Chesapeake Tide

by Jeanette Baker

  “I don’t think—”

  Libby cut her off. “Of course not. Verna Lee, this is Eric.” Then she threw caution to the four winds. “Eric, this is Chloe’s aunt, my mother’s eldest daughter, Verna Lee Fontaine.”

  She had to give him credit. Eric was a better actor than she thought. Not a single eyelash flickered in surprise.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Verna Lee. I always thought Elizabeth was an only child.”

  Verna Lee’s lips tamed up in amusement. “She thought so, too. I imagine I was something of a shock to Libba Jane.”

  Libby laughed. “I’m recovering quickly, and speaking of shock, why don’t we go into the dining room and let everyone know the two of you are here.”

  Verna Lee’s tawny head bent close to Libby’s. “Am I interrupting something?” she whispered.

  Libby shook her head and threw open the door to the dining room. “On the contrary. You’re going to make it all palatable. Look, everyone,” she called out. “Look who I’ve brought.”

  “Dad.” Chloe jumped up, ran to her father and threw her arms around him. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  “Shooting wrapped up sooner than I expected,” he explained. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

  Nola Ruth’s beautiful manners asserted themselves. “Of course not, Eric. We’re happy you and Verna Lee could make it. Please sit down, both of you. Serena will set two more places.”

  “How long are you staying?” Chloe asked her father.

  “I’m not sure yet.” Eric looked at Cole. “I have a few questions for your grandfather. How are you, Mr. Delacourte? It’s been a long time.”

  Cole’s eyes twinkled. “Call me Cole.”

  Chloe frowned. “What kind of questions, Dad?”

  “They can wait until after dinner.” Eric smiled brightly and looked around the table. “So. How is everybody?”

  Nola Ruth’s words were slightly slurred, but her accent was the same, rich and deep and very Southern. “Why, Eric, you still have that lovely smile. How nice of you to ask. We’ve been just fine, haven’t we, Libba Jane?”

  “Yes, Mama.” Libby’s eyes met Verna Lee’s. “We’re all just fine.”

  “Do you have a place to stay, Eric?” asked Cole.

  “I’m staying in Salisbury.”

  “That’s all right, then.” Cole did not volunteer a spare bedroom. “I’ll bring you up-to-date on the case Chloe is involved in after dinner. Meanwhile, I assume you’ve met everyone.”

  Eric’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Libby introduced me to your—” he paused “—your stepdaughter on the way in.”

  Chloe choked. “What did you say?”

  Verna Lee picked up her fork. “He’s talking about me, Chloe,” she said as naturally as if she’d asked someone to pass the salt. “I was adopted as a baby and I’ve been looking for my birth mother for a long time. It turns out she’s your grandmother. Your mother and I are half sisters. I guess that makes me your aunt. I hope you can stand it,” she teased.

  Chloe glowed. “I knew I liked you right from the beginning. It’s probably because we’re related. I could feel it.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Verna Lee hedged. “People don’t always get along with their relatives, but I’m pleased that you’re pleased.”

  Libby released her breath. The revelation that Verna Lee was part of the family had gone much better than expected. The absurdity of her thinking followed immediately. Why wouldn’t it have gone well? The only person unaware of the relationship was Chloe and she was a child of the twenty-first century, where racial boundaries virtually did not exist. Libby discounted Eric completely. His opinion simply didn’t matter.

  “How long are you staying, Eric?” Cole asked.

  “I hadn’t planned on it at all. I want to take Chloe home with me.”

  Cole swallowed the last of his wine. “That’s understandable,” he agreed, “but not practical. Chloe will be called as a witness. You’ll have to bring her back several times between now and the trial date.”

  “When is that?”

  “It’s scheduled for six weeks from tomorrow.”

  Chloe’s indignant voice interrupted. “I’m not going anywhere. Bailey needs me. I’m the only friend he’s got. I can’t go home yet.”

  Eric frowned. “You’ve been telling me you want to come home since you got here.”

  “Things have changed,” said Chloe flatly. “I’m not leaving.”

  A ghost of a smile hovered at the edges of Cole’s mouth. He’d realized long ago that he would learn much more if others did the talking.

  Thirty-One

  The courtroom was filled to capacity. It seemed to Cole that every reporter in the state had shown up, first on his doorstep when the story broke weeks ago and now here. Jury selection had been remarkably quick. He could find no fault with the nine women, three men and two alternates filling the jury box. Apparently, neither could the prosecution. Once again, Quentin Wentworth was presiding. Cole didn’t think Bailey would slide through the cracks as easily as Drusilla Washington had. At least the boy looked presentable. Libba and Chloe had taken him shopping in Salisbury. He wore a severe dark suit with a white shirt and maroon tie. Even his shoes had been shined properly.

  The bailiff called the courtroom to attention. “All rise for the Honorable Quentin Wentworth.”

  The judge strode into the room and took his place at the front of the court. He did not look out over the courtroom but busied himself with the papers in front of him.

  “Please be seated,” droned the bailiff.

  “Mr. Delacourte,” the judge began, “are you ready to present your case?”

  “I am, Your Honor.”

  Wentworth looked over his glasses at the prosecuting attorney. “Are you ready, Miss Cameron?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” the assistant district attorney replied.

  “The prosecution will present opening arguments.”

  Cynthia Cameron, a striking brunette whose leggy beauty was a stigma to rise above in the conservative Tidewater community, leaped to the challenge. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we are gathered here today to right a wrong, to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that this young man, Bailey Jones—” she pointed with her finger “—did coldbloodedly plot and carry out the premeditated murder of his mother, Lizzie Jones, for the purpose of acquiring her considerable estate. On the evening of September 8, Mr. Jones smothered his mother with a pillow as she slept. Her subsequent struggle was to no avail, ladies and gentlemen.” Miss Cameron’s voice dropped dramatically. “Bailey Jones, showing no mercy, held the pillow over her face until her struggles stopped and she was dead.”

  Judge Wentworth nodded at Cole. “Mr. Delacourte, it’s your turn.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Cole rose and looked at the jury box, making eye contact with every juror. He shook his head. “Where is the justice, ladies and gentlemen? Where is the justice that allows a woman to suffer debilitating pain, enough to beg her only son to do her one last favor and put her out of her misery? Where is the justice that sentences an eighteen-year-old boy to watch his mother slowly and painfully die, day after day with no relief? How many of us, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, could watch a loved one suffer and, for months and months, refuse her last request? Bailey Jones loved his mother, so much that he risked his own freedom to bring her peace. I ask you, is that wrong? I hope not. I hope we all are loved to the degree that Lizzie Jones was loved by her only son. God help us, because I can truthfully say, not a one of us, not a single person on either side of Marshyhope Creek, cared as much about Lizzie Jones when she was alive as we now care how she died.

  “The defense will show that Bailey didn’t cause his mother’s death. Lizzie Jones was already dying, consumed by a cancer that began years ago, a cancer that required treatment she couldn’t afford, not unless she gave up the only thing she had of any value, her land. Lizzie had a hard life. We all know that. She didn’t give Bailey m
uch in the way of material things. But she knew he would have the land. That knowledge kept her alive, through unbearable pain, up until the end when she could take no more of it. We will prove, ladies and gentlemen, that Bailey was a devoted son who could no more refuse his dying mother’s last request than he could stop the tide from rising.”

  Two weeks passed before Chloe was called as a witness. Wearing a simple pale blue cotton dress, she looked very young and frightened and wonderfully earnest as she took her seat in the witness box. From across the room, her eyes met her mother’s. Libby swallowed and smiled. Where in the hell was Eric?

  Reassured, Chloe held up her hand and was sworn in.

  Her grandfather approached the box. “Chloe, tell the court how you came to know Bailey Jones.”

  Chloe relaxed. This she could do. “I met him in July when I first moved to Marshyhope Creek. He gave me a ride into town.”

  “And after that?”

  “I ran into the woods after an argument with my mother. He found me and invited me home for dinner. I met his mother. She was blind and very nice. Bailey told me she was sick. He cooked dinner. Then he showed me his paintings. You should see his paintings. They’re beautiful. Then he drove me home.”

  “Can you explain your impression of the relationship between Bailey and his mother?”

  Chloe nodded. “Bailey loved his mom and she loved him.”

  “At any time did you observe anything in Bailey’s behavior that would lead you to believe he could be violent?”

  “No.”

  “Tell the court about your last visit to Bailey’s home.”

  Chloe watched Russ whisper something into her mother’s ear. Libby’s mouth was tight with worry.

  “Bailey came to school that day,” she said.

  “What day, Chloe?”

  “The day it all happened.”

  “Let the record show that the witness refers to September 8.”

  “So recorded.”

  Cole smiled at this granddaughter. “Go on, Chloe.”

  “I knew something was wrong. He looked sad and worried. I didn’t see him any more that day so I went to visit him after school. At first it was really quiet. I thought no one was home, but then I heard something inside the trailer. I called out and Bailey opened the door.” She swallowed and her lip quivered.

  Cole waited. “Take your time, honey.”

  Chloe nodded. “Lizzie was on the bed. At first I thought she was sleeping, but I felt her. She was so cold. I knew she was dead.”

  Libby couldn’t breathe. She fought back brimming tears and clutched Russ’s hand.

  Cole’s voice was very gentle. “What happened then, Chloe?”

  “Bailey cried,” she said to the hushed courtroom. “He fell down on the floor and cried so hard I thought he would be sick. I think he cried for hours. Then we carried Lizzie into his truck and I drove home.”

  “Thank you, Chloe. No more questions.”

  A full minute passed before Judge Wentworth spoke. He cleared his throat. “You may step down for now, Chloe. The court will recess for twenty minutes.”

  Russ brought two cups of coffee back to the table in the cafeteria where Libby waited. She accepted one gratefully. “Thanks.”

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’ll be much better after the day is over. I don’t know why this is so stressful for me. I’m sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about. Your daughter is sitting in front of a room full of people. She’s nervous, and in about fifteen minutes, the prosecuting attorney is going to try to twist her words into something she didn’t mean. It would be strange if you weren’t nervous.”

  Libby groaned. “If only they would have allowed her to come out here with us during the break.” Her eyes flashed. “She was looking around for Eric. Damn him. Why does he always disappoint her?”

  “Easy, Libba. Planes are late and cars break down. Give the guy the benefit of the doubt.”

  She stared at him in astonishment. “Give him the benefit of the doubt? He doesn’t deserve it. He could have flown in yesterday. That’s what parents do. They don’t take chances.”

  She was holding together by the edge of her nerves.

  “Sorry,” he said soothingly. “I stand corrected.”

  “It’s my fault. I didn’t mean to bark at you.”

  He dismissed her apology. “You’ve got a lot on your mind.” He looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s time to go back in.”

  She nodded and opened her mouth to agree, but the words didn’t come. Instead she looked at him, really looked at him. It was as if a screen had rolled back and she could see clearly into the window. She saw a man, reasonable and kind, a man with character and conscience, an adult. And he was here for no other reason than to show support for her and for Chloe. Her heart swelled. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He grinned. “My pleasure.”

  Back in the courtroom, after everyone was settled and the jurors had taken their seats, Chloe was escorted in by the bailiff.

  Judge Wentworth spoke to her. “If you agree to abide by your former oath, we don’t have to swear you in again. Is that all right with you, Chloe? Speak clearly, now.”

  “Yes.”

  Wentworth nodded at the prosecutor. “You may cross-examine, Miss Cameron.”

  Vulturelike in her black suit, Cynthia Cameron swooped down on the girl. “Chloe, you do understand the meaning of premeditated, don’t you?”

  Cole Delacourte rose. “Objection.”

  “Sustained. Please explain the term, Miss Cameron. The witness is sixteen years old.”

  “Certainly, Your Honor.” She turned to look at the jury while she addressed Chloe. “Premeditated means planned ahead of time.” She turned back to the girl. “Did Bailey Jones ever mention that he planned to kill his mother in cold blood?”

  “Objection, Your Honor.”

  “Sustained. Please dispense with the editorials, Miss Cameron.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Chloe, did Bailey talk to you about his mother?”

  “Yes,” answered Chloe.

  “What did he tell you about her?”

  “He said she was sick and they couldn’t afford the medicine.”

  “How did you feel when he told you that?”

  “It didn’t seem right. I asked him if there were any places that would take people who couldn’t afford to pay.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “He said his mother had land, but she wouldn’t sell. She wanted him to have it and only a few places would take people who can’t pay.”

  “Did Bailey ever tell you how much the land is worth?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever see him or hear him express anger toward his mother?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Explain not really.”

  “He was frustrated because she needed help and she wouldn’t sell her land.”

  Cynthia Cameron looked at the ground, her hands clasped in front of her. “What are Bailey’s plans now that his mother is dead?”

  Cole rose. “Objection, Your Honor.”

  “Sustained. Rephrase the question, Counselor.”

  “Very well, Your Honor. Has Bailey ever shared with you what he plans to do now that his mother is gone?”

  Chloe thought a minute. “Bailey wants to be an artist. He wants to leave Marshyhope Creek and go to art school.”

  “He can certainly do that now that nothing’s holding him back, can’t he?”

  “Objection,” Cole called out.

  “Strike that from the record,” the judge ordered. “Miss Cameron, I won’t warn you again.”

  She flashed a contrite smile. “Sorry, Your Honor. No further questions.”

  “You may step down, Chloe,” said the judge.

  Chloe glanced at her grandfather and then walked past her mother and out the double doors. Libby and Russ followed her.

  “Have you seen
Dad?” she asked immediately.

  Libby shook her head. “Obviously he’s been held up.” She changed the subject. “Are you hungry?”

  “No.” She gestured toward the courtroom. “What will happen next?”

  “More witnesses will be called,” Libby explained. “Both lawyers will ask questions and then the jury will decide which side is more credible.”

  “Will Bailey go to jail?” Chloe asked, as if the possibility had only just occurred to her.

  Libby hesitated. Before she could speak, Russ cut in. “I doubt that very much, Chloe. Bailey is eighteen years old. He’s never been in legal trouble before and he’s lived under stressful conditions for a long time. I can’t imagine the jury will see it any differently.”

  “What will happen to him?”

  “I don’t know, honey. We’ll have to wait and see. Maybe someone will step forward and take care of him.”

  “Bailey doesn’t need anyone to take care of him,” Chloe said scornfully.

  “Probably not,” Russ agreed.

  She looked at her mother. “Can he stay with us?”

  Libby worked to conceal her dismay. “Oh, honey. That’s a lot to ask. Your grandmother isn’t well. Granddad has enough to do with all of us.”

  “He won’t be any trouble,” Chloe insisted. “He isn’t any trouble now. I’m going to ask Granddad.”

  “Chloe.” A voice called from down the hall.

  Chloe turned toward the sound and her face lit up. “Dad, I knew you’d come.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said when he’d closed the gap between them. “The traffic was terrible.”

  “In Salisbury?” Libby was incredulous.

  “I came from Richmond,” he explained. “There was construction on the bridge.”

  Libby turned to Russ and attended to the briefest possible of introductions. “Russ, this is Chloe’s father, Eric Richards. Eric, this is Russ Hennessey.”

  Eric nodded pleasantly. Neither one extended a hand.

  “Well, I’m glad you and Chloe didn’t have to go through this alone.” He smiled at his daughter. “How did it go in there?”