Chesapeake Summer (19 page)

“We're outsiders, both of us.”

Tess wondered whether Chloe would tell her the same thing. “I'd like to know you better, Bailey.”

She watched the skin tighten across the bladed bones of his cheeks.

“I don't think that's a good idea,” he said slowly. “Your mother wouldn't approve.”

“I'm over eighteen.”

Bailey sighed. “Look, Tess. I don't want you to be in trouble with your family.”

“I'm not asking you to move into the extra bedroom. I'm talking about an e-mail now and then.”

He studied her face, the trembling chin and hopeful brown eyes. “I guess that wouldn't hurt.”

Her relief was obvious. She stood up quickly, before he could change his mind. “That's settled. I'll see you around.”

He walked her to the door. “This isn't a promise you have to keep, Tess. Things may get a little uncomfortable around here before they get better. I won't hold it against you if you side with your grandfather.”

She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm warning you, that's all.”

She was thinking about his words when the only light in town turned red just as she entered the intersection. Eighty-year-old Agnes Hobbs, driving her 1976 Oldsmobile, caught the tail end of Tess's sporty Mazda coupe in a direct hit so hard that it spun the tiny car around three times before it turned over.

O
nce again, Bailey was interrupted. This time it was Detective Atkins.

He blocked the doorway with his body. “You got a warrant?”

Wade rubbed his jaw. “Don't make this difficult.”

“I'm busy right now.”

“This won't take long.”

Bailey opened his mouth to refuse and changed his mind. “You're not going away, are you?”

“No.”

“Do I need my lawyer?”

“That depends on what you tell me.”

“Are you reading me my rights?”

“You're not on my list of murder suspects, if that's what you're asking.”

Bailey grinned. “Then I won't call him.”

Wade followed Bailey into the house, glancing at the brightly colored figures covering the walls. “Nice work.”

Bailey raised a skeptical eyebrow. “No offense, but would you know nice work if you saw it?”

“Can't say that I would.”

Bailey stopped suddenly and turned, looking Wade up and down. “You're all right here, aren't you, no hidden depths or mixed messages?”

“No one's ever called me deep, if that's what you mean.”

Bailey laughed. “Want a beer?”

“Some other time. I'm on duty.”

“Suit yourself.” Bailey waved his hand. “Sit down.” He picked up his brush. “You don't mind if I finish up, do you?”

“Not at all.” Wade chose a deep comfortable leather chair. “I need to know why you're so set on developing your mother's land.”

“Money,” Bailey replied immediately. He added a bit of white to the wall and a woman's head scarf took shape. “And it's my land.”

“I was outside during the town-hall meeting the other night. I overheard your conversation with Tracy Wentworth. You don't need money.”

“There's no love lost between the Wentworths and me.”

“Care to tell me why?”

“Not particularly.”

Wade persisted. “She accused you of wanting revenge.”

“Really?” He stood back, frowned and changed the shape of an elbow. “I don't remember.”

“What did Wentworth do to you?”

Bailey changed tactics, set his brush aside, pulled up a chair and sat down across from Wade. “Why do you want to know?”

The detective surprised him with his bluntness. “I have a gut feeling it has something to do with the body found on your land. There's a missing piece and it bothers me.”

“How do you know it isn't some old bum who got confused out there in the marsh and couldn't find his way out?”

Wade chuckled. “I thought by now everybody'd heard our victim isn't an old bum. Don't confuse my lack of depth with stupidity. This is a homicide. Besides, Chloe Richards gave me a heads-up. She's worried about you.”

Bailey's eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“There's a girl out there who thinks you need a friend,” Wade replied evenly.

“And you're volunteering?”

“You could do worse.”

The sound of a police siren grew progressively louder. Wade frowned and stood. “You think about what I told you. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

He reached the intersection at the same time the medics were lifting Tess Hennessey into the ambulance. Red shards of metal and glass littered the street, the smell of burning rubber permeated the air and a mangled, unrecognizable shape that Wade assumed was once Tess's Mazda lay on its side while smoke spewed from the engine. Agnes Hobbs's heavy American sedan appeared unscathed. A crowd of curious citizens had collected on all four corners. Sheriff Carlisle was attempting to gather information.

Assessing the situation in a single sweeping glance, Wade pulled up next to the medic who was climbing into the ambulance. “How bad is she?”

“Concussion and internal bleeding. She's losing blood fast. We're on our way to County General in Salisbury.”

Wade backed up, negotiated a three-corner turn, stuck his head out the window and addressed his deputy. “Need any help?”

Carlisle looked up. “We've got plenty of witnesses. The Mazda ran a red. I'd appreciate it if you'd notify the family. I'll meet you at the hospital.”

He nodded. “Carry on. I'm headed for the Wentworths' and then County General.”

Agnes Hobbs's stricken face smote him. He called out reassuringly, “Don't you worry, ma'am. Everything'll be fine.”

“That poor little girl,” she said brokenly. “Pray for her. Pray for her family.”

“I surely will.”

It was a harder promise to keep than it should have been. Quentin Wentworth was a sorry excuse for a human being, although Wade allowed that the thoughts of a man trained as a prosecutor would automatically turn toward negligence and the possibility of a lawsuit, even if it was his granddaughter who was at fault.

Tracy's sentiments were predictable. After her initial hysteria, she accepted Wade's offer of a ride to the hospital. “Stay here,” she ordered her father. “Call Russ and tell him to meet us there.”

Tracy was silent in the car. Wade dropped her off at the Emergency entrance, pulled into a reserved parking space and followed her inside.

Libba Jane and Chloe sat beside each other in the waiting room. Both women looked up when he approached.

“How is she?” he asked.

Chloe's eyes brimmed with tears. “Not good.”

Libba squeezed her hand. “We don't know yet. The doctor is talking to Russ and Tracy now.”

Wade nodded. “Mind if I sit with you?”

Libba Jane looked surprised. “If you like. I'm not sure how long they'll be.”

Wade picked up a magazine and settled in to wait for Carlisle. As it turned out, it wasn't long. Blake hurried in, the lines of his face deep and serious. He took a seat beside Wade.

“Why are we here?” asked Wade under his breath.

“Be patient. I think I'm onto something.”

Russ, white-lipped and silent, came toward them through the double doors leading to the intensive-care unit.

Libba Jane rose and walked into his arms. They closed tightly around her. Together they stood, locked in a private, intimate world of pain.

Wade smiled reassuringly at Chloe. “Where's your baby sister?”

“Granddad has her.” Her eyes were on her mother and stepfather. “Tell me what's going on,” she pleaded.

Slowly they parted. Russ drew a deep breath. “She has a concussion and she's still unconscious. Her liver was lacerated.”

Chloe's lip trembled. “Is she going to make it?”

“It's bad,” Russ replied grimly. “It means surgery.”

“Can we help, donate blood, or something?”

Libba's eyes were on her husband's face. He glanced at her and then looked away as if an unspoken message had passed between them.

“Russ?” Chloe started to cry. “I want to do something.”

He stepped forward and took his stepdaughter into his arms. “I know you do, sweetheart. Tess has a rare blood type. There isn't anything any of us can do except wait for the doctors to tell us what happens next.”

“What is Tess's blood type?” Chloe asked.

Russ's response was terse. “AB negative.”

Wade heard Blake's quick intake of breath. He saw Libba's shoulders drop and the brief, sudden closing of her eyelids.

Chloe's face was a white mask, stoic, damp with tear tracks.

Wade looked from mother to daughter and then at Blake. What in the hell was going on here?
AB negative. AB negative.
It meant something. He stood. “If there's anything I can do—” He left the sentence open.

Russ lifted Chloe's chin. “I want you to go home with Sheriff Carlisle. Gina's too much for your granddad. Get some rest and come back in the morning. Your mother and I should know something by then.”

On the way to the car, Chloe was silent. Wade glanced at her. She was a dignified little thing, classy, like her mother and her aunt.

Blake touched her arm. “It's tough, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“She's young and healthy, Chloe. More than likely she'll pull through.”

“She's got a few things going against her.”

Blake nodded. “Her blood type?”

“Yes.”

Wade tried to reassure her. “It's just a technicality. Her mother has the same blood type, even if Russ doesn't.”

“AB negative is very rare,” Chloe explained. “Less than one-half of one percent of the population has it.”

“I'm no biologist,” replied Wade, “but even I know that you have to have the same blood type as one of your parents.”

Chloe turned her cat-blue eyes on him. “Actually, you don't, not if your blood type is AB. You can have an A mother and a B father or the other way around. You can also inherit the AB type from just one parent. It's the negative thing that's difficult. You can't be negative unless one or both parents are.”

They reached the police cruiser. Blake opened the door and Chloe climbed inside. He closed it and turned to Wade. “The judge donates regularly when the blood bank comes through. He considers it a point of honor. He's O positive. Nice and normal.”

“What's on your mind, Carlisle?”

Blake raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Like you said, you have to have the same blood type as one of your parents.”

For a minute Wade continued to struggle for understanding. Then his wires connected. “Son of a bitch.”

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

Wade's jaw tightened. All at once everything became completely clear. “The pathology report on the body. The woman's blood type was AB negative.”

“We can exhume Amanda Wentworth.”

“That would be a last resort. I don't think we'll have to.”

Q
uentin Wentworth stood in his library holding back a corner of the curtain to look out the window. He saw the black-haired boy drive up in his silver sports car and knew a moment of fear, nothing compared to the emotion he'd experienced when the sheriff came to tell Tracy about Tess, but fear all the same.

Bailey Jones was bad news. Quentin had had a feeling about the boy ever since Lizzie told him she was pregnant. Before Lizzie, he'd kept his women in Salisbury or Annapolis, still conveniently located, but always outside Marshy Hope Creek where he was well known.

Looking back, Quentin couldn't remember what it was that attracted him to Lizzie Jones. Normally he preferred fair women. Lizzie's eyes and hair were black as sin. Some said she had Indian blood. He hadn't cared about that. She was beautiful and exotic and more important, completely uninhibited. Her legs were long and her breasts—he stopped himself. It was pointless to go down that road again. They had finished with each other years before she died, except for the boy. No one would have suspected anything if it weren't for the boy.

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 recognized 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.”