Chesapeake Summer

by Jeanette Baker

  At first, Quentin tried to deny him. Lizzie was a whore. The child could belong to anyone. But when he’d suggested it, she’d asked him to leave. He knew she was telling the truth. Lizzie never lied. It was her penchant for telling the truth that terrified him. He gave her the land back, the land that had once belonged to her father, hoping to buy her silence. They hadn’t actually agreed on terms but it was understood between them. Then all hell broke loose.

  Wentworth’s hands clenched. Lizzie had been careless. He couldn’t forgive her for that. If there had been any possible way for him to rescind the land contract after she died, he would have done so. But someone got to Bailey first. Someone helped him, more than likely Quentin’s old nemesis, Cole Delacourte.

  He watched Bailey step out of the car and climb the porch steps. Then he heard the chime of the bell. Quentin waved away the maid and opened the door himself. He looked down his nose at the boy, at the son he’d sired with Lizzie Jones. “What do you want?”

  Bailey grinned. “Is that any way to greet the prodigal son?”

  “I’m not in the mood for social calls. My granddaughter has been in an accident.”

  Bailey’s smile faded. “I know. Chloe told me. I’m sorry about that. I like Tess. She takes after Russ.”

  Quentin snorted. “Is that why you’re here?”

  Bailey leaned against the porch railing and lit a cigarette. “Are you coming outside or inviting me in?”

  Grudgingly, Quentin stepped aside. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see Bailey Jones on his front porch. “Put out your cigarette,” he ordered.

  Bailey took his time finishing his smoke. Deliberately, he dropped the butt on the porch and ground it beneath his heel. Then he followed the judge into the spacious library that served as his office. Quentin waved him to a chair and sat down behind his desk.

  “I’ll get right to the point,” Bailey began.

  “Please do.”

  “Wade Atkins is a smart man. He’s headed in the right direction. When he finds out what we both know, you’re going to jail for murder.”

  Quentin sneered. “Am I to assume you’re warning me? Why would you bother?”

  Bailey leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head, and surveyed the room, the polished floor, the mahogany desk and leather chairs, the original oils and the embossed books lined up behind the glass shelves. “I want you to tell people who I am. If you do, I’ll tell my version of how it happened.”

  “I can do that myself.”

  “Who would believe you, especially after your cover-up?”

  “Are you suggesting that someone would believe your story and not mine?”

  “You don’t have a story, Quentin. You’ve lived a lie for fifteen years. You have everything to lose.”

  “So do you. You already have a criminal record. That’ll go against you.”

  Bailey shook his head. “You’re grabbing at straws. I was cleared.”

  “But you were guilty. The jury was sympathetic and let you go, but you did kill her.”

  “It’s ancient history.” Bailey rested his hands on the desk, marring the polished effect of the expensive wood. “Atkins’ll figure it out. I’d have a backup plan if I were you.”

  Quentin swallowed to clear the steel-wool feeling from his throat. “Spell it out. What exactly do you want from me?”

  “Full disclosure. A confession admitting that I’m your son. I want the good citizens of Marshy Hope Creek to know what kind of man you are. I want them to know how you treated my mother and me.”

  “My family will be ruined. It’s not fair to them.”

  Bailey nodded. “I know what that’s like.”

  “Tracy and Tess are innocent.”

  “They have my sympathies.”

  “They haven’t hurt you. Why are you doing this to them?” Quentin’s voice was a whisper.

  “Tess is away most of the year,” replied Bailey. “My guess is she won’t settle in Marshy Hope Creek. Besides, she has Russ and Libba Jane. As for Tracy, pardon me if I don’t shed any tears.”

  Quentin narrowed his eyes. “Why is this important to you now, after all these years? Is it respectability you want? Are you planning to take my name?”

  Bailey’s lip curled. “I wouldn’t have your name. What I want is vindication. I want to see you humbled.”

  “So.” The judge exhaled and leaned back in his chair. “It’s all about revenge.”

  “Something like that.”

  “You know,” Quentin said after a minute, “Lizzie wouldn’t have wanted this. At any time she could have spoken out, but she didn’t.”

  “My mother didn’t have high expectations. She was born dirt poor. You know what her life was like. You exploited her.”

  “Along with half the men in town.”

  “You were the worst.”

  “That’s absurd. I was decent to her. She wouldn’t take my money so I bought her things. You know nothing about it.”

  “She loved you.”

  Wentworth looked pained. “And because of that, you’re taking me down?”

  “You did it to yourself. All I’m doing is enjoying the journey. You made a fatal mistake. Because you didn’t want your relationship with a whore to become public knowledge, you killed your wife and then you covered it up.” He walked to the door.

  “Wait.” The judge’s voice was raspy. “Maybe we can reach an agreement.”

  “You heard my terms.”

  “Lizzie’s gone. Amanda’s death was an accident.” Quentin knew he sounded desperate. “I could make it worth your while if we tweaked the facts just a little.”

  Bailey’s eyes blazed. “You son of a bitch. You want my mother to take the fall for you.”

  “For God’s sake, she’s dead. Be reasonable.”

  “Negotiations are over. You already heard my offer.”

  “I have to think.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? Wade Atkins is a fingernail away from figuring this out. When he does, your thinking time is over and I’m out of the picture. I don’t owe you anything.”

  “What about the truth? You know I didn’t kill her.”

  “The truth doesn’t look so good. Besides, I was seven years old. You’re up a creek, Quentin. You made a big mistake when you took matters into your own hands and didn’t call the police.”

  “Your mother benefited. She got her daddy’s land back.”

  Bailey shrugged. “You’re an educated man. I imagine you talked her into believing it was for the best.”

  Wentworth swore. “I wish you’d never been born. I wish I’d never seen Lizzie Jones.”

  Bailey laughed. “Take it from me. Wishes belong in fairy tales. They never do anybody any good out here in the real world.” He sauntered toward the door. “I’ll see you around.”

  Quentin stood. “Is there anyone else who knows about this?”

  Bailey turned. “Of course. I’m not stupid and I don’t trust you or your daughter. This time history isn’t going to repeat itself. What amazes me is that you actually believe being arrested, tried and convicted is less embarrassing than acknowledging I’m your son.”

  “I don’t want Tess to know. No one else matters.”

  Bailey whistled. “You do have an Achilles’ heel after all. Who would have thought it was Tess.”

  “Tracy knows.”

  “I’ve got news for you, Quentin. So does Tess.”

  The judge’s face whitened. “You told her?”

  “No. She figured it out after overhearing a conversation between you and her mother. Tess is a pretty sharp girl.”

  “She came to you?”

  “If it’s any consolation, I think she tried asking her mother first.”

  Quentin looked old and broken. For the first time Bailey felt sorry for him. He loved his granddaughter. He hadn’t loved his wife and he tolerated his daughter, but he loved Tess and that love had nothing to do with who her parents were. A small burn started in the center of his chest. He re
cognized the green flame of envy immediately. He’d lived with it most of his life, envious of kids with fathers, envious of their new clothes at the beginning of a new season, envious of their lunches and their spending money and the easy way they gathered in groups, talking, calling out to each other, laughing, making plans that never once included him. Where and when had Quentin Wentworth decided that Tess Hennessey, his granddaughter, should be the recipient of his affections and not Bailey, his son?

  “You go on home, Bailey,” said the judge at last. “But first let me give you a piece of advice.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you want something badly, don’t tell anyone, especially not the person who doesn’t want to give it to you. You lose your power that way.”

  Bailey’s eyes met the judge’s. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “And Bailey?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re like Lizzie. You don’t have it in you to lie. When push comes to shove, you’ll tell it like it was.”

  Bailey shook his head and looked at the floor, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “Don’t count on it.” Then he left the room, walked past the gallery of Wentworth ancestors framed in wood and silver and let himself out.

  Wade needed another look at the fifteen-year-old coroner’s report on Amanda Wentworth. A blast of cool air hit him as soon as he opened the door to the sheriff’s office. Thank God Carlisle had remembered to leave on the air conditioner.

  The blinking light on the fax machine alerted him to a waiting message. He picked up the file and glanced at the subject heading. It was from Marin County, California. He read quickly, not quite believing the printed words. Then he read them once more.

  Amanda Wentworth’s report slid to second priority now. Folding the faxed pages in half, and then in half again, he slid them into his back pocket, and left the station in search of Verna Lee.

  As expected, he found her at Perks, closing up for the evening.

  “Wade, how nice to see you.” Her voice was warm with pleasure. “Can I get you anything?”

  “That depends.”

  Her tawny-gold eyes widened. “On what?”

  “On how this conversation goes.”

  She filled two glasses with ice and poured in lemonade from a glass pitcher. Handing one to Wade, she sat down on the couch and motioned for him to sit beside her.

  Instead, he pulled up a chair from a nearby table and faced her. Steeling himself against the weakness her presence never failed to arouse, he focused on the row of unusual glass bottles on the shelf behind her head. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  Her smile faltered. “What’s this all about?”

  “I want you to tell me about California.”

  “California?”

  He nodded. “All of it. Don’t leave anything out.”

  “Wade, I—”

  He held up his hand. “Before you start, I’m telling you this is important. I’m not proud, Verna Lee. That was whipped out of me before I lost my milk teeth, and there isn’t much I haven’t seen or couldn’t justify after sifting through a wagonload of facts. But this is different. This is the time and place for the truth.”

  She stared at him, her eyes on his face, her long fingers holding the sweating glass. Finally she swallowed. “How did you find out?”

  “I checked you out. Law enforcement has its benefits.”

  “You had me investigated?” Her voice lowered, assuming a calmness that could only be repressed rage.

  “Get mad, Verna Lee. Get as mad as you want, but start talking.”

  “This is pointless. You’ve already judged me.”

  He waited.

  “What exactly do you think you know?”

  He shook his head. “You don’t get to ask the questions. Your job is to tell it like it is, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything. I haven’t committed a crime. You have no right to question me.”

  The blue eyes were stone cold. “Not unless you want me to walk out that door and never come back. Somehow, I don’t think so.”

  “You think mighty highly of yourself.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do. I’m also a fairly good judge of character. At least I was. Tell me the truth and prove that I am.”

  She stiffened, set down her glass on the shelf beside her and rested her hands on her knees. “All right. Have it your way.” She smoothed her skirt and closed her eyes as if summoning reserves from somewhere deep inside herself for the ordeal to come.

  “I had a job teaching high-school history in the Marin County School District in California. The community demographics were, at the time, white, professional and educated.”

  Wade knew it well. Marin County had profited from the dot-com explosion. The population was very comfortable, not wealthy enough to rub elbows with old money or Hollywood movie stars, but affluent enough to disregard the bother of balancing their checkbooks.

  Verna Lee bit her lip. “I wanted to educate young people. Those kids had everything going for them, including a sense of entitlement that only money can bring. Drugs and cheating were rampant. I wouldn’t tolerate it. Pretty soon I had a reputation. Only the best and the brightest were assigned to my classes. At first I didn’t realize how much the staff resented me.” Her mouth twisted. “I thought they were my friends.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Nine years.”

  “So, you were a permanent teacher?”

  “There are no permanent teachers, Wade. At any time a teacher can be let go, if the reason, or in my case the manufactured reason, is good enough.”

  “Were you fired?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Officially, I resigned at the end of the school year.”

  “I think you’d better finish your story.”

  “The last year I was there, one of the star football players showed up in my class. His name was Troy Leland. He was an incredible athlete and his grades, on paper, were outstanding.

  “Right away, something didn’t add up. He couldn’t write a coherent paragraph and his punctuation was atrocious. Normally, in an honors history class, students don’t read orally, but we were studying copies of original documents.” She shook her head. “He couldn’t do it. It was painful to listen to him. I started asking his former teachers about his grades. Most didn’t say a thing. A few told me not to rock the boat, that he was scholarship material because of football. I should have listened to them.”

  “But you flunked him anyway,” Wade finished for her.

  “At the time I believed it was important to stand on principle. It wasn’t fair to the kids who earned their grades honestly.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He was benched until he pulled up his grade.”

  “I imagine you were under quite a bit of pressure.”

  “That’s an understatement. I was harassed. My car was vandalized. My tires were slashed and my windows broken. I was threatened by crank calls. My house was tagged.” Her eyes blazed. “Can you imagine how I felt? I lived in California, a blue state, one of the most liberal zip codes in the country, and I was right back in pre-civil rights Selma, Alabama.”

  “Did you cave?”

  “Not at first, not until the subpoena.”

  “The subpoena?”

  She threw him a withering glance. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

  “Actually, I didn’t. Everything you’ve said so far is new information.”

  “The Lelands charged me with child molestation. They claimed their son’s grade in my class was the direct result of his spurning my inappropriate proposition.” She lifted her chin, challenging him to respond.

  He met her gaze coolly, without judgment.

  “I didn’t do it, Wade. I swear I didn’t. He was a child.”

  “It never occurred to me that you had.”

  She released her breath and the ramrod straightness of her spine sagged. “Thank you for tha
t,” she said after a minute. “My husband wasn’t as generous. He left me.”

  The line of his lips tightened. “Go on.”

  “They pulled my credentials. I was suspended without pay. I hired an attorney. He worked out a settlement. If I passed Troy with a B, no charges would be filed. I could leave the district and seek employment elsewhere.”

  “But it didn’t turn out that way, did it?”

  She shook her head. “I came home, moved in with my grandmother and applied for a job here in Marshy Hope Creek. There were openings, but I couldn’t get a job anywhere. I requested a copy of my file. It was all there. The charges, my suspension, my letter of resignation, everything.”

  “Then what happened?”

  Color stained her cheeks. “Cecil Edwards, the superintendent, told me I had a job if I agreed to sleep with him. I refused. He told me I’d never work as a teacher again. That’s when I cashed in my retirement and bought this place.” She looked directly at him. “That’s it. You have it, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

  “Why didn’t you sue the Marin County School District? You had a court-ordered agreement.”

  “At first, I was humiliated. I didn’t want anyone to know. I’d left here with such high hopes. There were a few who would’ve been happy to see me humbled. Later, it didn’t matter.” She lifted her head. “I enjoy working for myself.”

  Wade shook his head.

  “What now?” she demanded.

  “When I asked what brought you back here, you wouldn’t tell me. Why?”

  “It’s not something I’m proud of.”

  “Christ, Verna Lee. We slept together. Why didn’t you trust me?”

  “I was waiting for the right time, but you beat me to it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that you lived up to expectation. You didn’t wait for me to confide in you. You went behind my back and spied on me. That’s as bad as reading my mail. How am I supposed to trust a man who does that?”

  Twenty-Five

  Wade swore and kicked the drawer of the file cabinet shut. Marshy Hope Creek wasn’t the technology center of Maryland, but surely it warranted a late-model computer. It was too much to expect him to be forensic specialist and homicide detective all at the same time without an adequate filing system.