Chesapeake Summer (6 page)

“It's not as if you need the money,” she burst out. “I've seen your Web site.” She stopped, biting her lip, conscious of her mistake. He was too quick to miss it.

“My Web site has an e-mail address.”

“I know.”

“So, why didn't you write?”

He had a point. She hadn't contacted him. But she was two years younger and he'd become an overnight celebrity in the art world. She changed the subject. “Don't they have fax machines in NewYork?”

His black eyebrows drew together. “I'm not following you.”

She explained. “If you hate it here so much, why did you come back? People don't have to go places anymore. They have e-mail and faxes.”

“I have a few loose ends to tie up before I sign the papers. Besides, I thought I'd look in on Cole. Without him, I'd be in jail.”

Mollified at the mention of her grandfather, Chloe tried again. “Bailey, those wetlands are priceless. You can't really mean to sell. Weber builds condominiums.”

“So?”

“What about your mother? What would she say if she knew you were thinking of selling?”

“She's dead,” he said flatly, “and I'm not
thinking
of selling, Chloe, I'm definitely selling. All that land didn't do my mother any good. She died out there in a miserable little trailer without plumbing or running water. She was blind, in terrible pain and she didn't have enough money to check herself into a hospital, or even pay for a goddamn morphine drip. So don't get sentimental on me, okay?”

Chloe's throat choked up. Poor, pathetic Lizzie Jones, stubbornly loyal to her own sense of morality. “She kept the land for you,” she whispered. “She thought it was important.”

“And it paid off. It's worth millions. I'm cashing it in.”

Chloe stared at him. “What happened to you, Bailey? When did you get to be such a cynic?”

“Why don't we talk about you,” he suggested.

“I have a better idea. Why don't you let me out right here, just like you did four years ago, and I'll walk into town on my own.”

She expected him to argue. The Bailey Jones she remembered would have argued. But this one didn't. Instead, he jerked the wheel to the right and slammed on the brakes, waiting, while Chloe fumbled with the seat belt clasp, pushed open the door and stood in injured silence while he sped away.

S
heriff Blake Carlisle leaned back in his chair, as close to the window-mounted air conditioner as possible, and contemplated the clock. Nearly an hour to go before he could reasonably meander down the road to Perks and order his usual ham-and-cheese sandwich with those little-bitty pickles Verna Lee knew he liked.

Meanwhile, he could copy an accident report the insurance company was waiting on and mail it out, or he could head over to Taft's Hardware and pick up a new lock for the cell door. Neither was a pressing concern. He couldn't remember the last time he'd needed to lock the cell and, as for the report, Millie Cooper had backed her 1967 Chevy station wagon into her front window. No one was hurt, her son had fixed the front window, the car wasn't worth repairing and Millie was ninety-four years old, too old to be driving anyway.

Maybe he'd eat early today. He liked visiting with Verna Lee before the lunch rush, when she wasn't too busy to talk. As soon as he heard from his deputy he'd be on his way, shooting the breeze with the locals, checking things out, improving public relations. Blake was big on public relations. He thought of himself as a public servant in the truest sense and he wasn't shy about reminding whoever would listen.

The door opened and a blast of hot air shot into the station, heating it up another ten degrees. Agnes Hobbs stuck her permed, blue-tinted head inside the door. “Blake, if you're not busy, I've got a big ol' box in the trunk of my car that needs to be mailed out at the post office.”

“Not a problem, Miz Hobbs.” He stood and reached for his hat. “I'll take it over for you. Was there anything else you needed?”

“That'll be all, I guess.”

“You just let me know and I'll be there.”

Agnes Hobbs slipped her tongue inside her dentures, lifting them off her gums, easing the soreness. Then she dropped them back into place again. “You're a good boy, Blake. I always did like you.”

He took her arm and led her back out to her car. “Thank you kindly, Miz Hobbs. I appreciate that. I was wondering if Ellie Mae knows you took the car this time.”

“I didn't tell her, if that's what you mean. Why should I have to tell her when it's my own car I'm driving?”

“Well, the thing is, Miz Hobbs, you don't have a license and Ellie worries about you. She's afraid you'll hurt yourself. You wouldn't want to worry her, now, would you?”

The old woman pursed her lips. “I guess not.”

“Why don't you sit right here on this bench in the shade and let me call her for you. That way she'll know you're in good hands.”

“I always did like you, Blake,” she repeated, patting his hand. “You're a good boy.”

“Thank you, ma'am. I'll be right back.”

The call was over in a minute, with Ellie Mae instructing him to do whatever was necessary to prevent her mother-in-law from driving until she could get there.

Blake set the phone down in its cradle and sighed. Sometimes he found himself wishing for a real crime now and then to keep from getting rusty.

Ellie Mae Hobbs drove up just as he was leaving the post office with Agnes. Gratefully, he excused himself, answered the mobile call from his deputy, and proceeded with his original plan to lunch at Perks and indulge his fantasies by flirting with Verna Lee Fontaine.

She was talking on the phone and didn't see him, a circumstance that allowed him to look at her for as long as he wanted without embarrassing himself. Blake swallowed. There was no one like Verna Lee. Quite simply, she took the eye in a way that made it seem as if no one else was in the room. Her particular combination of lush, primitive beauty and refined manners was like nothing he'd ever experienced. She was tall, with full breasts and long, lovely, caramel-colored legs, exposed from the knee down through a slit in her skirt. Her hair, wildly curly and secured on top of her head with a chopstick, was the exact tawny-gold of her eyes, and her smile reminded him of those island women on the travel posters beckoning him to places he'd never been. She was a good fifteen years older than him. It didn't bother him a bit. He liked older women especially when they looked liked Verna Lee. He felt safe knowing she didn't take him seriously.

Blake knew she'd been married a long time ago in California. He'd heard the gossip four years back when it came out that she and Libba Jane Delacourte were half sisters through their mother, Nola Ruth. Libba's daddy was Cole Delacourte, descendant of a fine old southern family. Verna Lee didn't know anything about her father, except that he was a black man.

She hung up the phone, saw him standing just inside the door and smiled her aloha smile. “I was just thinking it was time for you to come in.”

“Chasing after the criminals here in Marshy Hope Creek gives a man an appetite. You got any of those pickles I like?”

“You bet. What'll it be? The usual?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He slid into a table and looked around. Perks was a combination health food store and café. Two deep blue couches sat across from each other with a low chest in between. Small wooden tables and chairs hugged the walls and a glass case as long as the room was filled with herbs and spices all neatly labeled. Candles, colorful crockery, greeting cards, books, beads and checked window coverings gave the place a homey, interesting feel. Blake liked it here. He would have liked anywhere as long as Verna Lee was there, too.

“Bailey Jones is back in town,” she began conversationally. “He's thinking about selling his land.”

Blake nodded. “I heard. A geologist's holed up at Bonnie's B&B. He's taking a long time to get started.”

She set down a tall, sweating glass of herbal iced tea in front of him. “What's holding him up?”

Blake shrugged, trying to ignore the effect of smooth, gold skin against the bright turquoise of her sleeveless blouse. She moved gracefully, efficiently, layering his sandwich, cutting it in two, adding the pickles just the way he liked. He cleared his throat. “Who knows? It's Bailey's land, at least until escrow closes. He's the one calling the shots.”

Verna Lee slid the sandwich across the table and sat down across from him. He tried not to look too delighted.

“I'm worried about the wetlands,” she said. “I don't think people around here realize what'll happen without them.”

Blake sighed. He would never understand her loyalties. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing out there but alligators and mud. Affordable housing, on the other hand, would benefit the Cove. He changed the subject. “I hear Bailey's made something of himself in New York.”

“My niece Chloe was really taken with him four years ago when she was here for the first time. She's back for the summer and her mama's worried they'll start something up.”

“What's wrong with that?”

Verna Lee looked thoughtful. “I'm not sure. Even though he's had amazing success with his painting, Bailey's had a rough life. He's been on his own for a long time. His mother, Lizzie Jones, wasn't exactly Mother Teresa. I think Libba Jane wants something different for Chloe.”

Blake grinned. “You mean she doesn't want history to repeat itself. Seems to me I heard she ran off with an actor when she was about Chloe's age.”

“That's ancient history. I'm sure we all have a few skeletons we'd rather not talk about.”

“I don't want to talk about skeletons, Verna Lee.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Sunday. I want to talk about us taking a drive to Chincoteague and ordering up a plate of blue crabs. How about it?”

Verna Lee laughed. “In your dreams.”

He finished his sandwich and washed it down with tea. “Well then, since you're turning me down again, I guess I'll be on my way.” Settling his hat on his head, he tipped the brim. “I'll see you in church on Sunday.”

Blake waited for a minute outside the café, narrowing his eyes against the shimmering heat waving up from the scorching macadam. The sun was at its peak. Shadowed doors and windows looked inky black against the stark white of stucco walls. Two men approached Perks from opposite directions. He recognized Russ Hennessey with his sorry-looking beagle lagging behind. The other man was a stranger, bareheaded, obviously some poor fool who didn't understand the dangers of heatstroke.

Blake nodded at the stranger. “You might want to consider wearing at least a baseball cap in this heat.”

Surprisingly, the man stopped. “Are you the sheriff?”

He held out his hand. “Blake Carlisle. What can I do for you?”

Perfunctorily, the stranger shook his hand. “Dave Yardley. I'm one of the geologists hired by Weber Incorporated to inspect a parcel of land north of here belonging to Bailey Jones. We've hit a snag.”

Blake waited, conscious that Russ had stopped to hear their conversation.

“What kind of snag?”

“A human body. At least it was. Now it's mostly bones, but it's human all right.”

Blake stiffened.

The man continued. “It looks like whoever it was has been there for a while. I thought you might want to know.”

Blake pulled out his cell phone and punched in his deputy's number. The connection was immediate. “This is Charlie One to Charlie Two,” he said. “Come back in to the station and cover all calls for the next couple of hours. I'm taking a drive out to Highway 39.” He waited for an affirmative reply before flipping his phone shut. Noting Dave Yardley's flushed skin and the sweat streaming down his forehead, he spoke. “The police station's at the end of the street. I suggest you get something cool to drink and meet me there in ten minutes. I'll follow you out to the location.”

Russ waited until the door to Verna Lee's shop closed behind the geologist. “Well, I'll be damned. What do you think that's all about?”

“I haven't a clue, but I intend to find out. Bailey's sale could take longer than he'd planned.” Blake grinned at Russ. “How's business?”

“Not bad. I'm taking a break. Verna Lee's brownies are worth it, but don't tell Libba Jane. She worries about my cholesterol.”

“No problem.” Blake clapped him on the shoulder. “Say hello for me and get that dog out of the sun.”

Russ picked up the dog and walked into the café. His sister-in-law handed the geologist an iced drink and stared pointedly at the dog, forcing her lips into a tight line.

Russ waited until the man left the store. “I know what you're thinking, Verna Lee.”

She lost the battle with laughter. “No, you don't. Bring that dog into the kitchen and I'll give her a bowl of water. I can't believe Libba lets you keep that mangy animal.”

“She doesn't. I keep her with me at the office.” He stroked the dog's head. “Trixie, here, prefers air-conditioning.”

“What can I get you?” she asked after settling the beagle with a bowl of cool water.

“A beer, if you've got it.”

“How about iced tea or lemonade?”

He sighed. “Lemonade.”

“So,” she said, sitting down beside him. “How's the fishing business?”

“Same as usual.” He frowned. “Did you hear about Bailey Jones?”

“I heard he might be selling his land.” Her eyes flashed. “I'm against it, Russ. I can't believe Bailey would do that to his mother's legacy. It's not that he needs the money.”

“You don't know that.”

“I certainly do. He's going to be a very wealthy young man if he keeps on the way he has. He doesn't need to leave us with acres of pink condominiums. You should be worried, too. There's a delicate web of life here in the Tidewater. Get your wife to explain it to you. We had a huge scare four years ago with all that nuclear waste in the water. What do you think draining the wetlands and bringing in foreign soil will do to the fisheries and oyster beds, not to mention produce, which directly affects me?”

“What is it with the women in your family? You sound just like Libba.”

“Damn right.”

“It may not come to that any time soon.”

“Let's hope it doesn't.”

“Well, if what I just heard outside has any truth to it, Bailey's land will remain untouched awhile longer.”

She looked at him. “What did you say?”

“That man who was just in here is one of Weber's geologists. He claims he found a dead body in the swamp. He was telling Blake about it when I walked up. It's probably just some old drifter.”

“Maybe,” she said slowly.

“Nothing ever came of speculation. Blake'll figure things out and if it's more than he can handle, he'll call in the forensics team from Salisbury.” He stood. “Thanks for the lemonade. I'll collect my dog and be on my way.”

“Say hello to the girls.”

“I'll do that. Maybe I'll send Chloe over with Gina Marie.”

“You can keep Gina at home if it's all the same to you.”