Chesapeake Summer

by Jeanette Baker

  “There’s nobody more lucid than your daddy,” Verna Lee said flatly. “Can we just cut to the chase?”

  “He thinks the body could be your father’s.”

  Verna Lee’s mouth dropped. For a minute no one spoke. Finally, Verna Lee broke the tension-fraught silence. “He can’t be serious.”

  Libba shrugged. “We talked it through and he agreed it was probably impossible.”

  “But enough of a possibility that he had you come over here and ask me if I’d had contact with my father in the last fifteen years.”

  “He said he would feel a lot better if you had.”

  Verna Lee shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. Is he suggesting that Nola Ruth had something to do with it?”

  “He’s not suggesting, Verna Lee. He’s a lawyer. He’s trained in tangents and possibilities.”

  “And motives?”

  “Yes,” Libba replied faintly.

  “The motive being that Anton was going to expose her.”

  Libba looked down at her glass.

  “All she’d have to do is deny it, unless he knew about me.” She laughed bitterly. “I’m not sure which is worse, that he knew he had a daughter and wanted to use her for blackmail, or that Nola Ruth did away with him.”

  “You know which is worse,” her sister said quietly.

  “We don’t know anything about him.” Verna Lee was thinking out loud. “We do know that she was capable of deception and keeping secrets.”

  Libba looked at her steadily. “We’re all capable of those. Lying isn’t murder.”

  Verna Lee sighed. “You’re right. Besides, she wasn’t big enough to do it all by herself. I doubt if she would have trusted anyone to help her. The ramifications are enormous.”

  “Well.” Libba Jane looked relieved. “I guess that settles things.”

  Verna Lee nodded. “We’ll have to wait and see what Wade turns up. Sorry I wasn’t more help.”

  Draining the last of her tea, Libba stood. “Like I said, the idea was a silly one. Don’t give it another thought. I’m not myself lately.” Libba laughed. “I don’t know how you do it, but I always feel better after our visits.”

  “It’s the lemongrass,” Verna Lee replied, collecting their glasses and setting them in the sink. “I swear by it.”

  “I promised Gina I’d take her swimming. Would you like to join us?”

  “Not today, but if you’re game on Sunday, I’d be glad to.” She wet a napkin and crossed the café to wipe Gina Marie’s mouth and hands. “You’re a mess.”

  Gina nodded.

  Verna Lee kissed the top of her head and laughed. “Have fun swimming.”

  She stood in the doorway and watched Libba buckle her daughter into her car seat, waving as they drove away. Closing the door against the suffocating heat, she poured herself another glass of tea and sat down on the low couch.

  Her head swam with questions. She had a great deal to think about.

  Eighteen

  Wade picked up the phone on his desk and punched in the number code for Sheriff Blake Carlisle’s mobile line. “Any news on your meeting with Tracy Wentworth?” he asked when Blake answered.

  “Nothing that means anything. No one seems to know how or why Quentin deeded the land back to Lizzie Jones. I do know Tracy’s mighty opposed to the condominium development. She’ll be at the town meeting tonight.”

  “Is it being held at the usual place?”

  “First Methodist Church, at seven o’clock. Looks like they’re expecting a crowd even though it’s last minute.”

  “Can you meet me over there? I know we’ve both been at this since dawn, but I’d sure appreciate it.”

  “I’ll be there.” Wade ended the call and checked his watch. He had enough time to grab a quick bite before heading over to the church.

  Less than five minutes later Wade was staring at the Closed sign posted in the window of Perks. Reluctantly, he crossed the street to the diner and ordered a bowl of chili put together with enough grease and peppers to give him the runs for a week. He ate half of it, left a tip and made his way over to the church hall.

  The time and location of town meetings hadn’t changed. As far back as Wade could remember, they were held in the Methodist Hall. Mostly, the residents of Marshy Hope Creek were Baptists and Methodists, with enough Presbyterians, Fundamentalists and Catholics sprinkled in to make it interesting, but there was an underlying assumption that the Methodists were the most worthy of the bunch. Down by the mill, in Darby’s Cove, on the wrong side of Marshy Hope Creek, where Wade and his brothers were raised, everyone knew that the only real distinction between Methodists and Baptists was that the former could read. Given that people preferred dealing with their own kind, those considered the most capable were generally the ones in charge, hence the Methodists hosted the meetings.

  The room was filled to capacity, with all five town council members in attendance facing the audience. Wade was surprised. He didn’t think the condominium development on the Jones land would inspire strong feelings in anyone other than the few environmentalists in the group. He knew the Delacourtes and the Hennesseys were among the affluent few who could afford to be concerned with such things. But life was full of surprises.

  Blake Carlisle walked over to stand beside him. He pointed to the thin blond woman seated front and center, in the row reserved for speakers.

  “I would never have pinned Tracy Wentworth for an activist,” Blake said. “Other than hosting the annual Ladies’ Aid Society garden party, I can’t recall a time when she was involved in politics. Heck, I don’t know when she last voted in a local election. I know because I’m usually the one stuck manning the polls when volunteers are short.” He stroked his jaw. “I wonder why she’s here.”

  “I suppose we’ll find out.” On the other side of the room Wade recognized Bailey Jones seated beside the same slim, bright-haired girl he’d had with him in the car the other day. He nodded in their direction. “Delacourte’s granddaughter is with the Jones boy again. What do you think it means?”

  “Could be anything. They’re probably just friends.”

  Wade glanced over the crowd. The Hennesseys weren’t in attendance. Neither was Cole Delacourte.

  There were a hundred good reasons for staying home on a weeknight, including resting up after a full day’s work and sitting around the dinner table catching up with the family.

  Verna Lee appeared at the south entrance. Framed by the door, she stood for a minute, as if undecided about where to go.

  Wade waited, willing her to look at him, knowing that the gauntlet would be worse for her than for him if she took up his challenge and met him halfway. The millennium had come and gone but Marshy Hope Creek was still a small town. He understood her position. She’d made it plain enough. There was no point in antagonizing her customers for something that might be as fleeting as snow in October. He knew the instant she saw him. Their eyes connected. He lifted his hand briefly. The corners of her mouth turned up, acknowledging his salute. She sat down in an empty chair at the end of the first row.

  Disappointed, Wade positioned himself in back next to the exit and waited for the show to begin. A representative from Weber Incorporated was scheduled to speak first.

  The man presented his case well. The lure of high-paying construction jobs was strong. There was no practical reason to hold up development. The seller was willing to sell. The buyer needed an investment before year-end. After he took his seat a murmur of agreement swelled through the crowd. They liked him.

  Fred Baxter, a local, spoke next. He reminded them of the radiation scare in the water a few years back, of fishing blackouts and fertilizer pollution that leaked into the Susquehanna from farms up north. He spoke of the price of progress and the disappearance of a way of life and of how the wetlands around Marshy Hope Creek was home to thousands of species of animal life.

  Heads nodded, and again the crowd buzzed with conversation. They liked him, too. Sides were being draw
n. Wade hid a smile. Personally, a plethora of condominiums complete with Starbucks and Laundromats and strip malls wasn’t his idea of progress, but people had to live somewhere and he wasn’t rabidly opposed to local development so long as it didn’t infringe on his privacy. Besides, new faces meant new ideas, a loosening of inhibitions, more revenue for businesses, higher taxes, all positives as far as he was concerned.

  He was beginning to think his presence was nothing more than a waste of time, when Verna Lee approached the podium. In a low, hesitant voice she spoke into the microphone, quieting the whispering crowd, stopping him in his tracks. He watched her, his eyes glued to the striking, caramel-skinned figure, and waited.

  Verna Lee had presence. Her unruly curls were pulled away from her face in an elegant twist at the back of her head. Her navy skirt was simple, skimming her curves, hiding her knees, and her white blouse with its cap sleeves was high-necked, the material opaque. She wore flat sandals and no jewelry. She looked, thought Wade, like a school-teacher, and then he remembered why that was. She spoke firmly and clearly now, gathering momentum, her voice commanding attention without being the least bit loud or intrusive.

  “You all know me,” she began, looking around the room, making eye contact with each member of the town council, picking out individuals in the audience. “I came back to the Cove because I wanted to live and work in a place where I knew my neighbors, a place where if I forget to lock my door or if I leave my wallet on top of my car, it’s an inconvenience because I have to go back for it, not a disaster because its been stolen.” She smiled. “We don’t have traffic jams here in the Cove. We have a single traffic light. Children play baseball in the streets. We have one grocery store, one hardware store, a post office where no one waits in line. That’s paradise, ladies and gentlemen.” She looked up from her notes. “You’ve all been to Salisbury and Annapolis. You know what traffic is. Weber Incorporated tells us we’ll have jobs, but what about the jobs we’ll lose? What will happen to the fishermen and crabbers when our population grows to the point where our waters are polluted? What will happen to local businesses when a Wal-Mart moves in next door? Do we really want that? Do we need a population explosion here in Marshy Hope Creek? Isn’t there a better use for the land than condominiums? Lizzie Jones didn’t have many friends, but I counted myself one of them. She loved that land. We weren’t very kind to her in life. Let’s honor her memory by saving her land. Thank you.” There was a spattering of applause and she sat down.

  Wade stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. Where in the hell did all that come from? She hadn’t mentioned one word of her feelings about the marshland the entire night they’d spent together.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bailey Jones brush away Chloe Richards’s restraining hand and rise from his seat. Wade settled back against the wall, arms crossed. This should be good. It was the boy’s land, after all.

  Bailey stood before them, ignoring the five council members, his eyes on the audience, a leanly muscled young man, not much more than medium height, with the kind of bone structure that graced men’s clothing advertisements in the Sunday newspaper. Wade remembered that Lizzie, his mother, was good-looking, but nothing like Bailey. The man who fathered him was a mystery she had taken to her grave.

  “Good evening,” he said easily, as if he spoke to packed town-hall meetings every day, as if he’d never been on trial for the murder of his mother, as if he’d walked among them tall and proud all the days of his life. “You all know me, too, and with all due respect to Miss Fontaine, it doesn’t really matter what anyone thinks is the best use for my wetlands.” He spoke without notes, fueled by the heat of his own anger. “The operative word here is my. The land is mine. It was willed to me by my mother to do with as I please. How many of you would sit by and let someone tell you that you couldn’t sell your house or paint your front porch or put in a pool because it might hurt someone else’s interests? My guess is, not too many.” Heads nodded. The boy had a point. There was a states’ rights mentality that still existed down here below the Mason-Dixon and Bailey’s appeal was hitting home. “If I can’t sell my own land,” he continued, “be careful, because someday somebody’ll tell you that you can’t sell yours, either.”

  Wade didn’t stay for the vote. It would be in the paper tomorrow and he wanted to catch up with Verna Lee who had slipped out the side door. She had some explaining to do.

  He caught up with her just before she climbed into her car. “Whoa there,” he said. “You’re off in a hurry.”

  She shrugged. “I said what I had to say.”

  “But you’re not staying around for the vote.”

  “No,” she said woodenly. “What’s the point?”

  A muscle leaped along the clean-shaven line of his jaw. “It seems to me that if you were bothered enough to stand up and speak, you’d want to know how it turned out.”

  “No, Wade. It’s me we’re talking about, not you. You might want to stay and find out, but I don’t.” Her voice was level and very calm, as if she were attempting to explain something to a hysterical child. “Like I said, my staying won’t change the way they vote. I’ll find out tomorrow morning and that’ll be soon enough.”

  “What does this have to do with you, Verna Lee?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “The whole time we were together you never let on you were going to this town meeting. Did you plan that little speech you gave? How did this meeting come about in the first place? More to the point, why did I find out about it late this afternoon from Blake Carlisle?”

  “I don’t know which question to answer first.”

  “Any one will do.”

  “Why should I have said anything to you? What’s this all about?”

  “Fifteen years ago, at the same time a life was taken and dumped in the swamp, Quentin Wentworth deeded that same swamp back to Lizzie Jones. I’m wondering if you know anything about that, given your special friendship with her.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  She wet her lips. “My friendship with Lizzie is none of your business.”

  The silence stretched out, long and uncomfortable, between them. “It took a lot of words to say that, Verna Lee,” he said evenly. “I’m giving you a chance to tell me the truth.”

  “You think mighty highly of yourself, don’t you?” she taunted him.

  “Actually, it’s an acquired confidence. I don’t come by it naturally.”

  She sighed. “My fighting for the wetlands has nothing to do with Lizzie. If you knew me at all, you’d know that I meant every word I said in there. I like things the way they are. It’s beautiful here and unspoiled. We don’t have crowds or pollution or crime. Life is balanced, like nature.”

  “So speaks the woman who left it all for San Francisco.”

  “People change, Wade. Sometimes we don’t know how much we appreciate something until we no longer have it.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “You’re a police officer. You’re naturally suspicious.”

  “And you’re a college graduate with a degree from a top-ten university.” He stepped toward her. “What happened in California, Verna Lee? Why did you come back?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “That folksy charm is just an act, isn’t it? You aren’t interested in me. All you care about is solving your murder.”

  “Listen, lady, I’m forty-five years old. Believe me, getting it up three times in one night requires interest.”

  She changed her tactics. Her voice softened. “Wade. Please. This isn’t important.”

  He steeled himself against her appeal. Something wasn’t right and until he figured it out, he couldn’t afford to get any more involved with her than he already was. “I’ll see you around, Verna Lee.” Without looking back, he walked toward the lighted building determined to find out what had happened out there in San Francisco that had sent Verna Lee Fontaine running back home with her tai
l between her legs fifteen years ago.

  Nineteen

  Wade 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.”