Chesapeake Summer (10 page)

Verna Lee looked around. “Y'all look serious. What's going on?”

“We were talking about the body found on Bailey's land.”

“Oh, that.” Verna Lee began fanning herself. “One of these years you'll break down and buy yourselves an air conditioner.”

“Amen,” said Chloe.

“Libba Jane and I are traditionalists,” said Russ. “Speak for yourself,” replied his wife. She looked at her sister. “What do you think, Verna Lee?”

“About what?”

“The body.”

Verna Lee sighed. “I imagine it's probably someone who was passing through. Who else could it be?”

“You were here fifteen years ago. Can you remember anything?”

“Nothing important.” Her forehead wrinkled. “I'm worried about the wetlands. Libba, do you think the sale will really go through? Isn't that protected land?”

“The air station is protected and parts of the Chesapeake itself. Other than that, private land can be sold.”

“What about loopholes?”

“I don't know of any.”

“You work for the Environmental Protection Agency. Surely you can come up with something.”

“Give me a break, Verna Lee. I didn't know Bailey was selling his land until Russ came in a few minutes ago. You're computer literate. Do some checking on your own.” She glanced at her daughter. “You, too, Chloe. Meanwhile, can you give me a hand with dinner?”

Russ perked up. “What are we having?”

“Chicken casserole, and don't you complain.”

His eyes twinkled. “I never complain. Don't give your daughter the wrong idea.”

Chloe followed her mother into the kitchen and automatically began pulling silverware from the sideboard. “Is everything okay, Mom? Russ was only teasing and I haven't heard from Bailey in years.”

“It isn't that. I guess I'm getting goose bumps at the idea of a body out there in the swamp right beside my running path.”

“Does it bother you that Bailey's back?”

Libba pulled her casserole out of the oven. For a minute she didn't answer. Chloe watched her turn off the heat, wipe up a drop of spilled sauce and rinse the blade of her knife. Finally, she leaned against the counter, arms crossed against her chest, dark eyes wide and serious. “Four years ago you were fascinated with Bailey Jones and it scared me to death. I'm afraid you'll feel that way again.”

“Would that be so terrible?”

Libba bit her bottom lip. “We don't really know who Bailey is. His mother—”

“Was a prostitute,” Verna Lee finished for her. She'd come into the kitchen during the end of their conversation. “She was a good mother, Libba.”

“Was she? Would a good mother ask her son to help her die?”

“There are circumstances you don't understand. Your life was different. You can't imagine not having medication and health insurance and painkillers. Not everybody is as fortunate.”

Chloe shuddered. The temperature in the muggy kitchen suddenly dropped. “You can't judge a person by his parents, Mom. Look at Dad.”

“Excuse me. Eric Richards may have personality flaws, but compared to Lizzie Jones, he's
Redbook's
parent of the year.”

“I didn't realize you disliked Bailey so much.”

Libba sighed. “I don't dislike him, honey, but I don't want my daughter involved with him, either.”

“I'm twenty years old, Mom.”

“She has a point, Libba,” said Verna Lee.

“Yes, she does.” Libba smiled and changed the subject. “Shall we take bets on whether Russ will take more than one bite of this creation?”

“Why didn't you make something he likes?”

“I'm trying to add to our menu. We can't eat meat and potatoes every day.”

Chloe's lips twitched. “I see your problem.”

Libba Jane looked pointedly at her sister. “The truth is, he probably ate a sandwich at Perks and browbeat Verna Lee into loading on the mayonnaise.”

“Actually, my mayonnaise is low fat, but don't you tell a soul or I'll be out of business.” She frowned. “There is something I wanted to ask you about. Do you remember Wade Atkins?”

Libba thought a minute. “The name's familiar.”

“He's a homicide detective assigned to the body found on Bailey's land.”

The diversion proved a useful one. Libba was distracted, leaving Chloe free to think about Bailey Jones. She pretended to listen. Occasionally, she threw out a noncommittal response, but her mind was far away, back to that summer four years ago when a truck, so rusty and banged up it no longer had a discernible color, left her choking on its dust.

When the truck came back for her, Chloe remembered being afraid, until she saw the driver. At eighteen, Bailey Jones already had the kind of dark archangel beauty that graced the canvases of Goya paintings. She'd fallen instantly and hard, asking nothing more than to share his silent spaces. From that moment on, the last emotion Bailey would inspire in her was fear, not even when he told her how he'd held the pillow over his mother's face and pressed the life from her body.

W
ade Atkins closed the file on his makeshift desk, leaned back in his chair and visualized waterfalls, ice cubes, mountaintops, ski slopes, anything and everything cool. His shirt stuck to his back and every muscle ached with the strain of opening up an investigation in weather so hot and wet the pavement on Main Street was showing the footprints of anyone who weighed over eighty pounds. What in the hell was the matter with the air conditioner? How did people expect a person to do anything about crime when he was sweating four gallons a minute?

This morning he'd walked into the police station at six o'clock to find a fax from the coroner's office. According to forensics, the human remains discovered on the Jones' property was a fifteen-year-old homicide. Six o'clock was eleven hours ago and he was still flipping through old files with no respite in sight. Wade knew where he wanted this day to end up, but he didn't know exactly how he would go about getting there. Still, there was something to be said for spontaneity. A good many things turned up when a person visited the unexpected.

Blake Carlisle wandered in from the back room. “I'm calling it a night, Wade. Can I get you anything?”

“Not a thing, Sheriff. I'll see you in the morning.”

Carlisle glanced at the label on one of the files. He picked it up. “You won't find anything in here. Cole Delacourte is a straight shooter even if he did spend his life defending criminals. Don't waste your time.”

Wade nodded. “I was just curious about a few things.”

“What things?”

Wade experienced a flicker of annoyance. Sometimes it was better to work alone. “Did you know his wife?”

“Nola Ruth?”

“Yes. Nola Ruth Delacourte.” Wade experimented with the name on his tongue.

Blake Carlisle grinned, looking younger than his thirty years. “Mrs. Delacourte and my grandmother would have been the same age, but they didn't run in the same circles. There's something you might have missed given you hightailed it out of here years ago.”

“What's that?”

“Nola Ruth Delacourte was Verna Lee's natural mother. The news broke about four years ago.”

Wade stared at him. “Holy shit. You're not serious?”

Carlisle nodded. “You'd think it would've been a scandal they couldn't live down, but those Delacourtes acted like it was the most normal situation in the world. Eventually, everybody just accepted it.”

“Who's Verna Lee's father?”

“I doubt even Verna Lee knows that.” Carlisle replaced the folder. “I'm gone. Don't work too hard.”

“I never do.”

Wade stared at the file in front of him. Was there anyone still alive who had run in Nola Ruth's circles, anyone besides her family? And what was her relationship to the black man who'd jumped bail fifteen years ago? Cole Delacourte was a civil rights attorney. Maybe that was the connection. He had a hunch it wasn't. After more than twenty years on the job, he'd learned to listen to his hunches. It was time to do some legwork.

“Hi there.”

Wade hadn't heard the door open. He looked up and saw the tawny-haired woman standing uncertainly in the entrance. Pleasure surged through him. He stood. “Hello, Verna Lee.”

“I thought you might like another sandwich.” She held out her peace offering.

“Thanks. I skipped lunch. Will you come in and sit for a spell?”

She smiled her incredible smile, the one that showed her strong, white teeth and a hint of gum. Stepping inside, she allowed the door to close behind her. He watched while she trailed her finger across the top of his desk, stopping at the edge. “I guess it wouldn't hurt to stay for a minute.”

He pulled a chair from behind the deputy's desk and motioned for her to sit down. “Coffee?”

She shook her head, sat down and crossed her legs, exposing the long length of her calf and a good eight inches of golden thigh. Wade swallowed and lowered himself into his own chair. “What can I do for you?”

Her eyes widened. “I didn't come for anything in particular. This is purely a social call.”

Wade didn't pretend to have the inside track on the workings of a woman's mind, but he was a good ol' southern boy who'd spent more than his share of harvest nights hunting down raccoons that were nearly as unpredictable. He wanted to believe her, but he wasn't born yesterday. He smiled blandly. “Well, isn't that nice. How's your grandmother?”

She waved her hand. “Granny's fine, still going strong.”

“Have you given any thought to my dinner invitation, Verna Lee?”

He watched the blush color her cheeks. “I brought you a sandwich, Wade. That's it.”

“Fair enough,” he said agreeably. Leaning back in his chair, he clasped his hands behind his head and waited. He could pass the time as well as anyone. “How's business?”

“Fine. You know how summer is. People eat less and drink more.”

“Uh-huh.”

“How is your investigation going?” she asked after a minute.

“My investigation?”

“You know, your murder investigation?”

Something clicked in his mind, the hazy glow of well-being giving way to steely alertness. He rocked forward so that all four legs of his chair rested on the floor. “It's going well, thank you, although I don't believe we've narrowed down the cause of death to murder.”

“So, nothing new to report?”

“Such as?”

“I don't know. I just assumed—”

He prodded her. “You assumed—?”

“Well, I'm not sure, really,” she fumbled. “I guess I thought you would know how long the body was there or how it happened. You know, some real statistics.”

He laced his fingers together and leaned forward. “You wouldn't have any information for me, would you, Verna Lee?”

“Me?” She shook her head. “Of course not.”

“If you did, you'd tell me?”

“Yes. I would.”

“We're a long way from knowing anything at all. These things take time.”

“I guess so.” She sounded doubtful.

His voice gentled. “This whole town must have turned upside down when folks found out who your mama was.”

She looked startled. “I don't remember mentioning anything about that.”

“This is a small town, Verna Lee.”

“I guess it is.” She stood. “I'll let you get back to work.”

He reached into his pocket. “How much do I owe you for the sandwich?”

“It's on the house.”

“Thanks. I'll make it up to you.”

He waited, puzzled, for a full minute after she'd left, breathing in the subtle lingering scent of peaches. Then he sat down at his desk, pulled out a steno pad, scribbled a few quick notes, replaced it in his bottom desk drawer and walked out into the thick, humid summer dusk.

Wade followed the road for a few miles along the creek. At the fork, he turned down a carriage path of twisted weeds and low-hanging trees he never could remember the names of. The path opened to a view captured on many an artist's postcard. At the end of a driveway of hard-packed earth, set back on a lush green lawn, bordered by ancient oaks, sat a glorious colonial mansion complete with deep porches, wide pillars and a thousand sparkling windowpanes, all reflected by the back-lit sky and the mighty Chesapeake, an ocean of liquid copper set aflame by the melting sun.

Wade, inured to the beauty of his home state by a lifetime of priceless landscapes, caught his breath. Yes, sir, it was one hell of a view, and the best part was that no one held the mortgage. It was completely paid for by dead Delacourtes long buried in the family plot. Cole Delacourte was definitely one of the haves of Marshy Hope Creek.

Setting the hand brake, he walked up the front steps, rang the doorbell and waited.

A black woman with ageless skin answered. She smiled when she saw Wade. “How can I help you?”

“I'm looking for Mr. Delacourte. Is he at home?”

“Who shall I say is calling?”

He flashed his badge. “Detective Wade Atkins, Wicomico County Police Department.”

“I'll check for you.” She didn't ask him inside. He bit back a smile. The humor of his position wasn't lost on him. He wasn't a guest, therefore he wasn't invited into the parlor, but he wasn't a servant, either. What, he wondered, would be the appropriate setting for an officer of the law? He didn't have long to wait. Within minutes, the woman led him through the long hallway out to the back porch.

Cole Delacourte sat on a patio chair facing the bay. “Good evening, Wade. It's been a long time. Can I offer you anything?”

“Nothing, thanks.” Wade took a seat beside the old man. “Excuse me, sir, but have we met?”

“I helped out your brother Clem now and again. You were too little to remember.”

Was it his imagination, or was there tension stiffening the man's shoulders?

“What brings you out here?” Delacourte asked.

“I guess you heard about the body that turned up on Bailey Jones's land.”

Cole frowned. “Actually, I hadn't heard. I don't go into town much when it's this hot.”

Wade nodded. “I understand your granddaughter is staying with you for the summer.”

Cole's forehead cleared. “Yes, she is.”

“Do you know about her relationship with the Jones boy?”

“They were friends. His name hasn't come up in a long time. Why do you ask?”

The detective leaned back in the comfortable patio chair. “Can you fill me in on the situation with his mother and the land she left him?”

“You must have the report. My memory isn't what it was.”

“I'm not talking about the arrest and trial. I want to know about Lizzie Jones. Who was she close to? Who's the boy's father?”

“Lizzie was—” Cole paused “—unusual. She liked men. They liked her. Why ask me?”

“I've been looking through police files. You helped her out a number of times. There's the matter of the wetlands. They belonged to the Wentworths. Then, all of a sudden, about fifteen years ago, they changed hands. Why is that, I wonder.”

“How should I know? I didn't help with that transaction. You should ask Quentin.”

Wade grinned. “I intend to, but I'm fairly sure not much happens around here that you don't know about.”

“I'm flattered,” Cole said dryly, “but you're barking up the wrong tree. I know that land originally belonged to Benteen Jones. How Wentworth got his hands on it, I can only imagine.”

“Don't like him, do you?”

Cole's lips tightened. “Not particularly.”

“Care to tell me why?”

“It's ancient history, and it has no bearing on our conversation. Wentworth may not be my choice of company on a long plane ride, but he operates by the book. He was a superior court judge, for heaven's sake.”

“We both know that doesn't necessarily follow.”

“What exactly are you implying?”

Wade was saved the trouble of a reply by the opening of the French doors leading to the house. A slender, dark-haired woman stepped out onto the porch carrying a glass of lemonade. He recognized her immediately. Libba Hennessey had turned out to be one good-looking woman.

“Daddy, I didn't know you had company.” Her soft, delta-flavored voice was very like Verna Lee's.

Wade stood. “Good evening, ma'am. I'm Detective Wade Atkins.”

“I thought so. Verna Lee told me about you.” Kissing her father on the forehead, she dropped into an empty chair and groaned. “I'm exhausted. I can only stay for a minute, but the lure of pure calm was too tempting to pass by.” She smiled at Wade. “What's going on?”

“I came to ask a few questions. Maybe you can help us out.”

“Ask away. I'll help if I can.”

Wade found himself staring at her, comparing her to Verna Lee. She was lighter skinned, but her eyes were darker, huge brown orbs against the creamy canvas of her face. She was long-legged, too, and full-breasted, but her bones were finer, her features sharper. Her ancestry was obviously French, not African, more refined, less exotic. Libba's hair was the color of expensive French roast, thick and fine and straight, nothing at all like the tangled mop of tawny curls that was Verna Lee's trademark. Still, the resemblance between the two was striking. He'd noticed the smile immediately.

She said something and he wasn't listening.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, any news on the mysterious body?”

Cole frowned. “You know about that, too?”

Libba laughed. “Who doesn't? What else is there to talk about?”

Wade looked out across the bay, pretending interest in a pair of coots sitting on the water. “I'm still trying to fit the pieces together. Like I said, I have a few questions.” He smiled. “But maybe I'm asking the wrong ones.” He could see the fine line between her eyes. Wade prided himself on knowing people. She was curious, nothing more. “Tell me about Ms. Fontaine and your mother.”