“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Robinette,” Conley said, seating herself on the other end of the sofa. “But I’m actually glad you dropped by, because I was going to call you today. I’m working on a story about your husband’s death—”
“So my son tells me,” Vanessa said. “He said you ambushed him at the law firm and that you’ve been asking a lot of intrusive and embarrassing questions around town. I thought I’d just drop by today and get some things straight.”
“Intrusive?” Conley blinked. “The questions I was asking were pretty straightforward.”
“Hounding Charlie about the cause of his father’s death? Dear God! We haven’t even buried Symmes yet. Don’t you people have any sense of decency?”
“As I said, you and your family have my condolences. But your husband was a highly visible public figure in this community. And his death, and the circumstances surrounding it, are news. I merely asked Charlie if the medical examiner had determined the cause of death.”
“He burned to death in his car!” Vanessa snapped. “The sheriff over in Bronson tells me you were a witness to the accident. What part of this don’t you understand?”
“As you said, I was there. I didn’t witness the accident, but I must have arrived shortly afterward. So I don’t understand a one-car accident at three in the morning on a clear, cloudless night,” Conley said quietly.
Vanessa turned her engagement ring so that the stone was facing the palm of her hand. “He’s been very ill.” Her large brown eyes filled with tears. “We thought we’d have more time together. Time to plan things out. He was diagnosed in September. The doctors were cautiously optimistic.”
“What kind of illness?” Conley asked.
“Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.” She twisted the ring around and around.
“You never made his condition public?”
Her head snapped up. “Why would we do that? This was a private family matter.”
“Because he was an elected member of Congress? Don’t the voters here in the district have a right to know—”
“No. They don’t,” she said flatly. “Symmes was treated at Walter Reed and got right back to work. He never missed an important vote or committee meeting. Even with the chemo. It was brutal, but he was determined to keep going. Most men his age would have given up, but most men weren’t like my husband.”
Conley thought back to the previous week. “Isn’t the House currently in session?”
Vanessa glared at her. “He had business back here. Look. I’ve tried to be helpful, because after all, this was Symmes’s hometown paper, but I won’t continue to be treated in this unprofessional, disrespectful manner.”
For a moment, Conley felt like a preschooler who’d just been given a demerit for biting or hair pulling.
Vanessa stood up and smoothed the fabric of her slacks. “I’d hoped that if we chatted in person, you’d understand the enormity of my husband’s legacy to this community. All the things he achieved. The VA clinic, highway improvements, his work on elder abuse…”
“Of course I’ll be writing about all that,” Conley said.
“Symmes did so much good for the people here,” Vanessa said, tearing up again. “You have no idea of his commitment. He had a brilliant legal career before he was asked to run. He could have gone into practice anywhere—in New York, or Miami, or LA. Instead, he chose to go to Washington, to fight for his people back home.”
“You met while you were working as an aide in his office, is that right?” Conley asked.
“That’s right. I was young and just starting out. Symmes was so kind and generous. He was always one to encourage young people.”
“And he was married at the time, right?”
Vanessa’s tears vanished. “Technically, yes. If you can call what they had a marriage. It had been over for years. His alleged wife wouldn’t step foot in D.C. He was lonely and so unhappy. He’d been asking for a divorce for years, but she refused because she liked the prestige of being married to a congressman, that’s all. It was always about the money with her. He made her a very generous settlement offer because of the children.”
“And also because you were pregnant?” Conley asked.
“We’ve never made a secret of that,” Vanessa said. Her voice was calm, but her cheeks flared red. “This isn’t the Victorian era. Most people didn’t give it a second thought.” She headed for the door. “I really have to go. There are arrangements to be made. My husband’s service in D.C. is tomorrow.”
“One more question, please.” Conley followed her to the door. “The obituary that you submitted through the funeral home? There was no mention in the list of survivors of your husband’s ex-wife or their two children.”
Vanessa raised her chin. “Damn straight I left them out. They weren’t mentioned because they weren’t a part of Symmes’s life. You know what? I don’t even know their names. I doubt my husband could remember them either. That’s how estranged he was from all of them.”
“And yet,” Conley said, “he deeded over the title to Oak Springs to Toddie the week before he died.”
Vanessa had her hand on the door but stopped and turned to stare at Conley. “What did you just say?”
“I said he deeded over the title to a farmhouse and eight hundred acres of land in Bronson County to his first wife, Emma Todd Sanderson—that would be Toddie, right?”
“That’s not possible,” Vanessa said, shaking her head. “He’s allowed her to live there for years now, rent-free, out of the goodness of his heart, but he would never deed that property to her. I don’t know what that woman has told you, but it’s impossible. Symmes would never have done something like that.”
“Toddie refused to discuss it with me. I found the notice of deed transfer in the county tax records,” Conley said. “For the sum of one dollar and other considerations.”
“If he did do something like that—and I’m not saying he did—it was the chemo. He hadn’t been himself lately. That’s why he was home, because I wanted him to get some rest. But he was confused and disoriented. Chemo brain, the doctors called it. He’d get up in the middle of the night and just drive around for hours. It was terrifying.”
“Do you think that’s what happened the night he died?” Conley asked.
Vanessa shook her head violently like a mule shaking off a pesky fly. “If you have any more questions, I suggest you call my lawyer.” Her eyes narrowed. “Charlie tells me there’s some sort of bad blood between the two of you. So if this rag of yours prints one derogatory word about my late husband, I will personally make sure that you come to regret that decision.”
She brushed past Lillian King as she was hurrying through the office, jostling the office manager as she went, causing her to drop a handful of papers. “Excuse me,” Vanessa said with a curt nod.
Conley walked slowly back to her makeshift work space, where she was soon joined by Lillian.
“Seems like Miss Thang there had kind of a bee up her butt,” Lillian said. “Who was she, anyway?”
“That was the widow Robinette,” Conley said grimly. “And I think that’s an accurate description of her current mood.”
Lillian handed her the sheaf of papers she’d managed to retrieve.
“What’s this?” Conley asked.
“Rowena’s latest masterpiece,” Lillian said. “Your sister said I should give it to you for ‘tweaking.’”
“Nooooo,” Conley moaned. “I’ve got my own story to write.”
“I’m just the messenger,” Lillian said. “But wait ’til you see this mess.”
29
HELLO, SUMMER
By Rowena Meigs
Cupid’s quiver must be mighty empty this week, as your correspondent received notices of no fewer than three recent engagements! Regrettably, we will not be announcing these upcoming nuptials, due to the fact that the brides-to-be have been living with their intendeds without benefit of clergy for several months now. Your correspondent realizes that t
his is an increasing fact of modern life, but we do not intend to publicize or sanctify such arrangements.
We are, however, delighted to announce that one of Silver Bay’s most talented young students, LizaJane Hooper, recently won second place in the United Daughters of the Confederacy speech contest. This year’s topic was “Democracy: What It Means to Me.” LizaJane is a rising junior at Griffin County High School and the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Stephens Hooper. LizaJane’s maternal grandmother, Arthureen Gresham, is vice president of the North Florida chapter of the UDC. LizaJane’s prize was a dozen roses from Francine’s Florals and a gold-tone UDC medal.
What a delightful time was had by all at the elegant soirée hosted by the children of Harkness and Jinxy Westphail in honor of the blessed couple’s fiftieth wedding anniversary. Golden and silver centerpieces of mixed mums and daisies decorated each table, and guests feasted on fried shrimp, fried catfish, hushpuppies, coleslaw, and a specially prepared wedding cake with a cake topper bearing an uncanny likeness of the honorees, crafted from Rice Krispies and colored frosting by talented granddaughter Sonia Castleberry, who also decorates cakes at the Silver Bay Bakery.
A late note: Silver Bay was deeply saddened by the tragic death this week of longtime congressman Symmes Robinette. Your correspondent will have all the news of the funeral in next week’s column. In the meantime, deepest condolences to the family.
Conley glanced down at Rowena’s copy. “I can’t,” she said, tossing the papers onto her desktop. “I haven’t had enough coffee yet to tackle this.”
“Take it from me. There isn’t enough coffee in Colombia to make sense of Rowena Meigs,” Lillian said. “But your sister was real specific that this needs to get done today.”
“I’ll rewrite it when I get back,” Conley said, heading for the door.
“Back from where?”
“Scene of the crime,” Conley replied.
* * *
She’d intended to make another visit to Bronson County sheriff Merle Goggins, but she slowed down as she approached the accident site on the county road where Symmes Robinette had died. Traffic was heavier this time of day, and with a pickup truck close on her rear bumper, she pulled onto the shoulder of the road about a hundred yards from the spot, spying, for the first time, a break in the barbed wire pasture fencing and a narrow dirt road that led through the field.
Conley parked the Subaru just inside the entrance to the dirt road, got out, and walked over to the crash site. The scorched pavement, still littered with bits of red taillights and shattered glass, made her stomach clench just as it had the previous week.
It apparently hadn’t rained lately in this part of the county. She saw several sets of heavy tire-tread marks crisscrossing in the hard-packed dirt and weeds along the shoulder. Probably from all the rescue vehicles that had responded to the 911 call, she thought. When she saw a break in the traffic, she darted across the two-lane road. The grassy weeds here were more matted down, with heavier tire imprints. The shoulder was strewn with cigarette butts and empty plastic water bottles, more evidence of the rescue crews who’d battled the car fire.
She crossed back to where she’d parked the Subaru and leaned against the rear bumper, swatting at mosquitoes and watching cars and trucks whiz by as she wondered exactly why she was drawn, yet again, to this macabre scene.
Her musings were interrupted by the putt-putting of a motor. As she turned, she saw a dust-covered, olive-green four-wheel Ranger vehicle like the ones used by local hunters approaching. But this one was driven by a woman, with a large dog riding shotgun in the seat beside her.
“Can I help you?” the woman called as she drew nearer. Conley saw that the driver was older, in her seventies maybe, with steel-gray hair topped with a white sun visor.
“Oh, uh, no. I’m okay,” Conley said when the ATV stopped a few feet away.
“You’re parked on my property,” the woman said pointedly. “Having some kind of car troubles, are you?”
Up close like this, Conley saw that the dog looked to be some kind of hound mix. He had large, floppy ears, a grayed muzzle, and big, droopy brown eyes filmed with cataracts.
“Oh no. My car is fine.” Conley found herself unaccountably flustered. “I’m, uh, a reporter, and I’m just trying to figure out what happened here last week.”
“The night that poor man burned to death?” Her blue-gray eyes traveled to the scorch marks on the pavement. “That was an awful thing.”
“It was,” Conley agreed. “If this is your property, do you live around here?”
The woman waved in the general direction of the fields behind her. “Right back there. How about you? What kind of news outfit do you work for?”
“I’m a reporter for The Silver Bay Beacon. My name is Conley Hawkins.”
The woman tilted her head and studied her. “Kin to Chet Hawkins, are you?”
Conley slid easily into the Southern speech patterns she’d lost during her years in the city. “Yes, ma’am. He was my daddy.”
“Well, your daddy was a nice man. When my husband was alive, we did business with your daddy’s bank. He was always square with us.”
Conley knew this about her father, but it was nice to hear from a stranger. Her father valued being square. He’d always talked about and tried to exhibit qualities like integrity and honesty and loyalty. These weren’t just words for a DAR speech contest for Chet Hawkins. She liked to think maybe those qualities were ones she’d inherited, along with her great-grandmother’s aquamarine ring and a box of tarnished sterling silver flatware that she’d left behind in a rented storage unit in Atlanta.
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said now. “About last week. Did you see or hear anything that night?” She slapped at a mosquito that had landed on her forearm.
“It’s blazing hot out here,” the woman said. “Why don’t you come on up to the house, and we’ll talk. Might as well leave your car here.”
The woman patted the dog on the rump. “Scoot over, Sport. We got company.”
The dog opened one eye, gave a baleful sigh, and slid onto the floor of the Ranger.
The field spread out before them with crops that had already grown two feet high in the hot Florida sun.
“Is all this land yours?” Conley asked.
“Yes, but we lease this part to a hunting club. Farther back on the property, we grow peanuts and soybeans. Well, I don’t grow any of it anymore; my sons and I lease it out. Stopped farming after Alton died.” She turned and offered Conley a weather-beaten hand. “I’m Margie Barrett, by the way.”
They drove past a decaying wooden farmhouse with a collapsed front porch and saplings growing through the rusted-out tin roof. Bales of hay were visible in the open doorway.
“That’s the old homeplace,” Margie commented. “Alton and I lived there when we were newlyweds, but after that, I told him I wasn’t bringing my babies home to a house where you could see clean through the floorboards.”
The house would have made a beautifully evocative black-and-white photo, Conley thought as they passed, but she had to agree with Margie’s housing preferences.
The Ranger rumbled along the dirt road, and then they were approaching a tidy concrete-block house. It was painted pale turquoise and had an abbreviated front porch with a pair of rocking chairs and hanging baskets of ferns. A tabby cat scampered away into the yard at the sound of the approaching vehicle. The house stood in a patch of carefully tended green lawn, with beds of red, white and blue annuals.
Margie parked the Ranger and tenderly lifted the old dog and set him on the grass. “Sport’s almost fourteen years old. He doesn’t move around so good anymore. Like me. Come on inside, and I’ll get us a couple of Cokes.”
Conley settled on a sofa in a wood-paneled living room whose walls were dotted with family photos. The furniture was maple, reproduction early American. There was a worn brown vinyl recliner facing a flat-screen television. Sport parked himself on the green shag carpet near her feet
.
“Here we go,” Margie said, handing her a glass. She set a small bowl of water in front of the dog, but he was already dozing.
“About last Thursday morning,” Conley said, easing her notebook out of the pocket of her jeans. “I was asking you if you saw or heard anything?”
Margie reached down and absentmindedly scratched the old dog’s ears. “Sport here is about blind, but his hearing is still pretty sharp. He got me up way after midnight. I’m not sure of the time, but I know I’d fallen asleep in the recliner, watching TV. I took him outside to pee, but after a while, he was pacing and kinda growling and yipping to be let off the leash. I usually keep him leashed outside at night ’cause I’m scared he might hear something and take off running. Blind as he is, and old as I am, I might never find him again.” She chuckled and patted the dog’s head. “We can’t have you getting lost, can we, Sport?”
“Did he hear something?” Conley asked.
Margie nodded. “At first, I thought it was probably just a possum or a raccoon, but then I heard it myself. Voices. Coming from up the road by the highway.”
She pointed to a large picture window that looked out on the field. Conley could just barely see the gleaming metal roof of her car in the distance.
“Folks, especially townsfolk, don’t realize how far voices carry out here in the country. But once I got Sport quieted down, I heard two men’s voices. They were arguing, and it was pretty loud.”
Intrigued, Conley leaned closer, her pen poised over her notebook. “Could you make out what they were saying?”
“Not really, but I could tell from the tone that they were spittin’ mad. After a while, I heard a woman’s voice too. Now I could hear her a little better, because she was screeching. Something like ‘Stop! Just stop it!’ Then the voices got a little lower. Not too long after that, I heard car doors slamming.”
“How many?”
“Two? Three? I’m not really sure. At least two, anyway. Then I heard a car tear off outta there. Peeling rubber, my boys used to call it when they were teenagers.”
Hello, Summer Page 22