“When was this?”
“Back in the eighties,” Conley said. “But it might as well be today, because my sister insists it’s still not a story.”
“She’s worried about pissing off the family? Or losing subscribers?”
“Both of the above. Plus pissing off the few advertisers we have left. According to my grandmother, Grayson has been shopping the paper to sell.”
“Are people actually buying newspapers these days? I thought print journalism was circling the drain.”
“I can’t have this discussion right now. It’s too depressing. Do you think you can help me?”
He let out a prolonged sigh. “Yeah. I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, start with Robinette’s campaign finance disclosure documents. If there’s something fishy with his financials, that’s the place to start.”
She smacked her own forehead. “Duh! Oh my God. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“You would have, eventually. I’ll call you back when I know something.”
20
When her cell phone rang, Conley didn’t recognize the number, but since it was a local area code, she answered anyway.
“Conley? Hey. It’s Winnie.” The housekeeper’s voice sounded strained.
“What’s wrong?” Conley asked.
“I think you need to get out here,” Winnie said. “Your grandmother took a fall a little while ago. She’d been out working in the garden, and I hollered at her to come on in the house and get out of that heat, but when she came inside, she was acting kind of funny. Her words were blurry, and her face was white as a ghost. She walked in the kitchen and just fell out.”
“Oh my God. Is she conscious? Do you need to call an ambulance?”
“I wanted to,” Winnie said. “I got a cold dishcloth and put it on her face and helped her sit up, and she come back around after a minute or two, and the first words out of her mouth were, ‘Don’t you dare call 911.’”
“Where is she now?” Conley grabbed her backpack, shoved her computer and notebooks inside, and dug out her car keys.
“I cleaned her up and got her into her bed, but she was fighting me the whole way. Said she was fine, just got a little overheated and light-headed is all. I managed to make her eat something and drink some water, and she just now dozed off, so I thought I’d better call you.”
“You did the right thing. I’m on my way,” Conley said. “Keep an eye on her, okay?”
“I’m sitting in a chair right outside her room, and I check in on her every five minutes or two, just to make sure she’s breathing.”
“Did she hit her head again? Do you think she has a concussion? Maybe we should call her doctor.” Conley’s words came out in a jumble as she raced toward the front door. “I don’t remember his name. Wait. It’s on the prescription I picked up from Kelly’s today. I’ll call him.”
“Better not,” Winnie warned. “She will have your hide, and mine too. She made me swear not to tell you, but I figured when you get here, you could just act like you don’t know nothing.”
“Okay, we won’t call yet,” Conley said. “I’ll get there as fast as I can.”
* * *
She ran through red lights, blew through stop signs, with her foot hard on the accelerator as soon as she cleared the square.
This is my fault, she thought. I told Gray I’d watch over G’mama. I promised to take care of her. This is on me. And if she dies, it’s all on me. The loop played endlessly in her head, alternating with prayers to a God she thought she’d long ago discarded.
Granddaddy’s Wagoneer was parked with the rear bumper poking nearly a foot onto the street in front of the Dunes. She pulled the Subaru up next to it and took the stairs to the second floor two at a time, her footsteps slapping against the worn wooden treads.
Winnie was sitting on a kitchen chair parked outside the bunk room that Lorraine had claimed for her bedroom.
“Is she awake?” Conley was out of breath, her heart pounding in her chest.
“Who’s that?” her grandmother called.
Conley forced herself to act calm. She poked her head inside the bunk room door. G’mama was struggling to sit up.
“It’s just me,” Conley said. “How are you?” She stepped inside the room, and Winnie was just a step behind.
“Winnie called you and told you to come home, didn’t she?” Lorraine glared at her housekeeper, who glared right back.
Her grandmother’s voice was thready, almost wheezy.
“Hell yes, she called me,” Conley said, sinking down onto the bed. “Somebody around here has to show some common sense. She told me you fell. Passed out!”
“It was just a little sinking spell,” G’mama protested. “Nothing for everybody to get themselves all worked up about.”
There were large Band-Aids on her grandmother’s exposed forearms and another on her right cheek.
Conley tapped Lorraine’s sunspotted arm. “What happened here?”
“Just a scratch from the garden,” Lorraine said, swatting her hand away. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“She got cut when she fell,” Winnie said. “Bled so much I thought she was dying.”
Angry blue-black bruises were already blossoming on both of Lorraine’s arms. “I suppose I tried to catch myself when I had that sinking spell.” She held out her arms to survey the damage herself. “This old skin of mine is like tissue paper,” she complained. “If I as much as brush up against something, this happens.”
“What did you have to eat today?” Conley demanded.
“I ate like a fat old pig,” Lorraine said. “I had breakfast—”
“Black coffee and a piece of leftover pecan pie,” Winnie volunteered, poking her head around Conley. “I told her she can’t eat like that, but she never pays attention to what I say.”
“You just mind your own business,” Lorraine snapped. “I’m a grown woman, and I can eat whatever I like.”
“No. You can’t,” Conley said. “According to Gray, your doctor says you’re prediabetic. You’ve got to limit your carb intake, eat protein, balance your diet, and drink plenty of fluids. Preferably not black coffee. Do you even drink water? Did you take your meds today?”
“And what medical school did you attend, young miss?” Lorraine asked.
“I attended the school of common sense.” Conley pressed her grandmother’s bony hand between her own two hands. “Damn it, G’mama. This isn’t funny. If you don’t start eating right and taking your meds, you’re going to kill yourself, and Gray will blame me. Do you want that on your conscience? Because I don’t. You’re all I’ve got, you know.”
Lorraine studied her granddaughter’s stricken expression. “That’s not quite true,” she said quietly. “You’ve got your sister. And your mother is still alive. She might not be around, but she cares about you. I know she does.”
Conley bit her lip and looked out the bedroom window. It had gotten late while she was in town. The sun was starting its descent toward the horizon. A palmetto frond rasped in the breeze outside, and a small green lizard crept across the window screen. The sun’s rays slanted across the rumpled blue-and-white-striped sheets on the bed and illuminated the network of fine lines on her grandmother’s narrow face.
She looks old, Conley thought. Not indestructible. Aged. Aging. Not yet fragile, but no longer the indomitable force of nature Lorraine DuBignon Conley had always represented.
“If Melinda cares so much, why didn’t she come home when Dad died? Do you even know where she is these days?”
Lorraine turned her head toward the pillow. “I’ll try to do better,” she said finally, avoiding, yet again, any discussion of a topic she disliked. Her voice was muffled. “No more pecan pie for breakfast.”
“We need to get you in to see your doctor,” Conley said, seizing the moment. “And when you go, I’m going to be right there in that room so I can really understand what’s going on with your health.”
“Al
l right,” Lorraine muttered. She managed to raise herself to a sitting position and, to Conley’s amazement, swing her feet over the edge of the bed.
“What are you doing?” Conley protested. “You need to rest.”
“I’ve been resting,” Lorraine said. “It’s nearly suppertime. I’m going to take a nice, cool bath and wash off this garden muck. Then I intend to eat something healthy, as you insisted, and drink some water.” Her voice turned steely. “And then you and I are going to have a talk, young lady.”
“About what?”
“Help me up,” G’mama commanded, holding out her hand. “Bath first. Then we talk.”
* * *
Lorraine allowed Winnie to run her a bath and lay out a clean set of clothing for her before shooing her and Conley away.
“I’m not convinced she doesn’t need to see a doctor,” Conley fretted to Winnie once they were out in the kitchen.
The housekeeper was chopping up the chicken she’d roasted earlier in the day, placing it on a bed of salad greens, then adding thick, deep red slices of tomatoes and hard-boiled eggs.
“Me either. But you heard her. She thinks she’s just fine. Nothing but a sinking spell.”
Winnie shook her head. “Never saw such a stubborn old fool.” She went to the refrigerator and brought out a jar of her homemade buttermilk ranch dressing.
“I’ve got an idea,” Conley said, reaching for her cell phone. “He’s not a doctor, but she loves him, and maybe he can kind of check her out and see if she really does need medical attention. Do we have enough for one more mouth for supper?”
Winnie gave her a look. “Have you ever known me to run out of food?”
* * *
“I was just going to call you,” Skelly said. “I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat today. I know you didn’t mean any harm, asking Mama questions.”
“I shouldn’t have upset her like that,” Conley said. “Sometimes I lose track of boundaries. You were right to rein me in. I’m sorry I went too far.”
“It’s forgotten,” Skelly said. “I was going to call and ask if I could take you out to dinner, to make it up to you.”
“And I was calling you for sort of the same reason. G’mama had another spell today. She’d been out working in the garden in all this heat, and when Winnie finally made her come inside, she passed out cold on the kitchen floor.”
“Good God! Were you there? What did you do?”
“I’m ashamed to say I was still in town, at Felicity Street, working on this damn story,” she admitted. “Winnie managed to get her up and make her eat and drink something. G’mama insists it’s nothing, and she absolutely forbade Winnie to call an ambulance or even to call me.”
“That’s not good, Conley,” Skelly said. “Sounds to me like her blood sugar was out of whack.”
“Had to be. The only thing she had to eat today was a slab of pecan pie and a cup of coffee for breakfast.”
“What can I do?” Skelly asked. “Do you want me to have a talk with her? Try to get her to understand how serious this is?”
“She probably won’t listen to a lecture. But maybe if you just showed up at the Dunes, like at cocktail time, on some kind of a pretext, she’d invite you to stay for supper because she adores you. Is there any way you could do that?”
“If I know your grandmother, she’ll see right through the pretext, but I’m willing to give it a try.”
“Oh, wait. What about Miss June? Can you leave her for that long?”
“She’ll be fine,” Skelly said. “Her favorite cousin comes over to visit on Saturdays to give me a break, and they have movie night. Anita usually sleeps over. What time should I just innocently drop by?”
“As soon as you can get away,” Conley said. “Thanks, Skelly. I owe you one.”
* * *
Winnie had fixed a tray with fruit, cheese, and crackers.
Conley helped herself to a cube of cheddar. “Any idea what G’mama wants to talk to me about? Sounds like I’m fixing to be in the doghouse.”
“It’s this damn Symmes Robinette thing,” Winnie said, sinking onto her favorite step stool. “Your sister called her up, and then I know she got a couple of other calls too. Folks in this town are riled up because they don’t like you asking questions about him. They all think that old man’s shit don’t stink.”
“But you don’t agree?” Conley popped a green grape in her mouth and chewed.
Winnie pressed her lips together tightly. “No, ma’am. I been knowing his kind all my life.” She glanced in the direction of the hallway that led to the bunk room. “He’s the reason my sister didn’t live to see her babies grow up. There’s a whole lot of bodies in the graveyard over in Plattesvile that he’s responsible for, and a lot of other people that are still walking around alive, but messed up inside because of him. Symmes Robinette can rot in hell as far as I’m concerned.”
She wiped her hands on a dish towel and placed the cheese plate on a wicker tray, along with glasses, the ice bucket, and the cocktail pitcher.
Conley was too stunned by Winnie’s outburst to respond at first. “What did Symmes have to do with Nedra’s death? I thought she had cancer.”
“Winnie?” Lorraine stood in the doorway. She was wearing pale lilac cotton slacks, a white blouse with long sleeves that hid the cuts and bruises on her arms, and a silk scarf with a swirly design in blues, pinks, and lavender draped across her narrow shoulders. Her thinning silver hair was still damp from her bath, but combed back and fastened with a silver clasp. She’d applied makeup over the bruise on her cheekbone. She was once again the queen of the Dunes.
“I’ve got the drinks tray all ready,” Winnie said.
“But you’re sticking to water or iced tea, at least until we figure out these sinking spells of yours,” Conley said.
“Ridiculous,” Lorraine said. She turned to the housekeeper. “Winnie, if you don’t mind, Sarah and I have some family matters to discuss.”
“Suits me,” Winnie said, turning on the aqua radio. “Guess I’ll see if I can get me a ball game to listen to.”
21
Lorraine waited until they were in their assigned seats on the porch. Conley poured her grandmother some unsweetened iced tea and served herself a sunsetter.
Suddenly, Lorraine whipped out her obsolete flip phone and brandished it at her granddaughter as though it were a switch and the screened porch was the woodshed.
“Sarah, what on earth have you been up to today?”
Conley took a sip of her cocktail, strictly to bolster her courage. “Who called?”
“The question is, who didn’t? I have been on this phone off and on all afternoon, listening to complaints about you.”
“Grayson called, right? Did she tell you I quit?”
“She said you quit a hot second before she was about to fire you.”
“I told you this wasn’t going to work,” Conley said. “Grayson won’t listen to me. She just wants a puff piece about Symmes Robinette’s death. And I’m not about to put my byline on that kind of cotton candy bullshit.”
“We’ll get to that in a moment. I also heard from Charlie Robinette. He’d worked himself up into quite a lather after your visit.”
“G’mama, I only asked him the questions I’d ask anybody else in the same circumstances.”
“I don’t fault the questions you asked, Sarah. It’s your technique. Or lack thereof. You apparently went charging into the law offices of a man who just lost his father this week. And the first thing you do is tell him you find his father’s death highly suspicious! You tell him you’ve called the sheriff and the funeral home, asking them all kinds of inflammatory questions. How did you think he was going to react?”
Conley’s cheeks burned because not only did her grandmother’s criticism sting, it rang true. Seeing Charlie after all these years, so smug and entitled, so dismissive. She hated the word triggered, but that’s how she’d felt. She’d lost her objectivity. Maybe if she’d tried t
o seem sympathetic, even obsequious, she could have lulled Charlie Robinette into giving up the information she was seeking.
“Didn’t you learn anything at all from growing up in this family?” Lorraine pressed. “How many times have I told you that you’ll always catch more flies with honey than vinegar?”
Conley stared out at the Gulf. The bright turquoise shade of the water had deepened, and a light breeze ruffled a stand of sea oats atop the dune line.
“You’re right,” she murmured.
“What’s that? Sit up and speak up, child.”
“I said, ‘You’re right.’ I should have taken my time, buttered Charlie up, and laid it on thick about what a great public servant and war hero his father was. And then asked about the death certificate.”
“At the very least,” Lorraine said. “And you had no business telling him that Kennedy McFall had given you any information about the service or about the lack of a death certificate. You betrayed a confidence from someone whose business depends on discretion. My God, Sarah. That’s Journalism 101, and I never went to journalism school.”
“I guess being married to Pops was like going to journalism grad school,” Conley said.
“Being his granddaughter and being brought up in the newspaper business should have done the same for you,” Lorraine fired back.
“So now what?” Conley asked. “Just have Grayson run Rowena’s piece and be done with it?”
“Don’t be absurd,” her grandmother said. “If there really is a story in Symmes Robinette’s death, I want us to get to the bottom of it.”
“You’re not worried about pissing off his family, alienating the community, and losing subscribers?”
Hello, Summer Page 16