Chesapeake Summer

by Jeanette Baker

  “Good God.” Wade’s lips were tight and thin. “Do you ever wonder why we do this?”

  “The pension’s good.”

  “I wonder.”

  “You won’t wonder so much when you’re my age.”

  Terry Gilmore had finished her field test. She stripped off her gloves, dropped them into a plastic bag she’d secured to her waist, pulled a pen and small pad from her pocket and began writing furiously.

  Wade nodded in her direction. “She looks like she’s got it together.”

  Marshall grunted. “Time will tell. We lose quite a few. Usually our bones are from Indian burial grounds. That’s a nightmare of paperwork and waiting.”

  The woman looked up from her notes and walked over. “We’ll grid off the site and cast the skull. There’s a good chance I can reconstruct the face. Bone-marrow scrapings tell us quite a bit more. Marks on the pelvis indicate childbirth. It’s hard to tell how long these bones have been buried, but my guess is about twelve to fifteen years. I’ll have more information for you after I’ve completed my tests.”

  Wade was impressed. “Nice work.” He waved Carlisle over. “Pull out all your files ten to twenty years old.”

  “There aren’t too many open files here in Marshy Hope Creek.”

  “I said all of them. After we get the evidence figured out and logged, it’ll be just me, you and your deputy. The coroner has bigger fish to fry.” He started to walk away, turned back and grinned. “Now’s a good time to be thinking about those sandwiches. Tell Verna Lee I’ll be stopping by.”

  “He said what?” Verna Lee’s hands were on her hips, a sure sign that a line was being drawn in the sand.

  Blake knew something was wrong. He just didn’t know what. “He said he’d be stopping by.”

  “Is that a warning or something?”

  Now he was frustrated. “Lord, Verna Lee. How would I know? I thought he was an old schoolmate. You’re making it sound as if the guy has some ulterior motive.”

  “They usually do,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Can you make up the sandwiches or not?”

  She waved her hand. “I can, but you won’t get a discount.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “You’ll have to pick them up. I don’t deliver.”

  “I know that, too,” Blake said patiently.

  Verna Lee turned her back, fanned her pink cheeks with her hand and began pulling ingredients from the refrigerator. “Give me half an hour.” Wade Atkins. Who would’ve thought? There was a time when she’d hoped every one of the Atkins clan would drink too much of that corn liquor old Morris made up with regularity and fall into one of those rarely traveled fingers of the Chesapeake, preferably into the jaws of a hungry alligator. Clem and Howard, and to a lesser degree, Wade, secure in their blond good looks, hazed her unmercifully about her hair, her clothes, her brains, her lack of parents and the pouty fullness of her lips in an era when beautiful meant Christie Brinkley and Cheryl Tiegs.

  Time and nine years in a high-school classroom taught her wisdom. The Atkins boys were just as uncomfortable in their skins as she had been in hers. She’d come to terms with their hatefulness a long time ago. The last thing she’d expected was a message from one of them, the least objectionable one, telling her that he would be stopping by.

  Her hands shook as she scooped spoonfuls of potato salad into a plastic container. She’d show him. She’d pretend she didn’t remember him at all. She’d play it cool, look incredulous, rise above. Nola Ruth Delacourte was her mother and a gene pool meant something after all. She could be just as sophisticated as Libba Jane.

  It took her considerably less than thirty minutes to assemble a dozen roast beef and turkey sandwiches. She had plenty of time to twist her curls into place, apply blush to her cheeks and brush mascara on her lashes before the bell on her door jingled, indicating she had a customer. “I’m closed,” she sang out from the kitchen.

  “Is anyone here? Verna Lee?” an unfamiliar voice called out.

  “It’s really late,” she said, coming through the swinging door, “and—” She stopped in midstride and her mouth dropped. All her resolutions vanished. This wasn’t Wade Atkins, or was it? She knew him and yet she didn’t. The thin, rangy length of him had filled out, thickening his chest and shoulders. The jutting bones of his face had settled into something very close to handsome. He was still fair, but the white-blond of his teenage years had deepened. His freckles had disappeared into an even brown and his eyes, bluer than ever, twinkled at her. “Good Lord! You’ve improved.”

  He chuckled. “You’re still beautiful.”

  Her eyes flashed at the blatant lie. “Since when did you ever think I was beautiful?”

  He moved closer.

  She retreated until she felt the door against her back.

  His voice deepened, a note of intimacy smoothing out the vowels. “Come on, Verna Lee. You’re a smart girl. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that little boys tease the girls they have a crush on?”

  “You and your brothers weren’t little boys, and you weren’t teasing.”

  His smile faltered. “I’d prefer not to be lumped in with my brothers.”

  He was right about that. He hadn’t been as cruel as the two older Atkins brothers. But she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of telling him. Somehow, she knew exactly how to offend him. “Frankly, I couldn’t tell the three of you apart.”

  He blinked and then laughed. “Touché! How about if we start fresh?”

  She looked at him, at the attractive golden man he’d become, and her sense of injustice grew. He had no idea what it was like to be the wrong color, the wrong sex, to be judged, before he even opened his mouth, by an accident of birth. “I don’t think so.”

  “C’mon, Verna Lee.” That intimate note was in his voice again. “I’ll be around here for a while. Why not give a little?”

  She crossed her arms protectively. “Why should I?”

  “It’ll make things a whole lot easier.”

  “I’m not in a forgiving mood.”

  “Give it a try,” he coaxed. “I’ve changed.”

  She pointed to the two large paper bags on the counter. “Those belong to you. I won’t be turning away your business. The bill’s attached.”

  He reached into his pocket and handed her a credit card. “You’ve got a nice place here.”

  “I like it.”

  “The sheriff said you’ve been here fifteen years. What made you come back?”

  She handed him his receipt. “Sign the bottom and don’t forget your phone number.”

  One blond eyebrow lifted. “Are you planning on calling me, Verna Lee, or don’t you trust cops?”

  “No to the first, and no comment on the second.”

  “Do you ever take a day for yourself?”

  “Sunday. No one comes into town on Sunday.”

  “How about taking a drive with me to Chincoteague? We could grab a bite to eat at Steamers and catch up on old times.”

  She stared at him. “Are you serious?”

  “Completely.”

  “Wade, you’re amazing! If I haven’t made myself absolutely clear that I want nothing to do with you, then you’re the least intuitive police detective I’ve ever met.”

  He held out the receipt. She took it from him and for an instant their fingers touched. She smelled like his mother’s kitchen, cinnamon and apples. “Met a few detectives in your time, Verna Lee?”

  She flushed angrily, remembered her resolve and rallied. “I hope you enjoy the sandwiches. Blake swears by them.”

  “Thanks. I surely will. See you around, Verna Lee.”

  Nine

  Retired judge Quentin Wentworth, on the way to lunch in his dining room, spotted an errant white thread on the dark blue border of his Persian carpet. His lips thinned. Stooping, he picked up the thread and continued down the stairs.

  His daughter and granddaughter were already seated. It was the first time today tha
t he’d seen them. Without even an obligatory greeting the judge launched his complaint. “Tell me, Tracy, where do you find our help?”

  His daughter opened her mouth to reply but he cut her off. “I’m curious because their performance has been less than satisfactory. The milk I requested last night never came, my newspaper wasn’t delivered to my room and I found this—” he held up the offensive thread “—on the floor in the hall.”

  Tracy flushed. “Camille hired the new girl. I’ll speak to her.”

  “Why don’t you oversee the hiring of our help? What else do you have to do besides keep this house running smoothly?”

  Tess rolled her eyes. Her grandfather was in good form today. She picked up the pitcher of iced tea and poured herself a glass. “So, Granddaddy, how is everyone in Marshy Hope Creek?”

  He directed his piercing gaze at his granddaughter. “If you were home more often, you wouldn’t have to ask. Why you would choose New York City for your education when there are perfectly good schools here in the South is beyond me.”

  Tess was not the least bit cowed. “Why would I want to come home when all you do is insult me?”

  “Tess!” Her mother’s anguish was obvious.

  “Leave the child alone, Tracy. At least she has spunk, which is more than I can say for you.” The judge lifted his napkin to his lips. “To answer your question, Teresa, your mother is here and she misses your company. You might have some consideration for her. As for my insulting you, that isn’t the case. You’re the one female in this family who hasn’t disappointed me. I appreciate that. It’s your mother I insult, and with good reason. Her life is pointless.”

  Tess’s hands clenched. On principle, she didn’t disagree with her grandfather. Her mother’s life was a continuous round of shopping and parties, but it didn’t give him the right to humiliate her.

  Tracy’s eyes filled. “I don’t know what you want from me. It isn’t as though I can read your mind.”

  “That’s hardly the point,” replied the judge, dismissing his daughter’s comment and returning his attention to Tess. “Have you seen your father?”

  “Of course.”

  “I would have thought you’d be there all the time since you don’t like the company here.”

  Tess’s dark eyes met her grandfather’s steadily. She knew what he was up to. “Daddy’s fine. So is Libba Jane and Gina.”

  Wentworth smiled smugly. “Do you get along with her?”

  Tess frowned and hooked a silky strand of ash-blond hair behind her ear. “Who?”

  “His wife, the Delacourte girl.”

  “She’s hardly a girl,” Tracy protested. “We’re the same age. We went to school together, remember?”

  Quentin thought a minute. “She looks younger. Those Delacourte women age well. I remember her mother in her heyday. Boys all over the county would howl after Nola Ruth when Cole first brought her home.”

  Tracy shivered. “Disgusting.”

  “Nonsense. You’d give your eyeteeth to have them calling for you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Now that I think of it, you always were jealous of Libba Delacourte, even before she married your husband.”

  Tracy’s face, naturally pale, whitened perceptibly. “Russ was not my husband. We were divorced for years before Libba came back to town.”

  Wentworth cut his chicken-fried steak lengthwise once and then again, forked a large piece, dredged it in gravy and stuffed it into his mouth. “I remember now,” he said around a mouthful of steak. “She had him first. The two of them were always together and then she left town with a stranger. He married you on the rebound. He never would have otherwise.”

  Tess pushed her plate away. Her hands shook. Someone had to defend her mother. “What an awful thing to say.”

  “Nothing awful about the truth,” replied the judge.

  “Do you lie in bed at night and think up things that will hurt people, or does it just come naturally?”

  “Tess,” her mother said again. “Think of how much we owe Granddaddy.”

  “Funny you should mention it, but I don’t think the price he exacts for his benevolence is worth it.”

  “Please, Tess.”

  “Don’t stop her.” Quentin waved his fork. “Go on. Say what you want, but remember, my money pays for your education, your room and board and your car.”

  “My father pays for half,” she said, leaping to Russ’s defense, “except for the car,” she added.

  “Tess,” her mother begged. “I can’t stand all this conflict. Please, stop.”

  “That’s right, Teresa. Do as your mother says. She doesn’t have the gumption of a cotton ball or else she’d tell me what she really thinks and toss my money back in my face.”

  Gritting her teeth, Tess stood. “I’m going out.”

  “Where?” Tracy asked.

  “Chloe’s back. I’m off to see her.”

  “Oh.” Tracy looked defeated. “I thought we’d have the afternoon together to shop and have dinner.”

  Tess kissed her mother’s cheek. Trying on clothes was the last thing she wanted to do when the mercury had already climbed to triple digits before eight o’clock in the morning. “Not today. I already promised Chloe. She could use some help with Gina Marie. Let’s forget the shopping and plan on lunch tomorrow.”

  Tracy tittered. “Russ certainly has his hands full. I can’t imagine having a child at his age.”

  Tess sighed. She tried to remember that her mother was lonely and jealous. She loved her, of course, just as she loved her grandfather, but sometimes it was difficult to like them. Thank goodness she had another family. “I’ve heard that children keep you young.”

  “Well, whatever. Tell him hello for me.”

  There were only so many battles Tess was willing to take on. The last thing she planned on doing was to bring Tracy’s name up to Russ. Her parents hadn’t had what anyone would call an amicable divorce. Thankfully, their marriage had been brief, so brief that Tess had no memory of the three of them as a family. In fact, the only traditional family life she’d experienced had been during the last four years when her dad had finally married the love of his life, the one who got away, the acknowledged golden girl of Marshy Hope Creek, Libba Jane.

  Tess hadn’t been prepared to like her new stepmother. Russ, an architect by trade, came home to take over his family’s commercial-fishing fleet after his twin brother died. As far as Tess was concerned, he’d been an absentee father for most of her life. She’d hoped to have him all to herself. But Libba’s generous warmth and Chloe’s friendship won her over. The thought of seeing Chloe again, sharing confidences in the yellow-and-white bedroom of Cole Delacourte’s gracious house, sipping minty iced tea and snacking on Serena’s molasses cookies, lifted her spirits.

  Turning the air-conditioning to full power, she zipped down the road in the sporty red Mazda coupe her grandfather had given her for her last birthday, toward the town where she was born and raised, slowing down inside the city limits. She noted that not much had changed in the past year, not that it ever did. The graceful columns of city hall, the courthouse and police station stood out starkly white in the blazing sun. Horace’s Mercantile and Dry Goods and Clayton Dulaine’s Diner, which miraculously hung on despite the success of Verna Lee’s shop, were as run-down and fading as ever. Taft’s Hardware and Perks faced each other on opposite sides of the street. As usual, the creek was the dividing line of the residential community, the disadvantaged on one side and tall, gracious, white-pillared homes with views of the bay, set back on enormous green lawns on the other. Standing off by itself, just a jaunt down the road, behind a cluster of pine and sand dunes, commanding the most spectacular view of the Chesapeake from its weathered wraparound porch, was Hennessey House, where her father lived with his wife and daughter.

  Tess inhaled the soupy, metallic smell of the bay and grinned. She’d never noticed it when she lived here. Natives never did. The scents of marsh and s
wamp, brine and salt, fish and pine permeated skin, hair, clothes and lungs with a relentless persistence that outlanders couldn’t tolerate, a benefit, it turned out, for those who supported population control. The small community on the Maryland side of the bay had maintained a constant population for years. People were born and died at fairly regular intervals. Most were lured away to cities with their promise of high-paying jobs, but a few stayed, or left and then came home, like her father and Libba.

  Verna Lee, sweeping off the porch of her shop, waved as she drove by. Tess slowed to a stop, backed up and rolled down her window. “Hi, Verna Lee. How is everything?”

  “I can’t complain. And yourself?”

  “I’m staying at home this summer.” She rolled her eyes. “How good can that be?”

  Verna Lee nodded sympathetically. She wasn’t a fan of either the judge or Tracy Wentworth. “Chloe’s back, too. In fact, she should be by right about now. She’s bringing Gina Marie.”

  Tess groaned. “Poor Chloe.”

  Verna Lee walked over to the car and slapped her hand playfully. “That’s my niece you’re talking about, and she’s not that bad.”

  “I’m pleading the Fifth. Do you mind if I come inside and wait for Chloe? I was just heading over to see her.”

  Verna Lee smiled and Tess caught her breath. There were times she looked so much like Libba Jane that it was amazing no one had suspected they were related long before the scandal broke four years ago.

  “Please, do. I’d love the company.”

  Tess was seated on one of the low couches, sipping a soy milk smoothie, when Chloe walked in with the diminutive Gina Marie.

  “Tess.” Chloe’s face lit up. “I was just thinking about you. When did you get in?”

  “Last night.” She stood to hug Chloe and then stooped to kiss her little sister. “You’re huge. When did you get to be so tall?”

  “I’m three,” said the little girl, holding up three fingers.

  “Good for you. I’m having a smoothie. Do you want one?”

  Gina shook her head. “I want chocolate milk.” She lifted her chin imperiously. “Auntie Verna,” she said, losing the “r” in the name. “I want chocolate milk.”