Chesapeake Summer by Jeanette Baker Page B

you need the money,” she burst out. “I’ve seen your Web site.” She stopped, biting her lip, conscious of her mistake. He was too quick to miss it.
    â€œMy Web site has an e-mail address.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œSo, why didn’t you write?”
    He had a point. She hadn’t contacted him. But she was two years younger and he’d become an overnight celebrity in the art world. She changed the subject. “Don’t they have fax machines in NewYork?”
    His black eyebrows drew together. “I’m not following you.”
    She explained. “If you hate it here so much, why did you come back? People don’t have to go places anymore. They have e-mail and faxes.”
    â€œI have a few loose ends to tie up before I sign the papers. Besides, I thought I’d look in on Cole. Without him, I’d be in jail.”
    Mollified at the mention of her grandfather, Chloe tried again. “Bailey, those wetlands are priceless. You can’t really mean to sell. Weber builds condominiums.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œWhat about your mother? What would she say if she knew you were thinking of selling?”
    â€œShe’s dead,” he said flatly, “and I’m not thinking of selling, Chloe, I’m definitely selling. All that land didn’t do my mother any good. She died out there in a miserable little trailer without plumbing or running water. She was blind, in terrible pain and she didn’t have enough money to check herself into a hospital, or even pay for a goddamn morphine drip. So don’t get sentimental on me, okay?”
    Chloe’s throat choked up. Poor, pathetic Lizzie Jones, stubbornly loyal to her own sense of morality. “She kept the land for you,” she whispered. “She thought it was important.”
    â€œAnd it paid off. It’s worth millions. I’m cashing it in.”
    Chloe stared at him. “What happened to you, Bailey? When did you get to be such a cynic?”
    â€œWhy don’t we talk about you,” he suggested.
    â€œI have a better idea. Why don’t you let me out right here, just like you did four years ago, and I’ll walk into town on my own.”
    She expected him to argue. The Bailey Jones she remembered would have argued. But this one didn’t. Instead, he jerked the wheel to the right and slammed on the brakes, waiting, while Chloe fumbled with the seat belt clasp, pushed open the door and stood in injured silence while he sped away.

Seven
    S heriff Blake Carlisle leaned back in his chair, as close to the window-mounted air conditioner as possible, and contemplated the clock. Nearly an hour to go before he could reasonably meander down the road to Perks and order his usual ham-and-cheese sandwich with those little-bitty pickles Verna Lee knew he liked.
    Meanwhile, he could copy an accident report the insurance company was waiting on and mail it out, or he could head over to Taft’s Hardware and pick up a new lock for the cell door. Neither was a pressing concern. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d needed to lock the cell and, as for the report, Millie Cooper had backed her 1967 Chevy station wagon into her front window. No one was hurt, her son had fixed the front window, the car wasn’t worth repairing and Millie was ninety-four years old, too old to be driving anyway.
    Maybe he’d eat early today. He liked visiting with Verna Lee before the lunch rush, when she wasn’t too busy to talk. As soon as he heard from his deputy he’d be on his way, shooting the breeze with the locals, checking things out, improving public relations. Blake was big on public relations. He thought of himself as a public servant in the truest sense and he wasn’t shy about reminding whoever would listen.
    The door opened and a blast of hot air shot into the station, heating it up another ten degrees. Agnes Hobbs stuck her permed, blue-tinted head inside the door.