Chesapeake Summer (16 page)

“That's a long shot, Chloe. I don't think Nola Ruth was the murdering kind. She wasn't big enough for one thing. You aren't trying to say that your granddad did it for her, are you? Because if you are, I'd consider you a candidate for the loony bin.”

“No. I didn't really know my grandmother very well, but there's no way Granddad would kill anyone.”

“No way.”

She leaned forward, the bright hair falling over her cheeks. “Aren't you even a little bit curious?”

“About what?”

“About the body on your land?”

Bailey didn't answer for a long minute. When he did, his words sent a warning shiver down Chloe's spine.

“No good comes from dredging up secrets of the past.”

T
he blaring of the alarm jarred Verna Lee from a sound sleep. Bleary-eyed, she rolled over and glanced at the clock. It couldn't be five already. She felt as if she'd been unconscious no more than ten minutes. Pulling the covers over her shoulders, she turned, reaching out to tuck the pillow under her cheek when the palm of her hand hit the hard plane of a man's chest, taut muscle, wiry hair, a ladder of rib bones and heat, heat beneath her hand, leaping to her chest, flowing through her body, penetrating deep into the center of her belly.

Instantly, she was awake. Blue eyes looked down at her, moving over her face. A hand cupped her breast. She closed her eyes. Did she want this? Good Lord, what a question. She smiled. Yes, she wanted it, never more than now, at this moment, with this man.

What was so satisfying about rough hands on her skin, warm lips on the slide of her throat, the slope of her breast, about the long, delicious wait for her mind to relax, readying her body to open and stretch and welcome the sharing of an act of intimacy so tender, so complete, so primal, so familiar and instinctive that, since the dawn of man, it remained unchanged?

Later, much later, the smell of rich chicory floated down the hall. Through the fog clouding her brain, it registered that someone was making coffee. Footsteps sounded on the floor. She felt the sudden depression of the mattress. The coffee smell was stronger. A half smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

Wade's breath tickled her ear. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

She opened her eyes. “Are you talking to me?”

“I am. In two minutes you'll have some home-brewed New Orleans coffee, the twenty-dollar-a-pound variety.”

“It sure smells good. To what do I owe this unusual honor?”

“You said to wake you at seven, but I was hoping you'd reconsider.”

She smiled her sensational smile. “What did you have in mind?”

He traced her spine with his finger. “Sleeping late. Breakfast in bed. Another round similar to the one we had earlier.”

She sat up, clutching the sheet to her breasts, her curls wild around her face. “You're certainly tempting, but I have a business to run and you have a murder to solve.”

He leaned over, his breath toothpaste clean, and kissed her mouth. “I'm disappointed, but there's always tonight.”

A tiny vee appeared between Verna Lee's eyebrows. “This was fun, Wade, but it was strictly impulse for both of us. We're not a thing. We don't know each other.”

“You're one straightforward woman, Verna Lee. Those are supposed to be my lines.”

She shrugged one honey-gold shoulder. “I didn't think you'd say them.”

“Or maybe you wanted to say them first.”

She flushed. “Maybe. Or maybe it's because I'm a realist. This isn't Baltimore. There are people who would object to our seeing each other.”

“You can't live your life that way.”

“It's worked so far.”

“I like you, Verna Lee. I've always liked you. You're different.”

“You like things that are different.”

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“Yes,” she said. “I think there is. It would be all right if you liked something that happened to be different. But it isn't all right if you chase after what's different just because it is.”

Wade Atkins had learned a few things in his forty-five years, and one of them was patience. He looked at her, a half smile playing on his lips. “Are you willing to share my shower, or do you want to go first?”

She liked Wade Atkins. She liked him more than she thought she would. But Verna Lee had experienced enough of life to know that it was the differences between people that drove them apart. And Wade and she were different, an understatement if she'd ever heard one. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. “I'll go first.”

Two hours later she was mixing up her homemade chicken salad with fresh sprigs of rosemary, a herb that grew wild in the marshy wetlands outside of town. Humming to herself, she added to her roasted chicken equal parts regular and low-fat mayonnaise, a culinary secret that would brand her a heretic here in Marshy Hope Creek.

“Anybody here?” a voice sang out.

“I'll be with you in a minute, Libba Jane,” she called from the back of the café. “Help yourself to coffee, or anything else you want.”

“I want chocolate milk,” Gina said, looking hopefully at her mother.

“I don't have any chocolate milk, baby,” Verna Lee called out. “Chocolate inhibits the absorption of calcium. If you want chocolate, just have it.”

Libba frowned. She'd grown to appreciate Verna Lee, but sometimes her preoccupation with all things healthy rankled. “I guess everything doesn't have to be good for you.”

“Like I said, if you want chocolate, have a Hershey's Kiss. There's a jar by the register.”

“Can I have milk?” asked Gina.

“I'll get it,” Libba said hastily. She poured a glass of milk, set it on the counter, found two silver, foil-wrapped Hershey's Kisses and settled the little girl into a chair. “Here,” she said, handing her the chocolate and pushing the milk, complete with straw, toward her. “Will you sit here quietly while I talk to Aunt Verna Lee?”

Gina nodded and began the arduous task of pulling the foil from the candy.

Verna Lee laughed. “I thought you were opposed to sugar?”

“I've adjusted,” replied Libba. She walked to the back of the café and leaned over the counter. “Can I help you with anything?”

“I'm nearly finished. Why don't you pour us some iced tea. I tried a new recipe. It's been slow this morning. Maybe it's too hot for coffee. I sure hope it picks up by lunch.”

Libba returned with two glasses of clear, green-tinted liquid. Positioning herself on a tall stool, she sipped tentatively. Immediately, her forehead cleared. “This is delicious. It's sweet and yet tart at the same time. What did you put in it?”

“Lemongrass and dissolved sugar water.” Verna Lee's golden eyes rested on her sister's face and narrowed skeptically. “What's going on, Libba Jane? Don't tell me nothing, because I can see it. You always were an open book.”

Libba flushed. “Is that so terrible?”

“Not at all.” She leaned forward. “Now, what gives?”

Libba Jane considered her options and decided on the truth. “Did you ever consider looking for your father?”

Verna Lee stared at her. “What makes you think I didn't?”

“Did you?”

“I considered it.”

“And?”

Verna Lee sighed. “I decided against it.”

“Why?”

“You're certainly full of questions today. Do you mind telling me why this subject suddenly interests you?”

Libba turned her glass around and around on the counter, leaving conjoined circles on the gleaming wood. “Wade mentioned something to my daddy the other night that shook him pretty badly.”

Verna Lee said nothing.

“He told me that a man named Anton Devereaux was arrested for speeding fifteen years ago.” She swallowed. “Apparently, Mama bailed him out of jail.”

“Wade told me the same thing,” Verna Lee admitted. “But why should that concern your daddy after all this time?”

“Anton Devereaux is your father, Verna Lee.”

“I've
never
heard from my father, Libba Jane. I never even knew who he was. Neither of my parents wanted me in their lives, and you still haven't answered my question. Why should something our mother did fifteen years ago bother Cole Delacourte now?”

“Daddy thinks it may have something to do with the body found on Bailey's land.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Libba bit her lip and looked back at her daughter. “Are you okay over there, Gina Marie?” She was blowing milk bubbles with her straw. “Do you want to come here and sit with Mommy?”

Gina shook her head. Reluctantly, Libba turned back to matters at hand. “I know it sounds silly, but—” She frowned. “Do you think Daddy's mind could be going just a little bit? He's getting older.”

“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.

W
ade 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 drawn. 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 tail between her legs fifteen years ago.