headlights illuminated the address—214 Spawning Run—embedded in one of the stucco columns at the driveway’s entrance. Even he was impressed when he pulled into the circular drive fronting the peach-colored Mediterranean-style stucco house. Looked like Robert Reeves certainly knew how to live. A low-hanging branch thudded hard against the passenger side of the BMW, and Lampwerth made a mental note to check in the morning for scratches on his car. He would also tell Robert to get his damn trees trimmed.
Getting out of the car, he accidentally bumped the car horn. He jumped—and noted with a shudder the lonesome sound the horn made. He let Russell out to do what dogs do after a long ride in a car, then he pulled the house key out of his pocket, picked up his luggage and laptop, and walked to the front door. He stuck the key in the lock and smiled. He knew Robert would be pleased when he returned from his cruise and discovered that Lampwerth had finally accepted the invitation to stay at the lake. He turned the doorknob and stepped inside the house.
A heavy blow from behind sent him crashing to the floor. J. Melton Lampwerth IV’s last thought as he lay bleeding on the white marble tile was that Robert Reeves hadn’t done him a favor after all.
Next door, Aurora dropped her book. Were those gunshots? Ears cocked, King jumped up and growled. “Shh, boy,” she commanded. Obediently, King sat down. For two minutes, woman and dog remained motionless, then Aurora crossed the living room and kitchen and went into the utility room. King padded silently by her side. Without turning on the light, Aurora pulled the window curtain aside and peered out into the night.
Outside a faint moon played hide-and-seek in the swiftly moving clouds. The wind whistled gently around the eaves of the house. “Storm’s almost over, King. I don’t know if we heard gunshots, thunder, or a car backfiring, but I don’t see or hear anything now. Why don’t we get ready for bed? It’s been a long day.”
Aurora stood on a stool in her parents’ bedroom closet and pulled a locked metal box down from the top shelf. Then she searched in a dresser drawer until she located a key. Unlocking the box, she removed the .38 semi-automatic, checked the safety, and made sure the gun was loaded. Her hand shook. She remembered the last time she’d seen this gun; the police had found it on the telephone table in the living room in January. They’d speculated that the presence of the gun suggested her father had planned to shoot himself but for some unknown reason had drowned himself instead.
She carried the gun back to her bedroom and placed it in the drawer of her nightstand. King curled up on his dog bed under the large window and looked at Aurora. She petted him gently on his head, then climbed into her bed and tried to sleep.