Chesapeake Summer

by Jeanette Baker

  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?”

  “We’re outsiders, both of us.”

  Tess wondered whether Chloe would tell her the same thing. “I’d like to know you better, Bailey.”

  She watched the skin tighten across the bladed bones of his cheeks.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said slowly. “Your mother wouldn’t approve.”

  “I’m over eighteen.”

  Bailey sighed. “Look, Tess. I don’t want you to be in trouble with your family.”

  “I’m not asking you to move into the extra bedroom. I’m talking about an e-mail now and then.”

  He studied her face, the trembling chin and hopeful brown eyes. “I guess that wouldn’t hurt.”

  Her relief was obvious. She stood up quickly, before he could change his mind. “That’s settled. I’ll see you around.”

  He walked her to the door. “This isn’t a promise you have to keep, Tess. Things may get a little uncomfortable around here before they get better. I won’t hold it against you if you side with your grandfather.”

  She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m warning you, that’s all.”

  She was thinking about his words when the only light in town turned red just as she entered the intersection. Eighty-year-old Agnes Hobbs, driving her 1976 Oldsmobile, caught the tail end of Tess’s sporty Mazda coupe in a direct hit so hard that it spun the tiny car around three times before it turned over.

  Twenty-Three

  Once again, Bailey was interrupted. This time it was Detective Atkins.

  He blocked the doorway with his body. “You got a warrant?”

  Wade rubbed his jaw. “Don’t make this difficult.”

  “I’m busy right now.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  Bailey opened his mouth to refuse and changed his mind. “You’re not going away, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Do I need my lawyer?”

  “That depends on what you tell me.”

  “Are you reading me my rights?”

  “You’re not on my list of murder suspects, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Bailey grinned. “Then I won’t call him.”

  Wade followed Bailey into the house, glancing at the brightly colored figures cover
ing the walls. “Nice work.”

  Bailey raised a skeptical eyebrow. “No offense, but would you know nice work if you saw it?”

  “Can’t say that I would.”

  Bailey stopped suddenly and turned, looking Wade up and down. “You’re all right here, aren’t you, no hidden depths or mixed messages?”

  “No one’s ever called me deep, if that’s what you mean.”

  Bailey laughed. “Want a beer?”

  “Some other time. I’m on duty.”

  “Suit yourself.” Bailey waved his hand. “Sit down.” He picked up his brush. “You don’t mind if I finish up, do you?”

  “Not at all.” Wade chose a deep comfortable leather chair. “I need to know why you’re so set on developing your mother’s land.”

  “Money,” Bailey replied immediately. He added a bit of white to the wall and a woman’s head scarf took shape. “And it’s my land.”

  “I was outside during the town-hall meeting the other night. I overheard your conversation with Tracy Wentworth. You don’t need money.”

  “There’s no love lost between the Wentworths and me.”

  “Care to tell me why?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Wade persisted. “She accused you of wanting revenge.”

  “Really?” He stood back, frowned and changed the shape of an elbow. “I don’t remember.”

  “What did Wentworth do to you?”

  Bailey changed tactics, set his brush aside, pulled up a chair and sat down across from Wade. “Why do you want to know?”

  The detective surprised him with his bluntness. “I have a gut feeling it has something to do with the body found on your land. There’s a missing piece and it bothers me.”

  “How do you know it isn’t some old bum who got confused out there in the marsh and couldn’t find his way out?”

  Wade chuckled. “I thought by now everybody’d heard our victim isn’t an old bum. Don’t confuse my lack of depth with stupidity. This is a homicide. Besides, Chloe Richards gave me a heads-up. She’s worried about you.”

  Bailey’s eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “There’s a girl out there who thinks you need a friend,” Wade replied evenly.

  “And you’re volunteering?”

  “You could do worse.”

  The sound of a police siren grew progressively louder. Wade frowned and stood. “You think about what I told you. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

  He reached the intersection at the same time the medics were lifting Tess Hennessey into the ambulance. Red shards of metal and glass littered the street, the smell of burning rubber permeated the air and a mangled, unrecognizable shape that Wade assumed was once Tess’s Mazda lay on its side while smoke spewed from the engine. Agnes Hobbs’s heavy American sedan appeared unscathed. A crowd of curious citizens had collected on all four corners. Sheriff Carlisle was attempting to gather information.

  Assessing the situation in a single sweeping glance, Wade pulled up next to the medic who was climbing into the ambulance. “How bad is she?”

  “Concussion and internal bleeding. She’s losing blood fast. We’re on our way to County General in Salisbury.”

  Wade backed up, negotiated a three-corner turn, stuck his head out the window and addressed his deputy. “Need any help?”

  Carlisle looked up. “We’ve got plenty of witnesses. The Mazda ran a red. I’d appreciate it if you’d notify the family. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

  He nodded. “Carry on. I’m headed for the Wentworths’ and then County General.”

  Agnes Hobbs’s stricken face smote him. He called out reassuringly, “Don’t you worry, ma’am. Everything’ll be fine.”

  “That poor little girl,” she said brokenly. “Pray for her. Pray for her family.”

  “I surely will.”

  It was a harder promise to keep than it should have been. Quentin Wentworth was a sorry excuse for a human being, although Wade allowed that the thoughts of a man trained as a prosecutor would automatically turn toward negligence and the possibility of a lawsuit, even if it was his granddaughter who was at fault.

  Tracy’s sentiments were predictable. After her initial hysteria, she accepted Wade’s offer of a ride to the hospital. “Stay here,” she ordered her father. “Call Russ and tell him to meet us there.”

  Tracy was silent in the car. Wade dropped her off at the Emergency entrance, pulled into a reserved parking space and followed her inside.

  Libba Jane and Chloe sat beside each other in the waiting room. Both women looked up when he approached.

  “How is she?” he asked.

  Chloe’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Not good.”

  Libba squeezed her hand. “We don’t know yet. The doctor is talking to Russ and Tracy now.”

  Wade nodded. “Mind if I sit with you?”

  Libba Jane looked surprised. “If you like. I’m not sure how long they’ll be.”

  Wade picked up a magazine and settled in to wait for Carlisle. As it turned out, it wasn’t long. Blake hurried in, the lines of his face deep and serious. He took a seat beside Wade.

  “Why are we here?” asked Wade under his breath.

  “Be patient. I think I’m onto something.”

  Russ, white-lipped and silent, came toward them through the double doors leading to the intensive-care unit.

  Libba Jane rose and walked into his arms. They closed tightly around her. Together they stood, locked in a private, intimate world of pain.

  Wade smiled reassuringly at Chloe. “Where’s your baby sister?”

  “Granddad has her.” Her eyes were on her mother and stepfather. “Tell me what’s going on,” she pleaded.

  Slowly they parted. Russ drew a deep breath. “She has a concussion and she’s still unconscious. Her liver was lacerated.”

  Chloe’s lip trembled. “Is she going to make it?”

  “It’s bad,” Russ replied grimly. “It means surgery.”

  “Can we help, donate blood, or something?”

  Libba’s eyes were on her husband’s face. He glanced at her and then looked away as if an unspoken message had passed between them.

  “Russ?” Chloe started to cry. “I want to do something.”

  He stepped forward and took his stepdaughter into his arms. “I know you do, sweetheart. Tess has a rare blood type. There isn’t anything any of us can do except wait for the doctors to tell us what happens next.”

  “What is Tess’s blood type?” Chloe asked.

  Russ’s response was terse. “AB negative.”

  Wade heard Blake’s quick intake of breath. He saw Libba’s shoulders drop and the brief, sudden closing of her eyelids.

  Chloe’s face was a white mask, stoic, damp with tear tracks.

  Wade looked from mother to daughter and then at Blake. What in the hell was going on here? AB negative. AB negative. It meant something. He stood. “If there’s anything I can do—” He left the sentence open.

  Russ lifted Chloe’s chin. “I want you to go home with Sheriff Carlisle. Gina’s too much for your granddad. Get some rest and come back in the morning. Your mother and I should know something by then.”

  On the way to the car, Chloe was silent. Wade glanced at her. She was a dignified little thing, classy, like her mother and her aunt.

  Blake touched her arm. “It’s tough, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s young and healthy, Chloe. More than likely she’ll pull through.”

  “She’s got a few things going against her.”

  Blake nodded. “Her blood type?”

  “Yes.”

  Wade tried to reassure her. “It’s just a technicality. Her mother has the same blood type, even if Russ doesn’t.”

  “AB negative is very rare,” Chloe explained. “Less than one-half of one percent of the population has it.”

  “I’m no biologist,” replied Wade, “but even I know that you have to ha
ve the same blood type as one of your parents.”

  Chloe turned her cat-blue eyes on him. “Actually, you don’t, not if your blood type is AB. You can have an A mother and a B father or the other way around. You can also inherit the AB type from just one parent. It’s the negative thing that’s difficult. You can’t be negative unless one or both parents are.”

  They reached the police cruiser. Blake opened the door and Chloe climbed inside. He closed it and turned to Wade. “The judge donates regularly when the blood bank comes through. He considers it a point of honor. He’s O positive. Nice and normal.”

  “What’s on your mind, Carlisle?”

  Blake raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Like you said, you have to have the same blood type as one of your parents.”

  For a minute Wade continued to struggle for understanding. Then his wires connected. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Wade’s jaw tightened. All at once everything became completely clear. “The pathology report on the body. The woman’s blood type was AB negative.”

  “We can exhume Amanda Wentworth.”

  “That would be a last resort. I don’t think we’ll have to.”

  Twenty-Four

  Quentin Wentworth stood in his library holding back a corner of the curtain to look out the window. He saw the black-haired boy drive up in his silver sports car and knew a moment of fear, nothing compared to the emotion he’d experienced when the sheriff came to tell Tracy about Tess, but fear all the same.

  Bailey Jones was bad news. Quentin had had a feeling about the boy ever since Lizzie told him she was pregnant. Before Lizzie, he’d kept his women in Salisbury or Annapolis, still conveniently located, but always outside Marshy Hope Creek where he was well known.

  Looking back, Quentin couldn’t remember what it was that attracted him to Lizzie Jones. Normally he preferred fair women. Lizzie’s eyes and hair were black as sin. Some said she had Indian blood. He hadn’t cared about that. She was beautiful and exotic and more important, completely uninhibited. Her legs were long and her breasts—he stopped himself. It was pointless to go down that road again. They had finished with each other years before she died, except for the boy. No one would have suspected anything if it weren’t for the boy.