Chesapeake Summer (17 page)

W
ade almost walked into the sheriff, who was positioned against a tree trunk just outside the back entrance of the church hall. He shook his head. “Call me a fool, Blake, but the number fifteen keeps coming back to me.” He ticked the events off on his fingers. “Our murder took place fifteen years ago. Quentin Wentworth deeded Lizzie's land back to her fifteen years ago. Verna Lee came back to the Cove fifteen years ago and Amanda Wentworth was killed in a car accident fifteen years ago.”

The door to the hall opened. Wade blinked. Blake held his finger to his lips and pulled him into the shadows, camouflaging them both.

A square of light blinded Wade for a minute, but when he could see again, he recognized Tracy Wentworth.

She'd nearly reached her car when the door opened again. Bailey Jones, his black shirt and slacks rendering him nearly invisible in the darkness, caught up with her. Wade could barely make out their voices.

Tracy was furious. “It doesn't matter what happens in there. You can't prove anything.”

“I won't have to. It'll prove itself.”

She turned on him. “Why do you care anyway? Your mother got plenty out of all this. You'll make millions because of it.”

“Not if I can't sell the land.”

Her voice shook. “How much is it worth to you?”

He laughed, a soft triumphant sound. “You don't have enough.”

“How do you know?”

“Because there isn't enough money in the whole world.”

“I knew it. You aren't interested in profit. All you want is revenge.”

“Maybe,” Bailey conceded.

“What else could it be?”

“Maybe I just want to see justice served.”

“What do you want from me?” Tracy demanded.

His voice changed. “This isn't about you. You're nothing to me. Just stay out of it. Stop fighting his battles and you won't get hurt.”

Once again the door opened. This time it was Chloe Richards who stood framed in the light. “Bailey? Is that you?”

“Give me a minute, Chloe.”

“Who are you talking to?” She squinted into the darkness and then stepped outside, closing the door behind her.

Wade watched her run toward Bailey. She stopped abruptly when she saw Tracy. “Oh,” she said. “Hello.”

“I suppose you've told her everything,” Tracy said bitterly, “along with her mother and my ex-husband.”

Chloe remained silent.

“That isn't your concern,” replied Bailey. “Go on home and it'll be all right.”

“No, it won't.” Tracy fumbled for her keys. “It isn't exactly a picnic now, but when it all comes out, there won't be anything left for Tess and me.”

“Tess is going to be a lawyer,” said Chloe. “She'll be fine.”

Tracy's laugh held a note of hysteria. “We'll see how far she gets trying to support herself.”

“She has a father.”

“Her father is otherwise occupied with his new family.”

“That's not true,” Chloe protested. “My mother works hard. She has a lot less than she used to have because of what Russ gives you.”

“I certainly hope Tess sticks up for me the way you do your mother, even if it isn't true,” Tracy snapped.

Bailey stepped between them. “Easy, Chloe. She's on the edge. You can't hold her to what she's saying.”

“That's right. Protect her,” Tracy hissed. “What is it about the Delacourte women that men just fall at their feet even at the expense of their own families?”

Wade, completely caught up in the drama playing out before him, barely registered that the church double doors had opened and a steady stream of people poured out of the building, deep in conversation.

Cursing the timing, he watched Tracy climb into her car and drive out of the parking lot. Bailey and Chloe had disappeared, merging with the flow of bodies melting into the darkness.

Within minutes the parking lot had emptied. Wade whistled softly. “That was one interesting conversation.”

Blake shrugged. “If I'm thinking what you're thinking, how in hell do we handle this case now? We're gonna need proof.”

Wade's expression was deliberately blank. “Proof is for prosecutors. All we need is a confession. I think it's past time for me to pay another visit to Judge Wentworth.”

Tracy Wentworth smelled the acrid scent of cigar smoke and knew her father was still awake. Normally, she would have slipped off her shoes and tiptoed up the back stairs. Once she was safely locked in her room, he rarely interrupted her. Tonight, she didn't feel like hiding. Throwing caution to the winds, she opened the door to his study and coughed, waving away the smoke with her hands. “We'll never get the smell out of the wallpaper. Why don't you smoke outside? It's certainly warm enough to sit on the porch.”

He leaned back in his leather chair. “It's my house. I can do as I please.”

“It's my house, too,” she asserted bravely.

He snorted. “You're forgetting who pays the bills.”

“It was Mama's house and you've obviously forgotten that I'm your only child.”

“Now,
that's
something I never forget. Biggest disappointment of my life.”

Tracy flushed. “Don't you ever get tired of being so despicable?”

Judge Wentworth removed the cigar from his lips and stared at his daughter. “My, my, you're in a temper tonight. I guess it didn't go well at the church.”

“That depends on your perspective.”

“What does that mean?”

“Bailey Jones is an articulate speaker, maybe because he's a chip off the old block.”

“Don't be crude.”

She laughed bitterly. “Crude? What a joke. You've got the patent on crude.”

Wentworth sighed. “Just tell me what happened.”

“We'll have John Deere tractors razing the whole area by the end of the week.”

The judge's face looked grim in the lamplight.

“What difference does it make now anyway?” she asked. “It's closing the barn door after the horse has already escaped.”

“We'll come about. You'll see.”

“There's no
we,
Daddy. This is your baby.” She lifted her hands to her forehead and rubbed her temples. “You deserve everything you get.”

“I don't like your tone, daughter,” Wentworth said coldly. “I've worked very hard for what I have. I wish you'd appreciate that. God knows I've done enough for you. Everything you have, even Tess—”

She lifted her head, eyes narrowed, mouth tight with rage. “Don't you dare say anything about Tess.”

“I only meant—”

A voice cut through their argument. “Why are you yelling at each other?”

Like a movie reel set in slow motion, the judge and his daughter turned toward the sound.

Tess stood in the doorway in cotton pajama bottoms, her shoulders bare and brown beneath the spaghetti-strapped tank top.

Tracy moistened her lips. “Nothing, honey. You're in bed early. Do you feel poorly?”

“I had a headache. What are y'all excited about?”

Wentworth stubbed out his cigar, watching the smoke rise and curl around his nose. “Nothing that concerns you, Tess, honey.”

Tess frowned. “Does this have something to do with Bailey's land?”

“Your mother was at the town meeting,” the judge explained. “Neither of us wants the wetlands disturbed. We don't need the kind of people those condominiums will attract.”

Tess looked at her mother. “I didn't know you were so ecologically minded. Since when have you cared about the wetlands?”

Tracy smiled brightly, unable to speak.

“They've been here since the beginning of time,” the judge cut in smoothly. “I'm a traditionalist. Change disturbs me.”

“Chloe called me,” said Tess. “The sale is going through as long as Weber holds off on any construction until the end of the investigation.”

Across the smoke-filled room, Tracy Wentworth's eyes met those of her father.

Tess glanced from one to the other. Something wasn't right. “I'm for a glass of iced tea. Does anyone else feel like one?”

“No, thanks,” said her mother. “I'm tired. I think I'll turn in.”

“Not for me, either,” said the judge.

Barefoot, Tess padded down the hallway to the kitchen. She flicked on the light, opened the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of Verna Lee's spiced tea over ice. Then she stepped outside to the screened porch and sat down, lifting her hair off the back of her neck. Lights twinkled in the distance. Somewhere out there beyond the band of black that was the Chesapeake, normal families went about the business of living. She closed her eyes and imagined them, men and women who sat on either side of their children, playing board games or watching movies. A bowl of popcorn would sit on the coffee table. The dishwasher would be running in the background. A large dog would be splayed on the wood floor, his eyes drooping with contentment. Over the heads of their children, the man and his wife would glance at each other and smile, sharing some kind of intimate communication.

Tess sighed. She wasn't naive enough to believe that her daydream was the norm, but she held on to it anyway, something to believe in, to reach for. She closed her eyes, rewinding to the conversation she'd just heard, and concentrated.

Her mother had called Bailey Jones a chip off the old block. Tess's forehead wrinkled. What did it mean? And what was all that about closing the barn door after the horse had escaped?

Tess didn't believe for a minute that her mother and grandfather had developed environmental principles. They were both steadfast in their contempt for tree huggers, touting profit over conservation every time. Not that her mother was as rabid about her opinions as her grandfather, but then she rarely thought things through the way he did. What could they have been arguing about? She recalled that her own name had come up. Surely it wasn't about her. Tess shook her head and swallowed the last of her tea. Something smelled rotten in Denmark. But what?

It nagged at her, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. She stared out at the dark water.
Everything you have, even Tess…
Her breathing sounded labored in the quiet of the porch. Why was she so anxious? Her grandfather's words were nothing more than his usual refrain about how much they owed him for supporting them. That was it. Nothing more than that.

Pushing down her unanswered questions, she stood up and left the porch, rinsed her glass, set it in the dishwasher and climbed the back stairs to the second story. She hesitated in front of her mother's room, debating whether or not to knock. The space beneath her door was dark. She was probably asleep. Tess continued down the hall to her own room.

V
erna Lee woke up that morning feeling good. She wasn't what anyone would call happy. Last night's vote had put a solid period to anything close to happiness. But she was a long way from miserable. She was feeling…content. Her rich alto reverberated through the coffee shop, setting the crystals hanging on the display rack into a gentle sway. She was content to be filling the sugar jars, content to be brewing her daily roast of Somalia and Swedish Supreme, content to have found premium Verona chocolate in Salisbury for her chocolate-chunk brownies, content to be alive, here in Marshy Hope Creek, on this beautiful summer morning.

It was after nine. She hadn't turned the Open for Business sign around until eight o'clock, two hours later than she normally did. She'd slept in this morning and even the two cryptic notes of complaint left taped to her door didn't rile her the way they would have yesterday or the day before. Wade's defection didn't bother her, either. The man wasn't born who could spoil her pleasure in a beautiful summer morning.

“My goodness, you have a lot of energy on such a hot day.” Libba Jane walked through the door with Gina Marie in tow. “I could use some strong coffee.”

Verna Lee raised an eyebrow. “Late night?”

“Yes.” She rubbed her eyes. “I've been working on the reports you asked me to work up. I'd hate to put a spoke in Bailey's wheel if he really needs to sell.”

“Bailey'll be all right. The vote went in his favor.” Verna Lee stooped down so that she was eye level with her niece. “Don't you look cute with your hair pulled back in a pretty pink bow.”

Gina nodded gravely. “I like pink.”

“Me, too. What can I get you to drink?”

“Chocolate milk,” the child said promptly.

Libba groaned. “Verna Lee doesn't have chocolate milk. You know that. Why do you keep asking for it?”

Gina tilted her head. “If I keep asking her, maybe she'll get it.”

“Touché!” Verna Lee laughed. “She's got something there, because guess what's in the refrigerator?”

“Don't tell me,” said Libba.

Gina Marie clapped her hands. “Chocolate milk.”

“Good guess. I have chocolate milk,
regular, pasteurized
chocolate milk from the grocery store.”

“Can I have some?”

“May,”
her mother corrected her. “May I have some?”

Gina's brown eyes widened innocently. “You don't like chocolate milk.”

“Stop it, Gina,” her mother ordered. “You know exactly what I meant.”

Verna Lee lifted Gina to a chair. “Will you sit quietly and let your mama and me talk?”

Gina twisted a dangling curl around her forefinger. “Yes.”

Verna Lee set a short glass of chocolate milk, complete with straw, and a slice of banana bread, in front of her. “Be a good girl and eat your snack.”

Gina smiled. “I'll be good.”

Libba rolled her eyes, poured two cups of freshly perked coffee into colorful mugs and handed one to Verna Lee. “Tell me about the meeting.”

“I'm surprised you didn't hear. The sale is going through as long as Weber doesn't hinder the investigation or the crime scene.”

“The crime scene is fifteen years old. How much can anyone get from something that old?”

Verna Lee sipped her coffee. “More than you'd think.”

Libba frowned. “What are you saying?”

“They called in a forensic anthropologist. I've done some reading,” Verna Lee replied slowly. “A forensics team can reconstruct facial features from a skull. DNA from the bone marrow reveals blood type, sex, age, even the type of food a person ate for his last meal. The shape and conformation of the pelvic-area bones shows reproductive history. It's really amazing.”

“Do you think Wade has all that information?”

“Definitely.”

Libba bit her lip. “I'm worried about my father. If Mama had anything to do with that body, it'll kill him.”

Verna Lee had forgotten Cole Delacourte. Ashamed, she rallied quickly. “Your daddy's a good man,” she said sincerely. “He's spent his life helping people. Whatever your mother might have done is no reflection on him.”

“She was your mother, too,” Libba pointed out.

Shrugging her shoulders, Verna Lee shook her head. “Not really. I don't think of her that way. I'd rather that she not be a murderer, but whatever she did is no reflection on me or you. No one will be pointing fingers in our direction.”

“I hadn't thought of it like that,” Libba said slowly. “I guess leaving for all those years changed my way of looking at things. Mama was her own person, and so am I.”

Verna Lee lifted her coffee cup. “Let's toast to that. To us, each her own person.”

Gina Marie held up her glass. “Me, too,” she shouted. “Me, too.”

Libba Jane found her father sitting outside on the back porch reading the paper. “Hi, Daddy. Did you sleep in?”

He looked up, saw her and smiled. “I had trouble sleeping last night so I decided to take it easy. It's one of the advantages of retirement.” He held out his arms to his granddaughter. “Hi, sweetie. Do you have a kiss for Granddaddy?”

Obediently, Gina pecked his cheek. “Can I play in the sandbox?”

“Ask your mama.”

Gina Marie looked at her mother.

“Go ahead,” she said, “but try not to get too dirty.” She watched Gina run down the steps and across the lawn to the play area her father had installed just last year. Then she sat down beside him.

“What about you?” Cole asked. “Are you playing hooky?”

“I worked late last night. I'm taking the morning off.”

“Care for some coffee?”

She shook her head. “No, thanks. I just came from Perks.”

“How is Verna Lee?”

“She's fine. She said whatever Mama might have done, it won't reflect on you. She said you've spent a lifetime helping people.”

“That was kind of her. However, this isn't about me.”

Libba frowned. “You're still worried, aren't you?”

Cole folded the paper carefully, replacing each section exactly as it was. “Did Verna Lee happen to mention whether or not she's tried to reach her father?”

“I gathered she didn't think it was much of a loss, so I didn't bring it up again. I'm sure she would have told me if she had.”

“That's pride talking, and hurt. Verna Lee's childhood leaves a lot to be desired. Neither of her parents was any kind of role model.”

Libba slipped on her sunglasses and stared out over the bay. The morning heat was bearable here in the shade, but out on the water only men with a healthy buildup of melanin could manage more than a few minutes. “You made me believe Mama could do no wrong.”

“She was human, like the rest of us.” He smiled. “Hell, maybe she was more human than the rest of us. She certainly had her weaknesses. All I know is that I met her and then I was done for.”

“It's certainly a romantic story.”

He nodded. “For me, it was.”

A lump rose in Libba's throat. It was hard to breathe. “For half my life I thought she was wonderful.”

“I know.”

“And for the other half, I thought I hated her.”

“
Hate's
a strong word, Libba Jane. I don't believe you hated your mother.”

She continued as if he hadn't spoken. “It took coming back to realize that I loved her after all, even if she did banish me for all that time.”

“That was all in your head. She was waiting for you to come home. She didn't want you to think she was running your life. She didn't want to be like her parents.”

“I had a hard time reconciling what she did to Verna Lee.”

“If you're honest with yourself, you might consider that it's what she did to
get
Verna Lee that bothers you more. No one likes to think of her mother as a sexual being.”

“Why doesn't what she did bother you, Daddy?”

“It doesn't concern me,” he said. “I never doubted that she was faithful to me. What happened before we met had no bearing on our life together. I loved Nola Ruth, her beauty, her intelligence and her mystery. It was all part of her.” He smiled at his daughter. “You're very like her.”

Libba shook her head. “I don't think so.”

“You're saying that because you can't imagine doing what she did, but if you think about it, your lives have parallels. You ran away with an unsuitable man, married him and gave birth to a daughter. The differences are the race factor and the reaction of your parents. We didn't run after you and annul the marriage. Because of how we behaved, you stayed married and raised your child.”

“Give me some credit, Daddy,” she protested. “I wouldn't have given Chloe away even if my marriage was dissolved.”

Cole's blue eyes studied her. “The world is a different place, Libba Jane. Who knows what you would have done in 1962 if you were living in the Deep South and your child was obviously of a different race.”

Libba nodded toward Gina Marie, contentedly ladling sand into a pail. “I couldn't have given up my daughter, Daddy,” she said firmly. “You can turn it a hundred different ways but, no matter what, I could never have done that.”

Cole was quiet for a minute. When she looked at him he was smiling. “I believe you.”

She reached across the table and linked her fingers with his. “You should stop worrying. Life is too short.”

He nodded. “There is that.”

Chloe hadn't meant to eavesdrop. She was lying on the couch in her grandmother's sitting room, the coolest room in the house, reading and willing the temperature to drop. She had every intention of making her presence known right up until she heard the part about her grandmother and Verna Lee's father. Then it was too late.

Shock immobilized her. She'd heard bits and pieces of her grandmother's story, but not all of it. What would they say if she told them about the black man Bailey had seen her argue with on the road outside of town all those years ago?

Not that anyone would realize the body found in the wetlands made any difference to her, but the words paralyzed her long enough for other information to flow, information that was of an infinitely more personal nature to her mother and, therefore, not something she would wish Chloe to hear.

Now the trick was to lie still and hope she wasn't discovered. Chloe held her breath, hoping that Serena wouldn't seek her out for any of the million and one things she thought were more suitable pastimes than sleeping away the day.

As usual, her thoughts turned to Bailey. Lately, he was strung tighter than a banjo, especially after the town-hall vote and that odd conversation with Tess's mother. He'd laughed off the notion that Nola Ruth, if pushed hard enough, was capable of murder.