“Of course I worry about it. Your sister worries about it too. But that’s Grayson’s job. It’s your job to go out and get the real story. What’s that thing you’re always saying?”
“Turning over rocks and kicking up dirt?”
“I am worried about something else, though,” G’mama said. “Charlie alluded to some kind of bad blood between the two of you. He claims you’re trying to settle an old score because of some silly teenage prank.”
Conley’s face grew hot. “He called it a silly teenage prank?”
“His exact words. I wasn’t even aware you knew him. I’d heard Symmes and Vanessa shipped him off to military school because of some bad behavior on the boy’s part. What kind of prank is he talking about?”
“I don’t want to get into all that,” Conley said. “All you need to know is that Charlie was a pig. When I started asking him questions about Symmes’s death today, he threatened to ‘grind us into dust.’ What’s that tell you about him?”
“It tells me there’s something he’s trying to hide, but it also tells me we need to be absolutely certain any story we print is impeccably sourced and fact-checked.”
“It will be,” Conley said.
Lorraine nibbled on a cracker with a slice of cheese. “What makes you so sure there really is a story here? And I’m not talking about the fact that Symmes fathered a baby by his secretary while he was still married to Toddie. It might be true, but it is no longer noteworthy or germane to his untimely death.”
“Unless it is,” Conley insisted. “Remember how Granddaddy had us all sit down together to watch All the President’s Men, way back when he bought his first VCR?”
“He wanted you children to watch a story about two intrepid reporters bringing down a corrupt president so that you could understand the power and potential of great journalism,” Lorraine said. “I just liked looking at Robert Redford.” She fanned herself and smiled. “I liked him better in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”
“Who didn’t?” Conley said. “I never forgot that scene when the confidential informant meets Bob Woodward in that dark parking garage and tells them to ‘follow the money.’ That’s what I intend to do. Follow the money.”
“What money is that?”
“Symmes Robinette owns a house on Sugar Key, where, from what I’m told, waterfront houses start at two million. His house in D.C. is in Georgetown. I looked it up. The median price of a home there is one-point-six million.”
“Good Lord! I had no idea. How can any of these politicians afford to live like that and maintain a house back in their district?”
“That’s what I want to know. Robinette didn’t come from a wealthy family, right?”
“Not really,” Lorraine said. “Symmes’s mother was widowed when he was quite young, I believe. She worked in the mill, over in Plattesville, and her second husband was a plant manager.”
“Where’s Plattesville?” Conley asked. “I keep hearing about it, but I know I’ve never been there.”
“It’s mostly gone now,” Lorraine said. “But at one time, it was a thriving neighborhood on the west side of Varnedoe. There was a blue jeans factory and a big railroad switchyard. You could ask Winnie about Plattesville. She grew up there. Most of the homes and churches were torn down in the early nineties, after it was condemned by the state due to chemical contamination from the industries there. There were all kinds of lawsuits and accusations about cancer-causing agents in the water.”
“So that’s what Winnie meant when she said Robinette was responsible for Nedra’s death?”
Lorraine looked startled. “When did she tell you that?”
“Just now,” Conley said.
“Winnie almost never talks about Nedra or what happened to her.” Lorraine toyed with the hem of her scarf. “It was a terrible thing. The railroad operated a huge switchyard in her neighborhood. For decades, they stored hundreds of barrels of caustic chemicals there. Eventually, they abandoned the site, but there was a retention pond on the property, and over the years, the chemicals seeped into the soil and leached into the water. Winnie told me there were drainage ditches that wound all through the neighborhood. Winnie and Nedra and the neighborhood children played in that water. Their grandmother grew vegetables in that contaminated soil.”
“And that’s what gave Nedra the cancer?”
“It was so horrible,” G’mama said, shuddering. “Nedra’s husband, Ed, was a no-account drifter. By the time she was thirty, she was raising those three little boys by herself. And then she got sick. I can’t remember the kind of cancer, but it was quite rare. She was having excruciating abdominal pain. By the time she was correctly diagnosed, the cancer was so advanced, there wasn’t much they could do. As it turned out, there were other, similar cancers diagnosed in people who’d grown up around Plattesville and that chemical dump.”
“A cancer cluster,” Conley said.
“There was a young lawyer, a woman who worked for some environmental action organization. Randee something. She heard about the cancer cases, organized the families who’d been affected, and started filing suits against the railroad.”
“Let me guess. Symmes Robinette represented the railroad.”
“Of course,” Lorraine said. “He was already making a name for himself around this part of the state. And he was in the state legislature by then. Politically connected through and through.”
“What happened to the lawsuits?”
“Some of them were settled out of court. Those people were poor, and most of them were poorly educated. Their family members were sick and dying, so it was easy for the railroad to throw a few dollars their way and make them go away.”
“And Nedra’s case?”
“If you think Winnie is stubborn, you should have met Nedra! As sick as she was, she refused to settle, because by then, it was a matter of principle. So Symmes played the long game. He was a master at foot-dragging. Every time the judge would set a date for a hearing, Robinette would claim he had to be in Tallahassee on state business, and the judge, who, I suspect, was one of his cronies, would grant him a continuation. Poor Nedra died before she ever got her day in court.”
“That’s so sad,” Conley said.
“Winnie told me the state came in and paid all the families a nominal amount of money for the homes that they tore down. Nedra was always certain that she’d prevail in court and that her boys would be provided for after her death, but none of that happened.”
“No wonder she hates Robinette,” Conley said.
G’mama craned her neck and looked toward the stairway to make certain the housekeeper wouldn’t overhear the next part of their conversation.
“There was an incident…”
They heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, and Lorraine stopped talking. But when she spotted their visitor, her bruised face was wreathed in a smile.
“Sean Kelly! Oh my goodness. What a nice surprise!”
Sean carried a bouquet of brightly colored zinnias in an old jelly jar in one hand and a bottle of white wine in the other. He put the jelly jar on the table, leaned over, and kissed the cheek that Lorraine offered. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in to make sure Conley delivered your prescription.” He touched the bruise on her cheek. “Have you taken up boxing since I saw you last, Miss Lorraine?”
“Just a silly fall earlier today. I got overheated after working in the garden.” She pointed at a wicker armchair. “Sit down there and fill me in on what’s new in town.”
Sean pulled the chair up closer to his hostess. “Did you hit your head when you fell?”
“Not really. You’ll stay for dinner, of course. I know Winnie has fixed enough to feed the whole town. Why don’t you go back downstairs and tell her you’ll be joining us?”
“She already invited me, and of course I said yes. I never pass up an offer for a home-cooked meal. Miss Lorraine, how were you feeling before you passed out? Did you have a headache? Were you dizzy? Had you
eaten?”
G’mama regarded her granddaughter and Skelly with growing suspicion. “I should have known,” she said angrily. She pointed at Conley. “You put him up to this. You’ve been sneaking around behind my back—”
“It was my idea,” Skelly said hastily. “When Sarah was in the store this morning, we had a disagreement. I called to apologize, and she happened to invite me to dinner. It was all completely innocent, I can assure you.”
“There’s nothing innocent about this girl,” Lorraine said. “She told you about my stupid fall and asked you to come out here and check up on me.”
“You wouldn’t go to the hospital, and you won’t let me call your doctor. I’m worried about you, G’mama,” Conley said. “Do you want me to call Grayson and get her in on this conversation?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Lorraine said coldly. She turned to the pharmacist. “To answer your questions, I very foolishly didn’t eat properly this morning. I was gardening outside in the heat, and I was feeling a little dizzy when I came in, and that’s when I had my spell. No, I don’t have a headache. I know I don’t have any broken bones, because I was able to walk out here, unassisted.”
“No vomiting or funny metallic taste in your mouth?” Skelly asked. “Your eyes aren’t sensitive to light?”
“No and no. Can we talk about something more pleasant now?”
“If you insist,” Skelly said. “The good news is, I don’t think you have a concussion. But you definitely need to see Dr. Holloway and discuss this latest episode with him.”
Lorraine pointed out the window. “Now look what you’ve gone and done, Sean. You almost made me miss the sunset.”
It was true. The sun hovered just slightly above the quivering waters of the Gulf, bathing everything in a coral-tinged light. A string of pelicans soared past, silhouetted in the dying purple light.
Lorraine held up her glass. “Quickly, Sean. Pour yourself a drink. It’s bad luck not to toast at sunset.”
Skelly did as instructed, dropping cubes into a glass and pouring himself a cocktail.
Lorraine clinked her glass against Conley’s and then against his. “Here’s to the light. Here’s to the sunset.”
“Here’s to old friends,” Conley added, touching her glass to Skelly’s.
“And here’s to your health,” he added, tapping Lorraine’s glass.
They all drank, then paused, watching as the last golden glimmer slipped out of sight.
* * *
“How is June?” Lorraine asked as they were finishing up their dinner.
Skelly poured the last of the white wine into Conley’s glass and then his own.
“Physically, she’s fine. I took her to the store, and she recognized Conley right off, although she forgot both Conley’s and my dad are both dead. Then, by tonight, when her favorite cousin, Anita, arrived for their regular Saturday night movie date, Mama didn’t know her. She thought Anita was her own mother.”
“I’m sorry, Sean,” G’mama said. “It must be very hard for you to watch her decline. Your mother was such a smart, vibrant woman.”
“It’s hardest on her,” Skelly said. “She gets so frustrated sometimes. She’ll come into the store and sit behind the counter, and it’s all familiar. Her favorite part of being a pharmacist was compounding drugs for patients. She said it was like cooking. Now she looks at the tools and she can’t remember how they work.”
He put his fork carefully on the side of his plate. “That was the best meal I’ve had in a long, long time. I’m afraid my bachelor cooking leaves a lot to be desired.”
Winnie came in from the kitchen and began clearing the dishes. “You should taste her cooking,” she said, nodding at Lorraine. “Can’t even scramble an egg without burning it.”
“It’s true,” G’mama admitted without rancor. “We’d all starve without Winnie.” She touched her granddaughter’s hand. “The only thing my mother ever fixed was franks and beans on the cook’s night out. But Sarah is quite a good cook, aren’t you?”
“I get by,” Conley said.
“One year, after she’d been to Italy on vacation, she came home and made osso buco. From memory! It was the most marvelous thing I’d ever tasted. And she’s a wonderful baker, aren’t you, Sarah? My goodness, she can make cookies and pies. She used to bake her daddy a chocolate silk pie for his birthday—”
Conley stood up from the table and began gathering the rest of the plates. “Come on, Skelly. Let’s give Winnie a hand.”
“No, no,” Lorraine protested. “I’ll help Winnie. It’s your first Saturday night at the beach. You young people should go have some fun.”
Conley turned to Skelly and rolled her eyes. “Is it my imagination, or is my grandmother trying to set me up with you?”
Skelly grinned. “It might work, if you’d bake me a chocolate silk pie.”
22
Effectively banished from the kitchen, Conley and Skelly stood, uncertain, on the screened porch.
“Where shall we go?” Skelly asked. “Back to the American Legion?”
“God, no!” Conley shuddered at the memory.
“I was kidding. We don’t have to go anywhere if you don’t want to. I mean, your grandmother can’t make us go out on a date.”
“You mean, like your mother made you ask me to the country club teen dance all those years ago?”
“For the last time—”
“I was kidding too,” Conley said, playfully tapping his arm. “I know you said you don’t think G’mama has a concussion, but I think I probably need to stay close to home.”
“How about a walk on the beach, then?”
“Sounds perfect.”
They kicked off their shoes at the dune line and followed the worn path down to the water’s edge.
Skelly waded out until the water lapped at his ankles. “Want to hear something pathetic? I think this is the first time, in at least two years, that I’ve been anywhere near the beach.”
“Since Danielle left?”
“Maybe before that. She hates sand.”
“That’s not pathetic. It’s sad.” Conley waded out to join him. She let her feet sink into the soft sand, feeling the hundreds of tiny coquinas burrowing away from her toes. “You wanna hear pathetic?”
He nodded.
“I came out and went swimming after I moved G’mama in here the other day. And it was the first time I’d set foot in the Gulf since before my dad died.”
“Really? You used to be such a beach bunny. You never came out here all those times you came back to visit over the years?”
“No,” she said simply. “As Grayson reminded me, I’ve been blowing in and out of Silver Bay, in a strictly perfunctory way, for years now.”
“It’s not such a bad place to live,” he said, gazing appreciatively back at the lit-up profile of the Dunes.
They saw the silhouettes of the two older women, Winnie and Lorraine, standing side by side at the kitchen sink, bathed in the soft, yellow light of the kitchen.
“It’s not that it’s a bad place. It’s just not necessarily a good place for me,” Conley said. A wave rolled up, splashing water on the hem of her pants, so she walked back up to the beach.
He followed a moment later, and they walked slowly along the waterline. When a row of huge, close-set houses appeared ahead, she stopped and stared. There were four of them, pale pink stucco, vaguely Moorish revival in appearance, four stories tall, each house bristling with balconies, rotundas, and rooftop cabanas. The turquoise swimming pools behind each house glowed in the gathering dusk, and laughter and music drifted through the air.
“What the hell is that?”
“That, my friend, is Villa Valencia.” Skelly said the name with a pronounced Spanish accent.
“Where did those monstrosities come from? Didn’t the Cooleys used to live there? And your aunt and uncle? Didn’t they own that cute little yellow cottage your family used to stay in every summer?”
“After my au
nt and uncle died, my cousins couldn’t agree on what to do with the cottage, so they sold it. The Cooleys sold out too, and so did the people who owned that squatty little brown concrete-block house.”
“I remember that place. We used to call it the shit house,” Conley said.
“A developer came in, knocked everything down, and built those ‘villas’ in their place.”
“They must cost a small fortune. They’re huge!”
“I’m surprised Miss Lorraine hasn’t complained about them to you. Everybody on the beach has been up in arms about the villas.”
“Because they block out the sunlight?”
“That too. Somehow, the developer got the county to grant a height variance. They’re now the tallest structures on the beach, which means they effectively block the view of the houses across the street from them.”
“That’d piss me off,” Conley said. “Of course, G’mama’s house is big too, but it’s only two stories, raised up off the ground, and it’s been there since the 1920s.”
“It’s not just the view that has people riled up. None of those owners are local. They built those houses as investment properties. Each one has ten bedrooms and ten baths. They’re rented out through Airbnb, which means every weekend, and all week long during tourist season, as many as ten cars descend on each house. Sometimes lots more. People rent them out for frat parties and weddings and corporate functions. Sometimes there’ll be a hundred people or more, spilling out on those patios, partying in the pools ’til dawn, blasting music, clogging the street with illegally parked cars.”
“Ohhhhh,” Conley said.
“The neighbors are righteously pissed,” Skelly said. “To them, it’s like somebody plunked down motels right in the middle of their quiet, quaint little street.”
“And there’s nothing anybody can do about it?”
“The neighborhood association hired a lawyer who complained to the county, and they’ve made noise about trying to get an ordinance passed prohibiting multifamily rental units, or at least putting a moratorium on more of them. But the Villa Valencia homeowners have a lawyer too. You’ll never guess his name.”
Hello, Summer Page 17