Chesapeake Summer (12 page)

“I don't know anything about that.”

“Think about it. I've got time.”

“The land belonged to my granddaddy, Benteen Jones. He lost it in a poker game. Maybe Quentin had an attack of conscience.”

Wade shook his head. “That doesn't sound much like Wentworth.”

“You know him?”

“You might say that.” He changed the subject. “I mean no disrespect, son, but was Quentin Wentworth having an affair with your mother?”

“How the hell should I know?” Bailey flung back angrily. “I was a little kid, for Christ's sake.”

Wade stared at him for what seemed like longer than the minute it actually was. “Fair enough,” he said at last. He pulled out his card. “If you think of anything, let me know.”

“Keep your card. I won't use it.”

Wade laid the card on the coffee table. “Stranger things have happened.”

H
is mind on autopilot, Wade Atkins navigated the road leading to the small two-bedroom house he'd occupied for most of the last five years. The single lot, sandy, strewn with pines and bordered by a small finger of the Chesapeake, appealed to him the minute he first saw it. He'd built the house himself, board by board, shingle by shingle, down to the maple cabinets in the kitchen, the skylights in the bedrooms and the distressed-wood floors on all three levels. The rear foundation sat securely on a slab of concrete, while the front deck balanced on stilts directly above the water.

His view was spectacular. As the sun set, the bay awoke. After dishes were washed and the trash dumped, he would pull two beers from the back of the refrigerator and sit out on his deck, pleasantly buzzed, reeking of insect repellent, watching fireflies flicker around the gas lamps, dancing toward the light and back again until, eventually, they succumbed to their addiction and baked in the deadly glow. When night settled over the bay, frogs croaked in the marshes, water moccasins slithered through the tepid, tea-colored water and crickets sounded as loud as foghorns across the Atlantic.

As far as Wade was concerned, this was his own slice of heaven. Other people needed vacations to Florida, Europe, Hawaii, the Grand Canyon. Not Wade. Give him a hot grill, eight ounces of fresh shad, some steamed crabs, a hunk of sourdough bread, a cold beer, a good book and his own backyard. A man couldn't ask for more, except maybe a good woman to share it with. He didn't regret that Susan and he never had children. If they'd come, they both would have welcomed them, but he was just as glad they hadn't. Children muddied the waters, complicated the equation, upset the applecart, so to speak. He said the words out loud, enjoying the way the clichés rolled off his tongue. Whichever way he looked at it, the responsibility was more than he wanted to handle.

Inside the house, Wade flipped on the air-conditioning, threw the files he'd brought home on the coffee table and shrugged into a well-worn T-shirt and faded-denim cutoffs. Then he popped the top off a bottle of light ale, walked into a pair of flip-flops and carried the files, a box of crackers and a brick of cheese out to the deck where he sank into a low beach chair.

Relishing the slide of cool liquid down his throat, he closed his eyes and savored the moment. A faint breeze fluttered across the water. Soon the sun would set. Life was good. It was better than good. It was interesting.

Before his slight doze became a bona fide nap, he roused himself, gnawed a hunk of cheese off the brick, swallowed a few crackers and washed them down with beer. Reaching for a file, he settled down to concentrate, looking for something, anything, that would give him a lead.

An hour later, the light was nearly gone and it was closing in on nine o'clock. He debated whether to finish looking through one last folder or call it a night. The name on the folder caught his eye and curiosity won. He picked it up and began to read.

He grinned. Apparently Verna Lee Fontaine was a rabble-rouser. She'd picketed every new developer within forty miles, handed out pamphlets, made speeches, even chained herself to trees and ended up spending a night in jail. Wade grinned. That was her California influence. Children in Appalachia couldn't read, ended up with rickets for lack of milk and had six kids by the time they were twenty-two, while residents of the Golden State were lying down in front of bulldozers to save a tree. He sifted through the news clippings. Nothing new here.

Skimming quickly, at first he didn't see the note buried in the middle of the third paragraph. But when he did, it was as if everything else faded into the background. Quickly, he read the fifteen-year-old report once through completely, and then again, slowly. What did it mean? Verna Lee was a teacher. She had a degree from UC Berkeley. Fifteen years ago she'd come home. The question was,
why?
Why was a graduate of a top-ten university serving coffee in Marshy Hope Creek?

The following morning Wade poured an extra scoop of coffee into his French press. He hadn't slept well and he needed the jolt of caffeine. He debated between trying to sweet-talk Verna Lee into spending time with him so he could get some answers, or he could visit her in an official capacity. For some reason, both avenues bothered him.

Verna Lee was a strong-minded woman and she wasn't stupid. She wouldn't take to a man who withheld the facts. Why that would weigh with him at all was still a nebulous thought, without form or definition, in his brain. He'd stop in at Perks and test the waters, order up some of those famous lemon muffins Carlisle was always talking about.

The drive to town was uneventful. Wade followed a tomato truck stuffed so full that the juice pouring out of the overflow vents was like a hose bathing the streets. Eventually, he passed on the shoulder, taking the detour to Marshy Hope Creek and Perks Coffee-house.

Verna Lee, busy blending cappuccinos, had her back to the door. He studied her for a minute, trying to imagine her in a classroom, dressed in conservative clothes, her wild hair restrained. He couldn't do it. She was colorful and flamboyant and no one would ever call her tactful, not the typical blueprint for a teacher. Was that why she'd given it up, or was there another reason, one she didn't relish owning up to?

She turned and caught him staring at her. “Hey,” she said. “You're here early.”

He smiled engagingly. “I came in for some of your lemon muffins.”

“I'll be with you in a minute.” She turned back to the cappuccino machine.

Wade sat down on one of the couches, looking around to see if he recognized anybody. He didn't. The price of progress.

Eventually, the shop emptied out. Verna Lee poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of him.

“Start on this and I'll heat up your muffin. I haven't had breakfast yet. Do you mind if I join you?”

“Nothing would please me more.”

He sipped the steaming coffee, waiting patiently until she was seated beside him. Biting into the moist lemon muffin lifted his spirits. “Where did you learn to bake the way you do?”

“I've had some interesting jobs in my life,” she replied. “Once, when I lived in San Francisco, I assisted a pastry chef. I loved it. I always knew I wanted to do something that had to do with cooking.”

She'd opened the door. Wade decided to step over the threshold. “Tell me about it.”

“There's nothing much to tell,” she hedged. “I tried it and didn't like it, so I came home.”

“Is that where you went to college?”

She looked at him, her tawny eyebrows lifted. “How do you know I went to college?”

“You talk like a college girl. I heard there are some mighty fine colleges in California. My guess is you went to one of them.”

“I graduated from UC Berkeley.”

“In what?”

“Art history.”

“That doesn't sound much like cooking to me.”

“I guess not.”

“What made you change your direction?”

She sat completely still without answering.

“I'd really like to know, Verna Lee,” he said gently.

The bell on the door jingled, a sign that she had a customer.

He shrugged. “Saved by the bell.”

She surprised him. “You know, Wade, maybe I will take you up on that dinner invitation. I sure hope you can cook, because I have no intention of doing so, and the kind of restaurant food I like isn't possible on a public servant's salary.”

He grinned. “You're on. How about tomorrow night at seven, my house?”

“Where do you live?”

“About thirty miles from here. I have a house on the bay.”

“That's a long way to go for dinner.”

“I'll make it worth your while.”

She appeared to be considering her options. Finally she nodded. “All right. I'll be there.”

“You're serious.”

“I am.”

“Somehow, I thought this would be harder.”

She shrugged. “I guess it's your lucky day.”

He stood, walked to the door and then turned back. “When's the last time you saw Bailey Jones?”

She frowned. “A few days ago, I guess. I don't remember.”

“Did you see him at any time yesterday?”

She thought for a minute and shook her head. “Definitely not yesterday. Why?”

“No reason. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Wade drove down the main highway and took the narrow surface road for another three miles. He turned the air conditioner to full blast, allowing the refreshing flow to bathe his face one last time before turning off the engine. Regretfully, he left the car to climb the steps of the largest, most ostentatious home ever built on the right side of the small waterway that had given Marshy Hope Creek its name, and rang the bell.

A pale blond woman dressed in a slim-fitting sheath and matching sandals answered the door. Beside her stood Bailey Jones. Wade's mind logged in several possibilities even as he schooled his expression into one of polite disinterest.

Tracy's hand flew to her throat. “May I help you?” she stammered.

Wade held up his badge. “I have a few questions for Judge Wentworth.”

She waved her hand, dismissing the young man beside her. “Bailey was just leaving.”

Wade noted the tensing of Bailey's jaw and the thin white line around his lips. “Morning, Mr. Jones,” he said softly.

Bailey nodded.

“Don't let me chase you away.”

“Like the lady said, I was just leaving.” Without a backward look, he was down the stairs heading toward the silver Porsche parked in the shade.

Wade turned back to Tracy. She looked cool and composed once again. His brain acknowledged that she was attractive, but for reasons he couldn't explain, she didn't appeal to him. Not that a girl from a place like this would have accepted so much as a tissue to blow her nose from the likes of him. Girls like Tracy Wentworth set their sights on boys from families who lived on the right side of the creek, and sometimes even they weren't good enough. “If the judge is home, I'd like to speak with him.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I'd like to speak with him, please.”

“Oh.” She attempted a laugh. “He's popular this morning. I'll tell him you're here.”

Once again, Wade found himself relegated to the entry. This one had a bench seat, but he decided against it. He took advantage of his wait by peering through an open door into the living room. Above the fireplace hung a life-size portrait of the judge in his heyday. “Tight-looking son of a bitch,” muttered Wade under his breath. He heard footsteps in the hall and moved back to the entry.

Two bright spots of color stained Tracy's cheeks. “Judge Wentworth will see you now.”

Wade wondered what it would take to get her to call the judge “daddy.” He followed her down a long hall past several sterile, impeccably kept rooms. Tracy stopped at the double doors and knocked. Without waiting for an answer, she waved him inside, closing them behind him.

Quentin Wentworth sat in a chair of burgundy leather behind an enormous mahogany desk, the top so empty and champagne polished Wade could see his own reflection plain as day. Surrounding the judge were the tools of his profession, glass-enclosed shelves with gold-embossed, leather-covered books, degrees from Vanderbilt and Duke, an expensive laptop computer, an inkwell and a heavy, personally engraved fountain pen. Two high-backed chairs faced the desk.

He neither stood nor offered his hand. “You're an Atkins, all right. Don't try to deny it.”

“It hadn't occurred to me.” Wade sat down without waiting for an invitation.

Color flared along the judge's cheekbones. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

“I passed Bailey Jones on the way out.”

The judge's color deepened. “So?”

“I was told you don't run in the same circles.”

“Please. Don't insult me.”

“Mind if I ask what he was doing here?”

“Not at all, as long as you tell me why it's of significance.”

Wade rested his leg across his knee. “I'm conducting an investigation. At this point it's all fact finding.” He looked pointedly at the judge.

Wentworth sighed. “He wanted legal advice.”

“Why would he come to you?”

“I was a lawyer, Detective, a damn good one.”

“So was Cole Delacourte. If memory serves me right, he was the one who got Bailey acquitted the first time.”

“This isn't a criminal matter. He wanted to know if he had to return the escrow deposit to the buyers.”

“What was your answer?”

Wentworth frowned. “That isn't your concern. Surely you didn't come here this morning to ask about Bailey Jones.”

“No,” agreed Wade. “I came to ask you about the late Mrs. Wentworth.”