Chesapeake Summer

by Jeanette Baker

  Sheriff Carlisle had the misfortune of walking through the door at the very moment Wade’s temper was uncharacteristically on display.

  “Did you file away those folders I told you about in the back room?”

  Carlisle reddened. “No,” he confessed. “I haven’t had time. I put the tabs on the files and stacked them in boxes in the closet.”

  Wade’s face lit up, his bad mood instantly evaporating. “God bless all procrastinators. Blake, I’m so tickled with you right now, I’d kiss you if you weren’t so damn ugly.”

  Blake grinned. “Whatever I did, I’m grateful. What’s up?”

  “Find the accident report on Amanda Wentworth. I want to see the death certificate and any medical documents.”

  Blake whistled. “Are we closing in?”

  “Could be.”

  “What about the composite?”

  “I’m still waiting on it. A fifteen-year-old murder isn’t the coroner’s highest priority.” Wade stood. “I’ll be out for a while. How long do you think it’ll take?”

  “I’ll have it for you in an hour or so.”

  Wade nodded. “I’m for some lunch. Can I pick up anything for you?”

  “Are you going to Perks?”

  Wade cleared his throat. “I thought I’d try something different today.”

  Blake’s eyebrows lifted. “Why? You won’t get anything better around here.”

  “I’m sure Verna Lee would appreciate the compliment. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Despite his intentions, Wade found himself standing in front of the Perks Welcome sign. He pushed open the door and walked in. Verna Lee was scooping her freshly made chicken salad into a large plastic container. Her hair was twisted up off her neck and held in place with a clip that looked like a giant claw with a chopstick threaded through the middle. She looked up. “It’s a little early for lunch, isn’t it, Wade?”

  He sat down at the empty counter. “That depends on what time a person has breakfast. I skipped mine this morning, so I figure I’m about five hours overdue.”

  Her voice was cool. “What can I get for you?”

  “I’d like some of that chicken salad you’re about to put away, on sourdough bread, toasted. Make one up for Blake, too.”

  She set a glass of iced tea in front of him. “Coming right up.”

  “I won’t keep you in suspense.”

  “What makes you think I’m in it?”

  “Because I know you.”

  She wasn’t smiling. “I don’t think you do.”

  The apology tumbled from his lips. “I’m sorry, Verna Lee. I should have waited for you to tell me in your own time. I have no excuse for what I did.” He frowned. “I don’t even know why I did it, except that you frustrated the hell out of me when you wouldn’t tell me why you came back here.”

  “I did tell you.”

  He shook his head. “I knew there was more to it.”

  “Why was it important to you?”

  “That should be obvious.”

  “Not to me.”

  “I’ve always had a thing for you, even when we were kids. I couldn’t believe you were back here. It was too perfect. I wanted to rule out any red flags. I didn’t want to fall in love with you if—”

  “Stop right there.” Angry color stained her cheeks and chest. “Turn around and walk out of here before I throw something at you.”

  He couldn’t have heard her correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Leave. Now.”

  “Verna Lee, I—”

  “You have some nerve. You had me checked out to see if I was worthy enough to fall in love with?” She pointed to the door. “Get out.”

  Sheriff Carlisle picked up the phone and dialed the number of the physician who had served the population on the right side of Marshy Hope Creek for nearly five decades. His receptionist answered. “Nellie, this is Blake.” He didn’t wait for her reply. “I’m conducting an investigation. If I have to, I’ll get a court order, but in the end the final result will be the same, so do us both a favor and just answer one question without passing it by Doc Balieu.”

  He heard her sigh. “Shame on you, Blake Carlisle. Are you tryin’ to get me fired?”

  Blake grinned. Nellie had worked in the same office for thirty years. “If that happens, I’ll hire you.”

  Another sigh. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

  “I need to verify Tracy Wentworth’s blood type.”

  “Hold on.”

  Blake waited a full three minutes. Finally she returned to the phone. “AB negative.”

  “I owe you. Thanks, Nellie.” The buzz of the dial tone cut off his last word.

  His next call was to Violet Dixon, the late Amanda Wentworth’s sister. “Mrs. Dixon, this is Blake Carlisle of the Marshy Hope Creek Police Department. I’m calling on behalf of Detective Wade Atkins. You’ve spoken with him before.”

  “I remember.”

  “By any chance, do you remember your sister’s blood type?”

  “Of course. It was the same as mine. AB negative.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Completely sure. We were a perfect match. She gave me a kidney and I’m still alive.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dixon.”

  “Call me Violet. What’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you as soon as I’m sure.”

  Wade appeared in the doorway. Blake held up an envelope. “Bingo.”

  Wade took the file and flipped through the papers until he found the coroner’s report. He began to read. On page two, in the center of the page, he found what he was looking for. Carefully, he closed the file and sat down, stroking his chin. It wasn’t conclusive enough for the D.A.’s office, but it might be enough to wangle a confession from Quentin. He had to tread carefully. The judge would demand a lawyer. He needed more evidence, or a witness.

  Wade found Bailey in the Busby garage painting over a recycled canvas. There was neither insulation nor air-conditioning in the temporary studio and it was hot enough to make a pig sweat. The boy’s forehead and throat were beaded with perspiration. Damp patches stained his shirt and the black hair that fell into his eyes separated into spiky wet strands.

  Wade waited until Bailey sensed his presence.

  It didn’t take long. He set his brushes in an aluminum can and turned around. “What’s up, Detective?”

  Wade nodded at the canvas. “I would have thought you could afford new ones.”

  “Old habits die hard.”

  Wade cut to the chase. “I came to talk to you about your father.”

  Bailey’s expression settled into cultivated indifference. “Excuse me?”

  “Quentin Wentworth.”

  “What makes you think Wentworth is my father?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “Liar,” Bailey taunted him.

  Wade thought a minute. “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll tell you what I know and then you return the favor.”

  “You’ll tell me everything?” Bailey was clearly skeptical.

  “Everything I know,” Wade promised.

  “All right. What do you know?”

  “The fifteen-year-old corpse found on your property was a female, approximately sixty years old, five feet four inches tall, blood type AB negative. The coroner’s report on the body of Amanda Wentworth states that her blood type was O positive. Quentin Wentworth’s blood type is O positive. Doc Balieu’s office confirmed it. The hospital lab verified Tracy Wentworth’s blood type. AB negative. An impossibility with an O positive father and mother. Are you with me so far?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I confirmed Mrs. Wentworth’s blood type with her sister. AB negative. Chloe put me onto it.”

  “What else did she tell you?”

  “That you’re worth saving.”

  Bailey was silent.

  “I believe the body found on your land is Mrs. Wentworth. I need more evidence than I have to arrest Quentin Wentworth for the murder of
his wife, if in fact it was murder. I think it was, but I need something to go on, like an eyewitness. My guess is that you’re my witness. I could have the body alleged to be Amanda exhumed, but that’s a whole lot of trouble, not to mention money that the taxpayers of this county don’t need to spend. What’s holding you back, Bailey? Has Quentin threatened you?”

  “I’m not afraid of Quentin Wentworth.”

  “Then tell me why you’re protecting him.”

  “It isn’t that.”

  “What is it?”

  Bailey shrugged and attempted a laugh. “I don’t know. It’s tough to explain.”

  Wade waited.

  “I guess you could call it a misplaced sense of loyalty.”

  Wade ached for Bailey Jones and at the same time he understood completely. The boy was hoping for contrition and acceptance from his biological father. He wanted a fairy-tale ending. Selling out Wentworth would forever prevent it from happening. Wade cleared his throat. “Quentin Wentworth is the meanest son of a bitch in the state of Maryland. His granddaddy was a slaveholder who sold his children. Don’t go looking for anything from him. You’re doomed to disappointment.”

  “What’ll happen to him?”

  “Given his age and his connections, probably a slap on the wrist.”

  “I was seven years old.”

  “That’ll help him, too.”

  Bailey drew a long, deep breath. “Sit down, Detective. This’ll take a while.”

  It was twilight by the time Wade called Blake to give him the heads-up. He pulled out of the Busby house driveway, heading west toward the bay and the palatial home of the Cove’s first family. The harsh light of a summer afternoon had thinned out, dusting the trees, the roads and the marshlands with a fine coppery glow. It was his favorite time. The mind-numbing heat of late afternoon was gone. Breezes swept across the marshes. The workday was over. It was a time for pretzels and beer on the porch, for soft jazz and bluegrass, for low laughter and hand-cranked ice cream, for long walks and slow, deep kisses and the magic of fireflies dancing just out of reach.

  Keeping the air-conditioning turned up, Wade rolled down the front windows and increased his speed, basking in the contrast of damp heat against his face and icy Freon swirling around his legs. He gave himself permission to ignore the speed limit. Here on this side of the Cove he was the law.

  Wade had seen his share of crime. Not much surprised him, not even the latest development. The truth of the matter was, if you looked at percentages, Marshy Hope Creek was every bit as mired in scandal as the large cities of Baltimore and Annapolis. It just wasn’t as violent and, more importantly, it wasn’t printed for everyone to read. The Island Post was a newspaper run by an editor who held to an old-fashioned sense of protocol and an abhorrence of sensationalism. Out of consideration for the Wentworths, Tess’s accident had been ignored. Wade wondered if the judge’s arrest would put a whole new spin on things.

  Bailey’s story, on the other hand, did surprise him. He wondered why. Not that it mattered, except that Wade liked his questions answered. He had an analytical mind, especially when it came to isolating the problem, weighing his choices, following a particular plan of action, anticipating the outcome. In this case the outcome was hardly satisfying. A seven-year-old boy had kept a secret for fifteen years because he felt he couldn’t trust anyone. Somehow that left Wade feeling raw.

  Blake was already in position. Wade knocked on the door. Quentin opened it immediately. Wade pulled out the handcuffs. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Amanda Wentworth. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. Anything you say—”

  “For God’s sake, Atkins, come inside and put those away,” Quentin said testily.

  “I think you’d better call your lawyer and tell him to meet us at the police station. He can post bail and you’ll be out by morning.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I wouldn’t say anything right now if I were you, Quentin. You can talk all you want after I’ve booked you. You’ll need your attorney.”

  “Do you actually believe I’m going with you?”

  “With all due respect, resisting arrest isn’t gonna help your case.” Wade slipped the cuffs around the judge’s wrists and snapped them shut. “Do you need to tell anyone you’re leaving?”

  Quentin paled. “No.”

  “Let’s go.”

  The ride into town was completed in silence. Blake’s police cruiser followed close behind. At the station Wade led the judge into the back room for pictures and fingerprints.

  “Are you in the least bit interested in what I have to say?” Wentworth asked icily.

  “You’ll get your chance.”

  “I deserve an explanation, Atkins. Goddamn it, I’m a superior court judge. You can’t do this to me without an explanation.”

  Wade nodded. “Fair enough. I guess it wouldn’t put me out all that much, as long as you understand that when I’m finished you’re gonna march down that hallway, call your lawyer and then the sheriff will lock you into your cell until tomorrow. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “All right. It’s like this,” Wade began in the same calm voice he used to order a sandwich and lemonade. “You were having an affair with Lizzie Jones. It went on for a long time, long enough for her to bear you a son, a son you never acknowledged. Bailey’s not too happy about that, by the way. When Amanda found out, she grabbed your gun, followed you to Lizzie’s place and threatened to expose you and kill Lizzie. There was a struggle. You killed Amanda. You dumped her body and further complicated the crime by arranging an accident where an innocent victim burned to death so you could pretend she was your wife.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “What is?”

  “All of it.”

  “Have it your way.” He took his arm. “Let’s take a walk.”

  “Where is your evidence?” Wentworth demanded. “It’s my word against Bailey’s. He was a child. No one will believe him.”

  “The body found in the swamp is Amanda’s. The woman you claimed was your wife had the wrong blood type. It’s in the lab report. That’s all the evidence I need to exhume the body. We know a little more about DNA than we did fifteen years ago.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  Wade waited.

  Quentin exhaled slowly. “I’m no murderer. Amanda’s death was an accident. The gun went off while we struggled. Bailey will tell you that. I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Mighty convenient if you ask me.”

  “Maybe so,” Wentworth conceded, “but it’s the truth.”

  Wade sighed. “Quentin, are you making a full confession?”

  The judge sat down on a bench and dropped his head into his hands. “Yes.”

  “I’ll bring Carlisle in here as a witness when we’re finished. Meanwhile, speak slowly. I’m no stenographer.” Wade flipped open the laptop on his desk. “Tell me what happened.”

  “It went just like you said, at first. After the gun went off, Amanda died. I buried her in the swamp and brought her car home. At first I didn’t know how to explain her disappearance. Then I remembered the county morgue. Deputy Grimes found a Jane Doe for me. He bribed a pathologist. I put the body in the car, drove it out to Highway 39 and set fire to it.”

  “Silas Grimes went to Florida.”

  “He wanted an early retirement and a condo on the beach. It wasn’t difficult to get Silas to change a few of the facts. It wasn’t as if anyone was out looking for a crime. The questions were few and far between. The only one who was skeptical was Amanda’s sister. Violet claimed that Amanda hadn’t told her she was planning a visit. I explained that Amanda had left the house suddenly because we were having marital troubles. That part was the truth.”

  “What about Lizzie Jones? Why would she keep quiet all those years?”

  “Who would believe her?”

  “And Bailey?”

  “He was a child, six or seven years
old. I don’t remember.”

  “Seven,” Wade snapped. “How did you keep him quiet?”

  Wentworth reddened. “I didn’t have to. He was a child. No one would have listened.”

  “I think you told him more than that.”

  “Oh, all right. I told him it would be my word against his, that if he tried to tell anyone, I’d say he shot Amanda while playing with a gun. I said he’d be taken away and his mother would never see him again.”

  “Not exactly fatherly sentiments, were they, Wentworth?”

  “It was my reputation. My life was on the line. I had Tracy to think of. She was recently divorced. Tess was five.”

  “Interesting,” Wade mused, “how you justify blackmailing your own son to protect your daughter and granddaughter.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “There was always the truth.”

  Wentworth shook his head. “I couldn’t bear the disgrace. Lizzie was a whore. She was beautiful and seductive, but a whore all the same. My credibility would have been destroyed.”

  “Four years ago you sat on the bench when Bailey was accused of murdering his mother. You would have sentenced him, your own flesh and blood.”

  “Yes,” Wentworth admitted.

  “How can you live with yourself?”

  “I had no choice,” he repeated.

  “I don’t see it that way.” Wade pressed the print button on the laptop and handed Quentin the phone. “Call your lawyer.” He raised his voice. “Sheriff?”

  Blake Carlisle walked through the door.

  “Wentworth has just dictated a full confession,” said Wade. “I need you to witness that it wasn’t taken under duress.”

  Carlisle addressed the judge. “Is that right, sir?”

  “I’m not confessing to murder, or even manslaughter,” the judge explained. “Amanda was wildly angry. I believed she followed me to Lizzie’s to shoot the both of us. We struggled. The gun went off. Amanda was hit. My mistake was in trying to hide it. That’s all.”

  “Not quite,” Wade cut in. “You bribed public officials and falsified documents.”

  “It’s still not murder. I didn’t kill anyone.”