Chesapeake Summer (13 page)

The judge's face lost some of its color. “What on earth—? Amanda has been dead fifteen years. Of what interest could she possibly be to you?”

“Well, it's like this, Quentin.” He relished using the judge's given name. He had a hunch it riled him. “I was thinking what a coincidence it is that Mrs. Wentworth happened to lose her life in the very same year and on the very same road as the body that was found on Bailey's property.”

“I'm sure a great many people lost their lives that year in the state of Maryland.”

“You're right about that, but not on the same road. In fact, I can't think of a single other person who died on Highway 39 that year.”

“My wife had an unfortunate car accident on the way to visit her sister. Her funeral was well attended. She's buried, per her request, in her family's plot in Laurel, Mississippi. I'm sure her sister will be happy to give you a tour if you're so inclined.”

“As a matter of fact, I might be so inclined, Quentin. I'd sure appreciate it if you'd give me directions.”

“I'll be happy to do so.”

Wade waited.

Wentworth's eyebrows rose. “You want it now, this minute?”

Wade smiled blandly. “If you don't mind.”

Thin-lipped, the judge pulled a pad of paper from his top drawer and took the splendid, monogrammed pen in his fingers to scribble down an address and phone number. He tore off the sheet of paper and pushed it across the desk toward Wade. “I hope this concludes our visit,” he said.

“There is one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Exactly what was the official cause of Mrs. Wentworth's death?”

“Her vehicle rolled over the embankment. The car ignited. Silas Grimes, our sheriff at the time, found her.”

Wade stroked his chin. “No autopsy?”

“There was a pathology report on what was left of her.”

“Whatever happened to old Silas?”

“I believe he retired somewhere in Florida. He was certainly of an age. In case you're wondering, I don't keep track of ex-police officers.”

“Of course not.” Wade stood and pocketed the piece of paper. “Thanks for your time. I'll see myself out.”

Deep in thought, Wade drove back to town trying to piece together the fragments of his recent conversation. So far, he didn't have much. There was nothing shady about Amanda Wentworth's death. Still, her husband's reaction was interesting. Reactions meant something when it came to cracking a case. Reaching into his pocket, he felt the edge of the paper the judge had given him. He had every intention of following up.

Drusilla Washington, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, knelt in the dirt, tugging weeds from around her purple string bean plants. She dropped them into her apron pocket. Verna Lee stood over her looking anxious. “God, it's hot. Take a break, Gran. You've been at this all morning. It's time for lunch. I'll make you a sandwich and a glass of iced tea.”

“In a minute. I'm near done.” The old woman wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of dirt. “You go on in and start fixin' the food. I'll be there in a minute.”

Verna Lee bit her lip. “There's something I want to talk to you about. It's important.”

“Everythin's important to the young,” Drusilla muttered. “Hurry, hurry, hurry. Slow down, girl. What's the hurry?”

“You've got to eat.”

Drusilla looked up. The brim of her hat shaded her face, hiding the deeply wrinkled skin, the red-veined eyes. “I don't get hungry much anymore, Verna Lee. Don't go to no trouble.”

Verna Lee sighed. “All right, Gran. Come inside when you're ready. I'll wait.”

Washing her hands at the kitchen sink, she wondered how her grandmother made ends meet. In her younger years Drusilla had been midwife to the sharecropper families in the Cove. Cash poor, they'd paid her in goods, chickens, eggs, an occasional round of cheese, fresh vegetables, a cured ham, loaves of bread, whatever surplus they could spare from their own families. But age had changed all that. She could no longer move quickly and, on occasion, her mind wandered back to people and places Verna Lee didn't recognize.

The old woman's small house had been Verna Lee's home for as long as she could remember. She'd never asked her grandmother how she'd actually acquired it and Drusilla never offered an explanation.

Years ago Verna Lee learned that Drusilla was not a blood relation. She'd delivered Nola Ruth Delacourte's half-black baby girl and ended up taking her home. In retrospect, she realized that life with Drusilla wasn't all that bad. It was just that she'd wanted so much more. She'd left home to attend college in California and learned, all too quickly, what
more
meant and hightailed it back to her roots. Even that hadn't turned into the safe haven she'd imagined. For years the events surrounding her return to Marshy Hope Creek simmered in the back of her mind. She'd nearly suppressed them, and now this.

Behind her the door opened. “I'm done for today,” Drusilla said. “What did you bring me?”

“I made those chicken-salad sandwiches you like. You know, the ones with cream cheese and raisin-walnut bread. I even cut off the crusts.”

“That's wasteful, Verna Lee,” her grandmother gently chided her. “Ain't nothin' wrong with crust. Was a time when I would've been grateful for bread crusts.”

“That time's over, Gran. Go wash up while I set the table.”

Seated across from each other at the small dinette Drusilla had picked up at a yard sale, Verna Lee brought up the subject foremost on her mind. “I was thinking about when I first came back here from San Francisco.”

Drusilla nodded. “About five years ago, wasn't it?”

Verna Lee was used to her grandmother's lapses. “More like fifteen years ago, Gran.”

Drusilla's forehead creased in thought. “Time sure does fly by when a body gets old.”

Verna Lee continued. “I tried to get a teaching job, remember?”

“I remember.”

“Something happened in California, Gran. Do you remember what I told you about that?”

Drusilla thought. “No,” she said at last.

Verna Lee tried another approach. “What about Lizzie Jones? You remember her, don't you, Gran?”

Drusilla was looking at her as if she'd lost her mind. “What's got into you, child? How could you think I'd be forgettin' Lizzie?”

“She was in love with Judge Wentworth.”

Drusilla nodded. “I remember when her boy was born. She was so proud.”

“Something happened to her, Gran. It was about the time Amanda Wentworth died.” Verna Lee leaned forward. “Do you know anything about that?”

Drusilla's eyes clouded over. “My memory's not so good anymore.”

“Think, Gran. Think hard.”

“Camille told me something about the girl.”

“What girl?”

“Tracy's girl.”

“This isn't about Tracy, Gran. It's about Lizzie and Mrs. Wentworth. Did Lizzie ever say anything about them?”

Drusilla picked apart her sandwich, scraped off the cream cheese and licked her fingers. “This is good. You always were a good cook.”

Verna Lee gave up. She hadn't really expected Drusilla to answer, but she had to try. She poured her grandmother another glass of iced tea and began clearing the table. “I'll do these dishes and run along when I'm finished. Promise me you won't do any more work outside today, or at least until the sun goes down.”

“You worry too much.”

“Just say yes, Gran.”

“Yes,” parroted the old woman.

After leaving Drusilla's house, Verna Lee didn't go directly home. Inside her car, she aimed the air-conditioning vents at her face, turned left on the main road and headed toward the highway. Cold air dried her eyes and her lips and straightened the tiny whorls of hair around her face. She fumbled for the water bottle she always kept in her glove compartment, twisted off the cap and drank deeply, grimacing. The water was warm, metallic tasting.

She was closing in on Cole Delacourte's big white house. Verna Lee liked Cole. He was a fair man, a decent man. Who else would marry a woman with the kind of past his wife had brought with her? Nola Ruth hadn't hidden it from him. She'd confessed right after he'd proposed. Nothing dishonest about Nola Ruth.

Verna Lee's mouth twisted. Nothing except the small matter of keeping her own daughter in the dark for thirty years and then, even after said daughter knew the truth, pretending she didn't exist. Anything to protect Libba Jane, the planned child, the golden girl, the fortunate and inevitable union of two, wealthy, blue-blooded southern families.

Whenever Verna Lee thought about her half sister, her resentment eased. There must have been a strain of Gypsy blood somewhere in the Delacourte/Beauchamp lineage, because Libba Jane was her own person. At the age of twenty she'd thumbed her nose at her parents and run off with Chloe's father, an actor bound for Hollywood. It took her seventeen years to swallow her pride and come home and that was only because her mother had suffered a debilitating stroke.

At the end of her life, Nola Ruth wanted both of her children around her. Libba Jane gained a sister and Verna Lee found a family. There had been a few glitches but, for the most part, the blending had been a smooth one. Libba's warm acceptance set the stage for Verna Lee's forgiveness. The children helped, too. Verna Lee adored her nieces and, after seventeen years in California, Libba Jane needed a confidante who'd seen more of the world than Marshy Hope Creek, Maryland.

By and large, Verna Lee was happy. There were few things she would change about her life. Why, then, was she dredging up a past no one alive could possibly know about?

T
he sheriff wasn't in. Wade nodded at the deputy, sat down at his desk in Carlisle's office and tried once again to contact Amanda Wentworth's sister, the one she was planning to visit when her car drove off the road and ended her life. He was beginning to think that the woman had gone away somewhere. She was either out of town or she was screening her calls. He ran his hand through his thatch of white-blond hair and shook his head. “Get a grip, Wade,” he said to himself. “Just because the woman hasn't called you back doesn't mean she's avoiding you.”

She answered on the fifth ring. He wasn't prepared for a real person. “Mrs. Dixon?”

There was the slightest hesitation. “Who's calling, please?”

“Sheriff Wade Atkins from Marshy Hope Creek, Maryland.”

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

“I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you have a minute.”

“I'm seventy-four years old, Sheriff. I have more than a minute. What else would I be doing?”

“I'm hoping you'll give me some information regarding your late sister.”

“Why?”

“Some questions have come up about her accident.”

“I'll try.”

“I understand Mrs. Wentworth was on her way to see you when she died. Is that true?”

“As far as I know. Amanda frequently told me she was coming home, but the fact is, she rarely did.”

“Why is that, Mrs. Dixon?”

“I suspect it's because Quentin didn't like it when she asserted her independence. Driving all the way down here to see me didn't suit him. She was at his beck and call.”

“I take it you and the judge aren't on the best of terms.”

“We aren't on any terms. We don't speak. We never cared for each other.”

“Would you mind telling me why?”

“Quentin liked to be in control. I wouldn't submit. That's reason enough.”

“Did your sister ever tell you how she felt about her marriage?”

Violet Dixon snorted. “Of course she did, but that won't do you any good. Women complain about their husbands all the time. You won't get anywhere with that one. Quentin Wentworth was a nasty son of a bitch. He probably still is but, thankfully, I no longer have to put up with him.”

“Did you come for the funeral, Mrs. Dixon?”

“I certainly did.”

“At any time, did you actually see your sister's body after she died?”

“The casket was closed. It was what she wanted. I doubt if anyone would have stopped me if I'd asked to see her. Under the circumstances, I saw no need.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dixon. I appreciate your time.”

“Sheriff?”

Wade waited.

“If you find anything untoward, please let me know.”

“I'll do that.”

He stared at the phone for a long minute. There weren't too many women who used the words
untoward
and
son of a bitch
in the same conversation. If Amanda Wentworth was anything like her sister, the sparks must have flown quite often in the Wentworth mansion. Sparks, however, were a long way from murder.

Wade scribbled a few notes, closed the folder and replaced the file. There was value in knowing when to quit beating a dead horse.

Verna Lee sat on the dock, slapping the blackflies away from her ankles. She squinted at the letters blurring together on the page attached to her clipboard. Lord, she couldn't need reading glasses already. Rubbing her eyes, she lifted her focus from the fine print of her order form and stared out at the bay.

Fingers of light, sharp-edged as a photograph, poked through the cloud cover slowly bringing color to the earth, mud green to the marshes, slate blue to the bay. A single trawler, already on its way to fisheries near Smith Island, marred the pristine perfection of the landscape. Overhead, egrets and a lone seagull circled below the horizon line.

There was only one other person she knew who appreciated the velvety silence of early morning here on the dock, the gentle slapping of the tide against the hulls of fishing boats, pelicans lined up on pilings waiting patiently for their breakfasts, the camaraderie of watermen shaking out their nets, untying their lines, double-checking their bait tanks and fuel supplies, the jolt of caffeine from chicory-rich coffee heating her insides and the gentle roll of the deck under her feet. Where was Libba Jane anyway? This was her running path. Nothing less than a major emergency would make her change her routine.

She tilted her face toward the sun and closed her eyes. Then she felt a tug on one of her curls. A soft, southern drawl broke the silence. “Hey there, Verna Lee. What are you doing out here at this time of the morning?”

Verna Lee smiled. “I was hoping to run into you.”

“I have a telephone.”

Verna Lee raised her amber-gold eyes to her sister's dark ones. “We've got to do something about the wetlands. All of this—” she waved her arm to encompass the dock, the boats, the horizon “—will be gone.”

Libba sighed. “You're anticipating again. The sale is on hold until this investigation is over.”

“That means we have some time. Why isn't the EPA involved?”

Libba hesitated. “I don't think the sale of a few hundred acres of privately owned wetlands is seen as destruction of an ecosystem.”

“You know better than that, and you know it's not just a few hundred acres. For the last ten years developers have bought up thousands of acres. Where will it stop?”

Libba sat down beside Verna Lee. “I don't know.”

Verna Lee studied her sister's profile, the small straight nose, the long eyelashes, the sun-gold skin and the straight coffee-dark hair caught up in a ponytail. “Have you lost heart for all this?” she asked.

Libba looked at her. “Not at all. But I choose my battles. If I want to succeed with the big ones, I have to let the small ones go. Condominiums aren't dangerous, Verna Lee. Nuclear waste, pesticides and PCBs are. I save my energy for those.” She laid her hand on Verna Lee's arm. “This isn't California. We don't have celebrities who will take up our causes. What made you come back here anyway?”

Verna Lee shrugged. “I wasn't happy. My marriage broke up. My grandmother needed me. I guess I'm a small-town girl at heart.”

“I accept that. You've made a success of your business, but what about your personal life? You're an attractive woman. Don't you want to grow old with someone?”

“Not particularly.”

“I don't believe you. What about sex?”

“What about it?”

“Don't you miss it?”

Verna Lee freed her arm. “What makes you think I don't have sex?”

“Because I know every single man in this town and each and every one is terrified of you.”

Verna Lee was about to open her mouth and tell her sister that single men weren't the only ones in town looking for sex without commitment, when she thought better of it. Libba Jane was an educated woman, a contemporary woman, two generations removed from her mother's New Orleans ancestors but, because of Nola Ruth, she'd been raised in their traditions, Catholic, superstitious, guilt-ridden, confident that punishment followed too much good fortune. Quite simply, Libba was naive when it came to men and Verna Lee had no good reason to burst her bubble. She changed the subject. “Wade Atkins invited me for dinner.”

“Are you interested?”

“I'm not sure yet. His brothers were awful to me when we were kids. Maybe I'm out to get even.”

“I heard that he told Bailey Jones not to leave town. What do you think that means?”

“I have no idea.”

“Bailey can't possibly be a suspect.”

“The body is fifteen years old. Bailey is twenty-two.”

Libba looked puzzled. “How did you know that?”

Verna Lee wet her lips. “I must have heard it somewhere.”

Tess Hennessey picked up her straw and stirred the melting ice cubes in her lemonade. She was having lunch with her mother at the Lamplighter Restaurant and, although Tracy had been talking without a break for the last five minutes, Tess had no idea where the conversation was going. She sighed. These lunches, with just the two of them, were always too long. How sad, she reflected, to feel so bored and impatient with your own mother. Maybe it was because they had nothing in common. Tracy didn't work, travel made her nervous and some time ago, she'd decided that volunteering was a waste of time. Her life was caught up in Marshy Hope Creek's limited social circle and, therefore, she could only discuss topics in which Tess hadn't the slightest interest.

“So,” her mother finished, “what do you think?”

“About what?”

“You haven't heard a single word I've said.”

“That isn't true,” protested Tess. “But—” she leaned forward clasping her hands together “—have you ever thought that maybe you're wasting your life?”

Tracy's delicate skin flushed an angry red. “Thank you very much for your wonderful opinion of me. You and your grandfather certainly know how to destroy a person's confidence.”

“I didn't mean it that way,” Tess began, and then stopped, realizing that she really did.

“Apology accepted.”

“I didn't mean to apologize exactly.”

“Wonderful.” Tracy's voice dripped with sarcasm.

Tess searched for the right words. “You're still young and you're really smart. I think you could do much better. You can't possibly be happy doing what you do all day.”

Tracy's laughter was bitter. “What has happiness got to do with anything?”

“Haven't you ever wanted a career?”

“No,” her mother snapped. “I wasn't raised to have a career. I was supposed to get married, have children and support my husband's career. That's all I know.”

Tess studied her mother's pale gray eyes, regular features and smooth blond hair. With a little work, and if she got rid of that sour expression on her face, she'd actually be quite pretty. “If that's so, why didn't you?”

Tracy tapped her manicured nails on the table-top. “Why didn't I what?”

“Why didn't you get married again? There are lots of men who would be thrilled to have someone like you.”

“Name one.”

Tess sighed. “Mama, I don't live here anymore. How would I know anyone's name? I'm speaking in generalities. I bet you don't even date.”

“Your granddad would make my life miserable if someone showed up at the house asking for me.”

“Move out.”

“With what?”

“Don't you have any money of your own?”

“Your granddaddy gives me an allowance.”

“You're forty. How can you take an allowance from your father?”

Tracy looked surprised. “How else would I live?”

“You could get a job.”

“Oh, please. What would you have me do, earn minimum wage frying burgers?”

“What about a receptionist position or maybe even real estate? People can make a nice living in real estate.”

“Tess, this is Marshy Hope Creek. People here have lived in their homes since the Flood.”

“I know there's something you can do. Why not open your own business?”

Her mother stared at her. “What on earth are you talking about? What kind of business do you see me starting up? I can't do anything.”

“You like to read,” Tess suggested. “Why not open a bookstore and invite writers to give readings.”

“Why would authors want to come to Marshy Hope Creek?”

“Because you're selling their books. We aren't all that far from Annapolis and D.C. I know they would come.”

“Where would I get the money?”

“You can borrow against your inheritance. Granddad will give you the money. I know he will.”

“No, he won't, because I'm not asking him. You're not to discuss this with him at all.”

Tess sighed, admitting defeat. “Have it your way. Live and die right here in this town and never try anything new.”

“I'm not you,” her mother said softly. “I don't think of my life as so terrible.”

“I didn't say it was terrible. It's just that you don't seem happy.” Across the table, brown eyes met gray. “What was your mother like?”

Tracy's face softened. “You don't remember your grandmother at all, do you?”

Tess shook her head. “Not really. Sometimes I think I do, but maybe it's because of what you've told me.”

“Things were different when she was alive,” Tracy began. “Your granddad wasn't as obvious.”