Chesapeake Summer

A special thank-you to Officer Rick Hieb of the Long Beach Police Department, East Division, his colleagues in homicide and his wife, Tammie, for their information, their time and most of all, their hospitality.

Thank you to all my friends at Santiago Elementary School for supporting me during this very difficult year.

Thank you to Pat Perry and Jean Stewart, for reading and rereading and then doing both all over again.

Marshy Hope Creek, Maryland
1991

A
ugust had settled over the marshes like a sauna, wet, hot, cloying. Even now, at midnight, breathing was difficult. Movement was impossible. Thick snakes, fiddler crabs, tree frogs, elegant blue dragonflies, cunning, predatory alligators, lay buried beneath the gray mud, hidden below the wild grass and algae-laced water, heat-drugged, motionless, somnolent. The world was silent, human life profoundly absent, except for a single car.

A late-model Cadillac, the windows tinted, the color nonspecific in the absence of sunlight, crawled slowly, without headlights, down the ribbon of highway bisecting the swamp. At a point that first appeared random, it rolled to a stop. Upon closer inspection the site was really a fork, one tine continuing down the highway, the other leading to a pony path, a slim piece of solid ground cutting through the tall grasses and salt-encrusted pines, the birch and willow, an occasional hemlock and pin oak that had, over aeons, adapted to the brackish soil.

For a time, fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, nothing happened. The car appeared to have materialized on its own without a driver or passengers. Then, as if responding to a silent signal, it moved forward again, keeping to the highway, snaking slowly, darkly, down the twisting road until it disappeared into the camouflage of night and swamp grass and trees.

Eight miles away, the residents of Marshy Hope Creek, well into the first few hours of their sleep cycles, the twilight kind of sleep where the senses are still present but pleasantly numbed enough so that nothing much matters, heard a loud, explosive boom. No one cared. But if anyone had, or even paid attention, he would have placed the noise in the direction of the Patuxent River Naval Air Station, along Highway 39.

Three days earlier

V
erna Lee Fontaine stared at the clock mounted on the wall of her shop and tapped her foot impatiently. Had five minutes ever passed so slowly? Finally,
finally,
the long hand inched its way up to the twelve. It was 5:00 a.m. on the dot, time to flip the Open for Business sign on the window and unlock her door. She'd anticipated this moment for six long months, dropping flyers on doorsteps, taking out ads in the local newspaper, tacking up notices on the library and supermarket bulletin boards and talking to just about everybody in town. Now, it was time to step back and wait…no, pray for customers.

Some would come because they wanted to see her succeed, others because they were curious. A café that offered smoothies laced with vitamin supplements, herbal teas sweetened with honey, egg white omelets topped with Stilton cheese and oatmeal sprinkled with wheat germ was unheard of in the remote back roads of the Tidewater.

She knew people whispered behind her back. Black folks said that with her fancy college degree and her nine years spent teaching school in California, she didn't really belong in Marshy Hope Creek anymore, not that she ever had. She'd always been uppity and now she was worse than ever, a phenomenon completely unrecognizable in their small fishing community, one of their own and yet, not really, an educated black woman who owned a business.

White folks remembered that Verna Lee Fontaine had always been unusual. She was something to look at, but didn't let it go to her head. She ignored the suggestive comments and blatant invitations, never losing sight of her goal, to leave and never look back. Raised by her grandmother in a small house on the edge of town, she kept to herself, studied hard, ended up number two in her graduating class and earned a top-notch scholarship to one of the best universities in the country. They wondered what brought her back. But she wasn't one of their own and they were too polite to ask.

The thing was, Verna Lee didn't really belong in either community. Her African heritage was evident in the caramel color of her skin and the full, well-defined lips, which she emphasized with spicy-cinnamon lip gloss. But her pert nose, brook-hazel eyes and the tawny curls framing her face were definitely European. She looked liked someone, but no one could agree on who, except that it wasn't Drusilla Washington, the grandmother who raised her.

Ten minutes hadn't gone by before customers began showing up, first a trickle and then as the sun rose, a steady flow of them, ordering cappuccinos and lattes, foam thickened and cream topped. They sat on her blue couches, spread her yellow napkins, sipped from her ceramic mugs and chatted among themselves, consuming the homemade carrot-cinnamon and blueberry muffins, the peach scones and carob crisps, the apple-nut granola and whole-wheat pancakes. They took away packages of raspberry and peppermint teas, loaves of high-fiber bread and sinfully rich fudge brownies. When it was clear that she couldn't manage on her own, Verna Lee recruited her grandmother to run the blender and refill the cups, to package the to-go orders and wipe down the tables. Four hours later, the shop was empty and Verna Lee's inventory nearly depleted. She slumped into a chair, exhausted but satisfied. “I did it, Gran,” she said. “I really did it. I'm a success.”

Drusilla Washington wasn't convinced. “It's nine o'clock on your first day of business. Tell me you're a success six months from now when the mortgage is paid nice and regular.”

“Killjoy.” Verna Lee lifted her head and grinned. “Tell me you aren't as excited as I am.”

Drusilla looked at her granddaughter's lovely young face, at the red bandanna holding back the tawny curls, at the golden eyes lit with pleasure, and relented. “You done good, Verna Lee, real good. I'm proud of you.”

“Thank you, and you're right.” She jumped up. “I won't know this is going to work until I have repeat customers. There's no time to waste. Lunch is only three hours away. Sit down, Gran. I'll pour you a cup of coffee before I start on the chicken salad.”

“I hope you put some of that good New Orleans chicory in the coffee, Verna Lee. It cuts the bitterness.”

The bell on the door chimed, signaling another customer. Verna Lee, in the act of rinsing a coffeepot, turned to greet the newcomer. Her eyes widened. The man who sat at the window table was a stranger, middle-aged, dressed casually but expensively and, if the Mercedes parked directly outside her window was his, comfortably situated.

She walked over to the table. “May I help you?”

He looked up. “I'd like to see a menu.”

Verna Lee's eyes flickered across his face. She was fairly certain she'd never seen him before, and yet he looked vaguely familiar. His accent was a common one around the Tidewater, but she thought she detected a hint of something foreign. Maybe he was visiting family. That was it. He looked like someone she already knew. “The menu is on the blackboard above the cash register. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Yes, please.” He glanced at the menu. “I'll have a scone and a slice of lemon cake.”

Moments later she set the scone in front of him. “Are you visiting or just passing through?”

He sipped his coffee. “This is good. It tastes like New Orleans coffee.”

“It's the chicory. My grandmother worked for a lady from New Orleans years ago. Are you from Louisiana?”

He shook his head. “I live in the Bordeaux region of France.”

“Really? What do you do there?”

“I'm a winemaker. I own a vineyard.” He smiled. “I assume you don't have a liquor license.”

“No. But I lived in San Francisco and some wonderful wines come out of Napa Valley, although nothing like your burgundies. You're a long way from home.” She rephrased her original question. “Will you be here long?”

“Not too long.”

“I'm Verna Lee Fontaine. Welcome to Perks Coffee House. We opened today.”

“Congratulations.” He seemed to be studying her. “Maybe you can help me. I wonder if I'm in the right place. Is there a Delacourte family around these parts?”

“You haven't told me your name.”

“I'm sorry.” He held out his hand. “Anton Devereaux.”

She took it. “As a matter of fact, you're in the right place. Cole and Nola Ruth Delacourte live a few miles outside of town. If you take the road to the left you'll see their name on the mailbox. The house is on the bay and quite a distance from the road. If you're looking for Cole, it's a weekday. He'll be at his law office in Salisbury.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

She felt Drusilla cross the room and stand behind her before she heard her speak. “Where you stayin', Mr. Devereaux?”

“I'm not sure I will be staying.”

“Gran.” Verna Lee frowned meaningfully, slipping her hand under Drusilla's arm. “I could use some help in the kitchen.”

Anton Devereaux watched as the two women worked together behind the counter. The younger one was exceptional, long-legged and full-breasted, a light-skinned black woman who'd inherited the best of both races. There was something about the bones of her face that reminded him of Nola Ruth Delacourte, but that was ridiculous. His imagination was running away with him. She'd called the old woman Gran. Even if she hadn't, the idea forming in his head was absurd. Not in a million years would the Beauchamps have allowed Nola Ruth to have his child, nor would she have wanted to. His deduction was based on what he knew of human nature rather than personal knowledge of Nola Ruth's character. He'd known her only eight weeks and where once he would have sworn on his life that he knew her better than anyone, ten years in a Mississippi state prison cured him of all second-guessing.

He finished his coffee and brought the bill up to the register. “Keep it,” he said when Verna Lee tried to give him the change. “The scone was the best I've tasted.”

She smiled, a full, warm smile that changed her face, narrowed her lips and showed her strong white teeth. Anton's heart constricted. He couldn't look away. “What did you say your name was?”

“Verna Lee,” she replied. “Verna Lee Fontaine.”

“Fontaine is a French name. Would you happen to be of French descent, Ms. Fontaine?”

“Not that I know of, although it's possible. There's a large Franco-American community here in the Cove. Washington is my maiden name.”

Six hours later Verna Lee was spraying her front window with a solution of white vinegar and water and wiping it down with old newspaper when she saw the man in the Mercedes once again. A police cruiser dogged his back fender. Verna Lee turned to watch. The red light on the top of the patrol car blinked forbiddingly and Sheriff Grimes, his voice amplified by a bullhorn, broke through the pedestrian conversations. “Pull over immediately. Pull over immediately.”

The cream-colored Mercedes, already moving below the speed limit, slowed to a stop. Silas Grimes exited the patrol car, hitched his belt, unlocked the clip on his firearm, rested his hand on his billy club and swaggered to the driver's side of the Mercedes. The door opened and the stranger stepped out. He faced the car, hands and legs spread-eagled while Grimes patted him down.

Verna Lee was staring openly now, the newspaper clenched in her hand.

Drusilla opened the door of the shop and stood beside her. Assessing the taut line of her granddaughter's mouth, she laid a warning hand on her arm. “Easy now, Verna Lee. He'll be all right.”

“Silas Grimes wouldn't humiliate a white man like that, not here in the middle of the street. It's because he's black and he drives an expensive car.”

“Don't be mindin' anyone's business but your own. No good can come of it.”

Verna Lee couldn't hear their conversation, but the stranger wasn't taking his treatment passively. He'd turned to the sheriff. Their faces were very close and they were arguing. The black man was taller by at least three inches.

Sheriff Grimes walked back to his car, pulled out a hand radio and spoke into it. Almost immediately the air was filled with the sound of sirens. Two police cars sped to the intersection and parked in a vee, blocking it completely. Two deputies, guns drawn, approached the black man. A crowd had gathered. Grimes, wielding handcuffs, pulled the man's arms behind his back, cuffed him, laid a punishing hand on his head and pushed him into the patrol car.

Verna Lee watched as they headed in the direction of the police station, a block away. “I'll call Cole Delacourte.”

“I'll call him,” Drusilla said. “Better yet, I'll call Mrs. Delacourte. She'll get through where we may not.”

Verna Lee finished her windows and began closing down the café. She sifted flour, filled the sugar jars and set out recipes for tomorrow's baking. Then she ate a peach, drank a glass of lemony iced tea, drove home, took a long shower, shook out her wet curls, climbed into bed and fell asleep, all before nine o'clock.

The next morning passed much the same as the one before. Customers, many the same faces she'd seen yesterday, lined up for cinnamon bread, poppy-seed muffins, flaky apricot scones and specialty coffees. A few intrepid buyers agreed to shot glasses of vitamin B-12 and wheatgrass in their yogurt smoothies. Once again, the store was empty by nine o'clock, but this time Verna Lee wasn't worried. The lunch rush would begin at eleven thirty and continue until one o'clock. She checked her supplies. She was low on lemons and whipping cream. There was plenty of time for a brief trip to John's Food King.

Nearly every face she saw on her way to the small family owned market at the end of the block was a familiar one. She nodded but didn't stop to chat. Time was cheap here on the Tidewater and conversation an art. A generic how are you was considered an invitation to while away the morning.

“How you doing, Verna Lee, honey?” Mamie Sloane called from her beauty shop across the street.

“Just fine, ma'am.” Verna Lee hurried on.

“I'll be in for some 'o those sweet potato muffins. Harley sure did enjoy 'em.”

“Looking forward to seeing you.” Verna Lee waved and picked up her pace.

Boyd Jessup held the door open for her. “Mornin', Verna Lee.”

“Good morning.” Picking up a basket she breezed past him, heading for the dairy section.

“You tell Drusilla that my missus is near her time.”

“I'll do that, Boyd.”

She grabbed four pints of heavy cream from the refrigerator, a dozen lemons from the produce stand, paid cash and dashed out the door, fully intending to let nothing short of a lightning strike divert her.

The scene unraveling across the street at the police station stopped her short. Walking down the steps at a brisk clip was Nola Ruth Delacourte, beautifully turned out as usual. Following in her wake was Anton Devereaux.

Ordinarily, Verna Lee would have come up with a reasonable explanation. After all, Drusilla had called Cole Delacourte on the man's behalf. Nola Ruth was Cole's wife. Maybe he'd sent her to bail his client out of jail, except she knew it would never happen. Cole didn't expect his wife to handle his clients. Nola Ruth frowned on her husband's pro bono work. Not that Anton Devereaux was the pro bono type, not with those clothes and that Mercedes.