Chesapeake Summer (18 page)

T
he call from the Oakland School District came just as Wade was about to bite into an egg-salad sandwich, the vending-machine kind that had a shelf life of twenty years, the kind he never would have considered eating at all except for his rift with Verna Lee. He couldn't very well order up something from Perks while he was snooping into her past.

“Our records are confidential,” said the woman on the phone.

“Maybe I didn't make myself clear,” replied Wade in his most pleasant voice. “This is Detective Wade Atkins from the Wicomico County, Maryland, police department. I'm investigating a fifteen-year-old homicide. I'd hoped it wouldn't take a court order to answer a few simple questions. All I need is a copy of the file.”

The silence on the other end was almost palpable.

Wade refused to help her out.

“Do you know what you're looking for, or shall I fax the entire file?” she asked after a minute.

“I'd sure appreciate the whole thing.”

“It might take a day or two.”

“I'm three hours ahead of you, so tomorrow, before noon, eastern standard time will be just fine.”

He anticipated the click that signified a hang-up even before it happened. Wade leaned back in his chair and contemplated the ceiling. Manners sure were different north of the Mason-Dixon. No self-respecting southerner would be so rude as to hang up before saying a proper thank-you, followed by a goodbye. Wade grinned. A southerner would more than likely offer you an afternoon constitutional, shoot the breeze about old times and then talk you up behind your back to anyone who would listen.

A bright blond head opened the door and peeked in. “Hello.”

Wade brought his chair forward, a thunk on the floorboards, and stood. “Hello, ma'am. What can I do for you?”

“Actually, I'm looking for Sheriff Carlisle.”

“He's not in at the moment. Can I help?”

She shook her head. “No, thanks.”

“You're Chloe Richards, aren't you?”

She nodded.

Wade studied her face, analyzing her features the way he had Libba Jane's, looking for signs of Verna Lee. This one with her cat-blue eyes and silvery hair, her petite figure and small bones, was a changeling, except for her smile. They all had the smile.

She wasn't smiling now. Today she was nervous. She tugged at the hem of her shirt and her lower lip was caught between her teeth. “I'd really rather wait for Sheriff Carlisle. It's a personal matter.”

He stared at her, nonplussed, marveling once again at the cultural differences that divided the South from the rest of the nation. The ladies he knew would have come bearing gifts followed by questions regarding a number of things, how he was feeling, had he lost weight, what did he think about the new pizza parlor that opened up at the strip mall just outside town, did he think the new football coach from Biloxi was a good choice. Not until all subjects were exhausted and a good half hour wasted would they bring up the real subject of the visit.

Wade pulled out a chair. “Have a seat. He should be back shortly.”

“I don't want to disturb you.”

“You're not. I was just going over the photos of this crime scene for the hundredth time, hoping something new pops out at me.”

Chloe sat, tucking one leg beneath her. “What are you hoping for? I mean, it all happened a long time ago.”

“You'd be surprised how the learning curve goes up the longer you look at something.”

She looked interested. “What have you learned?”

“We know the victim is a female, middle-aged, Caucasian. We know she was killed with a small pistol at close range. We know her blood type, the extent of her dental work, surgeries, whether she had any broken bones. Very shortly, we'll have a fairly accurate composite of what she looked like.”

Chloe stared at him, her mouth slightly open. “You're sure about all this?”

“We are.”

“Are there ever mistakes?”

Wade thought a minute. “Maybe. Personally, I've never seen it.”

Chloe sat back in her chair. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“It's public record, Chloe. I'm not spilling government secrets.”

“Does Bailey know?”

“If he's read today's paper.”

She jumped up. “I've got to go. Thanks for your time.”

“Whoa. I thought you were waiting for the sheriff.”

“I was, but it's not important now. See you later.”

Wade watched her leave, a thoughtful look on his face.

Drusilla Washington sucked in her cheeks, pursed her lips, balled her hand into a fist and knocked the side of her head to clear the fog from her brain. Where were her glasses? She was sure she'd left them in the pocket of her apron but they weren't there when she went to look for them. Yesterday her house key wasn't on the shelf by the door and she was a day early for her standing appointment at the beauty parlor. The idea that her mind was dimming terrified her.

She knew what Verna Lee would say. She was too old to live alone, too old to keep ministering to the sharecroppers who came seasonally to harvest peaches and shuck corn, too old to continue the independence she craved as fiercely as the parched piedmont soil lapped up the first rain of the season.

Drusilla walked out to the porch and sat down on a straight-backed chair. It wasn't right the way age crept up on a person. For the first thirty years, she'd been too busy surviving to pay attention to the passing of years. Then another twenty flew by while she raised Verna Lee. By the time she'd stopped to look around and wonder where the time went, she was seventy years old and there was less time ahead of her than behind.

She didn't regret any of it, especially not when it came to protecting Verna Lee. Drusilla never had much to pass along. The child had to find a way to pay for that fancy schooling all by herself. While her classmates had educated parents to help them, Verna Lee had to learn her sums and her spelling and her grammar all alone. But when push came to shove, when it really mattered, Drusilla was there.

Soft lips brushed her cheek. Drusilla's eyelids fluttered. “Verna Lee, is that you?”

“In the flesh.” Her granddaughter's tall, lush figure blocked out the setting sun. She held up a basket. “I brought you some dinner. Are you hungry?”

“That depends on what you brought.”

“Catfish, a green salad, red-roasted potatoes with rosemary and apple pie. How does that sound?”

“Delicious.”

Verna Lee laughed. “Good. Let's eat out here. I'll bring out the TV trays and set it up.”

Drusilla leaned back and closed her eyes again. The child was a blessing. At first she hadn't wanted to take on Nola Ruth's half-caste baby girl. Raising a child wasn't easy. She'd managed to avoid the pitfalls of unwed motherhood. It required planning and discipline, but she'd done it. Cleaning up after lily-white Nola Ruth Beauchamp wasn't in her plans. But she'd taken one look at the squalling baby girl, saw the look of pain and horror in the mother's eyes and knew she couldn't walk away. So many years had passed since then. She hadn't asked for or taken money, either, not even when it was offered. Maybe that wasn't fair to Verna Lee, but Drusilla had experience with blood money. It came with strings. It was better to manage on your own. That way no one expected anything. Nola Ruth eventually took the hint and left them alone.

Drusilla frowned. Maybe she shouldn't have told Verna Lee about her birth mother. She didn't give a skunk's stripe about Nola Ruth Delacourte. But she loved Verna Lee. When the girl asked, Drusilla told her. She'd never lied to her, except once. Maybe now was the time to set it to rights.

“All set, Gran.” Verna Lee set the brimming plates on the trays. “Dig in.”

“My, my. This is fine. Where did you learn to cook like this?”

Verna Lee swallowed a mouthful of salad. “From you.”

Drusilla chuckled. “I know. It wasn't much but at least it was something.”

Verna Lee's smile faded. She stared at the nut-colored old woman, at her hunched shoulders, her frail arms and matchstick legs, at her face lined with age and experience and the kind of acceptance that comes when life deals mostly setbacks. Her throat closed. She could barely get the words out. “It was a lot, Gran. I make my living from your cooking. Don't minimize what you did for me.”

Drusilla pushed the fish around on her plate. “I got something to tell you. It's about that man.”

“What man?”

“The one who came to the store the day you opened, the one who asked about the Delacourtes.”

Verna Lee set down her fork. “Are you talking about Anton Devereaux, my father?”

“You know?”

“Yes, but I found out only recently.”

“I was wrong not to tell you who he was.”

“It's okay, Gran. It happened a long time ago.”

“He had fancy clothes and a fancy car. I was afraid you'd leave again. It wasn't easy for me when you were gone. I didn't want it to happen again.”

“It's okay,” Verna Lee repeated. “I understand. It doesn't matter.”

“You're good to say that, Verna Lee, but it does. I was thinking of myself and not you. Maybe your life would've been different.”

“My life is fine. Everything turned out. Stop worrying and eat your dinner.”

T
ess Hennessey twisted the cap of the mayonnaise jar until her palm burned. It refused to budge. Frustrated, she cracked the top against the rim of the porcelain sink and tried turning it again. This time it opened. She pulled a knife from the silverware drawer, scooped out a healthy portion and spread it across a slice of soft white bread. Then she repeated the process with another slice.

“Careful,” her mother said, coming up behind her. “That stuff puts dimples in your hips.”

“I don't have a weight problem,” replied Tess.

“No,” Tracy agreed. “And you don't want one, either. Mustard tastes just as good.”

Ignoring her mother Tess layered slices of roast beef, cheddar cheese, lettuce and tomatoes on one slice and covered it with the other. Picking up the sandwich, she leaned over the sink and bit into it.

“Tess Hennessey, whatever has gotten into you? Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed? What time did you get up anyway? It's after twelve and I haven't seen you all morning.”

Tess opened her mouth to answer but Tracy cut her off. “Finish chewing, please.”

“There's nothing wrong with me,” replied Tess after she'd swallowed her mouthful of sandwich. “I just wish you wouldn't examine everything I do to find something wrong.”

“That's ridiculous.”

Tess shook her head. “No. You're treating me like Granddad treats you. Do you want me to feel about you the way you feel about him?”

“I love my father,” sputtered Tracy.

“You have an odd way of showing it.”

Her comment did not have the desired reaction. Tracy folded her arms and raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Is something wrong?”

“You mean, besides what I just told you?”

“Yes. You're behaving very unlike yourself. Sometimes, people who have a problem with someone else pick on the people they're closest to.”

“Believe me, it's not that.”

“I haven't seen Chloe around lately.”

Tess rinsed off the knife and stuck it in the dishwasher. “Since when does Chloe ever hang around here?”

“Has something happened between the two of you?”

“Mama, stop.” Tess held up her hands. “Give it up.”

Tracy moved to the refrigerator, opened it and pulled out a pitcher of iced tea. “Do you want some?”

“No.”

As if she hadn't heard, Tracy filled two glasses and set one in front of her daughter. Then she sat down at the table. “Sit down, Tess.”

Reluctantly Tess pulled out a chair and sat.

“I don't want it to be this way between us,” Tracy began. “You're my only child and you're not a teenager. We're supposed to be close. I need you to communicate with me. If I've done something to hurt you, tell me. How else can I fix it?”

Tess stared at her mother. She was too logical, too calm. “What if you can't fix it?”

A tiny worried vee appeared between Tracy's eyes. “For heaven's sake, Tess, what are you talking about?”

“I want you to tell me what you and Granddad were talking about the other night.”

“What night?”

Was it Tess's imagination, or was there a hint of strain around her mother's eyes?

“The night you went to the town council meeting.”

The silence lasted an instant too long. Tracy ran her tongue across her bottom lip. “I don't remember.”

“You said Bailey was a chip off the old block. What did you mean?”

This time Tess saw real fear cross her mother's face.

“I don't remember. You must have taken my comment out of context. I probably meant he takes after Lizzie.”

“Was Lizzie Jones a good speaker?”

“No. Yes.” Tracy faltered and recovered. “What's going on? Why the third degree? What's this obsession with Bailey Jones?” A look of dawning horror crossed her face. “You aren't interested in him, are you?”

Tess leaned forward. “You really should tell me because I'm imagining the worst.”

“The worst?” Tracy's hand moved to her throat.

“Yes.” Tess spoke slowly, deliberately. “I'm thinking that Bailey and Granddad are related and there's only one way that could have happened.”

Tracy remained silent.

Tess continued. “I'm guessing that Bailey is your son and my half brother. You had him with someone when you were really young, someone Granddad hated, so you had to give him up. Maybe the body in the swamp is Bailey's father. Maybe somebody killed him.”

Tracy contained herself no longer. “That's absurd. Your imagination is ridiculous. Bailey Jones is not my son. I won't have you thinking that about me. I can't listen to this.”

“You're the one who wanted to communicate.”

“Not this way.”

“You said Bailey was a chip off the old block.”

“I wasn't talking about me,” Tracy burst out.

Tess stirred her tea with her little finger. Her mother was obviously distraught and just as obviously sincere. If she was telling the truth…Suddenly Tess's eyes widened with understanding. “It's Granddad, isn't it? Granddad is Bailey's father.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Tracy's protest was weaker this time.

Tess shook her head. “It won't work, Mama. You may as well tell me. Something's going on around here and I'm the only one who doesn't know.”

Tracy stood. “I can't tell you. It isn't mine to tell. Give me some credit for family loyalty.”

“What about Bailey? Isn't he family, too? Where's your loyalty to him?”

“He isn't family,” Tracy hissed. “Don't you ever say such a thing. He's a mistake, a terrible, terrible mistake.”

Tess watched her struggle for control. “I wish you would trust me,” she said simply.

“Our conversation is over,” Tracy snapped. “I don't want it to leave this room. It
can't
leave this room. Do you understand?”

Their showdown was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. Tess left her glass on the counter and started up the back stairs, when Camille, their housekeeper, walked into the kitchen.

“A police detective is here to see the judge.”

Tracy paled. Her hand moved to her throat. “Have you told him?”

Camille shook her head. “No, ma'am. That's why I came to find you.”

“This is ridiculous, Camille,” Tracy protested. “Your job description includes answering the door and reporting the name of the visitor.”

“I know my job description, Miz Tracy, but I have my limits and telling your daddy the police want to see him is one of 'em.”

“Please, Camille,” Tracy wheedled. “You know how his temper affects me.”

Tess exploded. “I can't believe this. Mama, you are absolutely pathetic. I'll tell Granddad.” She continued up the stairs and disappeared into the hallway.

A full ten minutes later, Wade was ushered into the judge's library.

“Thank you, Teresa,” said the judge. “That will be all.”

“I'd like to stay.”

“That isn't advisable.”

She looked at Wade. “Can I stay?”

Wade shook his head. “Not this time.”

Wentworth waited until the door closed behind her. He waved his hand. “Sit down. What is it this time?”

Wade sat down. “I phoned your sister-in-law.”

“Please. That relationship ended with Amanda's death.”

Wade ignored him. “I assume you were never on good terms.”

“You assume correctly.”

“Why not?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Wade waited. He wasn't as versed in loopholes as Wentworth, but he could play a decent game, too.

The judge sighed. “My wife confided in her frequently. As is usually the case, women rarely discuss a husband's assets when they gossip, only his liabilities.”

“She said you prevented Mrs. Wentworth from visiting.”

“I was never able to prevent Amanda from doing anything she wanted to do.”

“In other words, your relationship was difficult.”

“Not at all. Amanda was queen under her own roof. I gave her everything she asked for.”

“Violet Dixon believes she was unhappy.”

“Naturally she would say that. As I explained, women rarely call their sisters when things are going well, which, in Amanda's case, was nearly all the time.”

“Tell me about Lizzie Jones's land.”

Wentworth blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The Jones land. Tell me about it.”

“How would I—”

“Cut the crap, Quentin. Fifteen years ago the Jones wetlands were yours.”

“I sold the property. People sell land.”

“No money was exchanged. You quit-claimed the parcel back to her. Give me a plausible reason for doing that.”

“Am I a suspect?”

“Answer the question.”

“I don't think so. Not without my attorney.”

“I could place you under arrest.”

“I wouldn't do that if I were you.”

Wade was contrary enough to consider the possibility, even though he knew Wentworth would be home within two hours. Reason prevailed and he stood. “Nice talking with you, Quentin. Have a pleasant afternoon.”

Tess knocked on the door of the Busby house. A paint-spattered Bailey Jones answered the door. He grinned when he saw her. “If you're here to collect Chloe, she's gone.”

“I came to see you.”

“I'm flattered.”

Tess didn't answer. She was looking at Bailey objectively. He was probably the best-looking male she'd ever seen, but she wasn't in the least bit interested. She never had been. Now she knew why.

“I need some answers.”

“What makes you think I have them?”

Tess stamped her foot in exasperation. “C'mon, Bailey. This is important.”

“Temper, temper,” he chided her. “No one likes a spoiled princess.”

“Is that what you think I am? A spoiled princess?”

He shrugged. “If the shoe fits…”

“Well, it doesn't. This won't take long.” She pushed past him and stopped, staring in surprise at the walls. “Mrs. Busby is going to kill you.”

Bailey closed the door and stood beside her. “I think it's pretty good.”

“It's incredible, but no one wants pictures of sharecroppers on her living-room walls.”

“I do.”

“Like I said, she's going to kill you.”

“I'll change it back.” He waved her to a drop-cloth covered chair. “Have a seat.”

Tess sat. “I had a conversation with my mother.”

Bailey lit a cigarette and leaned against an unadorned wall. “Congratulations. That must have taken an act of God.”

“I'll get right to the point.”

“Please do.”

“I think my grandfather is your father.”

He drew on the end of his cigarette and blew out a spume of smoke. “Where did you get an idea like that?”

“I heard them talking. I figured it out. Is it true?”

“How would I know?”

“Is he?”

Bailey's eyes narrowed. “I shouldn't be the one telling you this.”

Tess's hands shook. “What are we going to do?”

“I'll try not to dishonor the family name,” Bailey taunted her.

“I doubt you could make it any worse.” She bit her lip. “I'm sorry about the way they've treated you.”

“Don't be,” he said shortly. “It has nothing to do with you, or your mother.”

“How long do you think she's known?”

Bailey shook his head. “You'll have to ask her that. I don't know much more than you. I don't have question-and-answer sessions with your family.”

“They're your family, too,” she said in a small voice.

“Don't remind me.”

Tess looked down at her hands. For some insane reason she felt like crying.

“Hey.” Bailey crouched down beside her. “Don't take it personally. My mother had a reputation. Everybody knows that. Your granddad is a jerk. Everybody knows that, too. We both got screwed when it comes to the maternal side of the family. But you lucked out. You've got Russ and Libba Jane and Chloe. They're fine people.” Again he grinned. “The jury's still out on Gina Marie.”

Tess laughed. She felt better. “So, what gives with you and Chloe?”