44
Toddie slid the wedding band off her hand and held it up for Conley to see.
“I quit wearing this after my kids were grown. Put it away in my jewelry box. I told myself it was pathetic to hang on to a symbol of a marriage that had been over for decades. But my hand felt so naked without it! It was like my finger had atrophied where the wedding band was. So I put it on again. I wear it now to remind myself that those years mattered. That we had kids and a life together, and she doesn’t get to erase that.”
“Why did Symmes deed over the farm to you? That’s a pretty valuable piece of real estate.”
“I bet it’s driving Vanessa nuts, isn’t it?”
“She didn’t believe me when I asked her about it,” Conley said.
“Too bad, so sad,” Toddie said. “Oak Springs Farm has been in my family for nearly a hundred years. My granddaddy bought it during the Depression, when you couldn’t give away farmland around here. It was our family’s happy place. We’d get together with all the cousins and aunts and uncles there every holiday. But then, in the eighties, my dad had made some bad investments, and my mom got sick and he needed to sell it. I had to beg Symmes to buy it so we could keep it in the family.”
She reached down and pulled a bulging photo album from the grocery bag, flipping pages until she came to a faded photo of a young couple on the porch of a rustic cabin. Toddie’s hair was blond, and she wore a bikini top and cutoff jeans, and she stood on tiptoe, kissing an impossibly young Symmes, who sported sideburns and a wispy mustache, tight blue jeans, and an unbuttoned shirt. She tapped the picture with her fingernail. “That’s the summer we got engaged.”
There were many more photos—Symmes in military fatigues, Toddie and Symmes on their wedding day, Symmes and Toddie smiling into a camera as their young son blew out birthday candles, the family sitting on the edge of the cabin porch, dressed in plaid flannel shirts, Symmes and a preteen boy, posed together on the deck of a boat, holding a stringer of fish. Even one of Symmes being sworn in for his first term of office in the Florida Senate. Toddie tapped the photo with a finger. “I sewed him that suit,” she said. “Sewed the dress I wore that day too.”
“Could I borrow a couple of those photos for my story?” Conley asked. “Maybe the photo of you guys at the farm and the one of you and Symmes the summer of your engagement? I promise I’ll get them back to you.”
“You’d better,” Toddie said, handing over the album. As she did, another photo fluttered out. This one was printed on cheap white copy paper. Toddie held it up for Conley to see.
Symmes Robinette, hollow-eyed and unshaven, was seated on a rocking chair on the cabin porch. He stared into the camera, flanked on either side by his now-grown, middle-aged children. Rebecca sat on a chair pulled up to her father’s, his hand clasped in hers. Hank stood awkwardly on the other side, holding a shotgun.
Toddie let out a long sigh. “That’s the last photo we have of our whole family. The next-to-last one was taken about twenty-eight years ago.”
“Symmes came out to the farm?” Conley asked.
“Yeah.”
“When was this?”
She shrugged. “Maybe a month before the accident? Charlie was acting as the go-between. He called and asked if it would be okay. It was a Sunday morning, and I remember Charlie joked that ‘the warden’ was at some kind of out-of-town function. I assumed Charlie would drive him, but Symmes came alone. He looked like death warmed over.” She stared down at the photo, her palm resting lightly on it.
“It was strange, you know?” Toddie said. “Seeing him like that after so many years. He’d always been larger than life, and that day, he looked so diminished. Thin and sick. But he wanted to tour the farm and see the dogs and the old cabin. Hank drove him around on the ATV. I’d fixed lunch, but he didn’t eat much. He gave Hank that shotgun he’s holding in the picture. It’s some special edition with sterling mounts. Probably cost thousands. Symmes said he felt bad that he hadn’t been there when Hank got his first eight-point buck. He gave Rebecca a little diamond ring that had been his mother’s.”
“And what did he give you?” Conley asked.
“After the kids left, and it was just the two of us, I was kind of teasing, and I said, ‘Your son got a shotgun, and your daughter got a ring. Don’t you have a present for me?’ That’s when he told me that he intended to deed the farm over to me.”
“Were you shocked?”
“Flabbergasted,” Toddie said. “You have to understand, Symmes was never what you would call generous. It’s true he let me and the kids live there rent-free, but I was responsible for the property taxes and the maintenance. It had been a hobby farm when we were married, but after the divorce, I turned it into a working quail-hunting plantation, and Hank and I have worked our butts off making it a success. As soon as the farm started turning a profit, Symmes began charging us rent on the land. For years, I’d been after him to sell it to me, but he never would.” She scowled. “I guess maybe I can thank Vanessa for loosening up the old tightwad. He certainly did well by her, with all the jewelry and clothes, fancy cars, the house in Georgetown, and the oceanfront mansion.”
“Did he say why he was suddenly feeling so generous?” Conley asked.
“It was obvious. He felt guilty.”
There was a light knock, then the office door swung open, and Skelly poked his head inside. “Hate to interrupt, but Toddie, Mama’s aide just brought her over. I told her you’re here, and she really wants to see you.”
“It’s fine. We were just finishing up,” Conley said. “Thanks, Toddie.”
“Don’t forget to get those pictures back to me,” the older woman said as she hurried out through the stockroom.
Skelly lingered while Conley stood and stowed the photos in her backpack.
“Well?” He raised a questioning eyebrow. “Did you get what you need for your story?”
“More than enough. Toddie was amazingly frank. I have to admire her. Symmes Robinette walked off and left her with two teenagers to raise, for a woman twenty years younger. Typical of that time, he had all the money, so he had all the power when it came time for the settlement. And yet, she managed to take care of business despite all that.”
“Toddie Robinette was no shrinking Southern belle,” Skelly agreed. “She could be tough as nails when she had to be.”
Conley patted her backpack. “With the quotes I got and the old family photos, I’ve got stuff now that no other reporter has access to. She was a gold mine. Thanks again, Skelly.”
He shrugged. “It was her idea.” He turned to go, but she reached out and touched his wrist.
“Skelly? I hate this.”
“What?”
“This! This awkwardness. I wish we could just go back to the way things were before.”
“You mean before the other night, when we were on the beach, and you couldn’t keep your hands off me, and we had a great time, then you announced you were already over me?”
Stung, she took a step backward. “I never said I was over you.”
“You could have fooled me,” he said.
45
By Conley Hawkins—special to The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Silver Bay, Florida—The life of the honorable U.S. Rep. C. Symmes Robinette, seventy-seven, may have ended in a fiery one-car crash in the early-morning hours of last week, but his mysterious death has ignited a smoldering hometown soap opera that seems equal parts Dynasty and Dallas.
Within days of the accident, which is still under investigation, Robinette’s widow, a fifty-six-year-old former congressional aide, whom he met and impregnated 34 years ago while still married to his first wife, and their son and namesake, thirty-four-year-old C. Symmes “Charlie” Robinette Jr., both declared intentions to vie for the congressman’s unexpired term in an upcoming special election.
“Thanksgiving could get a little awkward,” Charlie Robinette quipped at the time, “but we’re a political family.… We’re used t
o finding ways of compromising.”
And then things got nasty. Local voters, still divided over whether to side with Team Charlie or Team Vanessa, were further stunned this week when Charlie Robinette, who is managing partner in his father’s former law firm, took to the steps of the Griffin County Courthouse at a hastily called press conference to announce that, prior to his father’s death, he’d filed a formal complaint of elder abuse against Vanessa Robinette, alleging that his mother deliberately kept his terminally ill father, who was suffering previously undisclosed non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, a virtual captive in his own home, isolating him from friends and other family members, and depriving him of skilled medical care.
Conley rested her head on her desktop. It was only Friday and she was already tired. Her eyes burned, and her shoulders ached. There was so much more to this story. There always was, because the news never ended; it just paused, hopefully long enough for someone to observe, analyze, and report.
She pushed Send on her keyboard just as Grayson walked up to her desk. She tossed a batch of typewritten copy onto Conley’s desk. “If you’re done with your freelancing gig, maybe you can do some work for the Beacon.”
“Noooo,” Conley groaned as she looked at the byline. “I can’t deal with Rowena today.”
“If I have to, you have to,” Grayson said.
Her cell phone rang. It was Roger Sistrunk. She was being bookended by editors, not a feeling she enjoyed.
“Just read your story,” Sistrunk said. “It’s too long. It’s too wordy, too speculative, too gossipy. And FYI, nobody but livestock breeders use the word impregnate in this century.”
She spent the next thirty minutes making fixes to her AJC story, cutting, pasting, and nitpicking word choices with Sistrunk, whose hatred of adjectives was well documented among the hundreds of reporters who’d worked for the veteran editor over the years.
Finally, he pronounced the story fit to print. “We’re done,” he said abruptly. “Hey, Hawkins, you might have a future in this business.” He chuckled at his own joke and disconnected.
With a heart full of dread, she turned her attention to Rowena’s latest Hello, Summer column.
The Women’s Circle of the Silver Bay Presbyterian Church went into emergency session this week following the tragic death of our favorite local congressman, the honorable U.S. Rep. Symmes Robinette.
Anticipating an overflow crowd at Saturday’s funeral, Women’s Circle president Sylvia Bevin announced that the after-service reception has been moved to the much larger gymnasium at First Baptist Church.
Rumor has it that in addition to Florida governor Roy Padgett, the Florida House Speaker, state attorney general, and a large delegation of other dignitaries from Tallahassee are expected to attend Symmes Robinette’s service.
All eyes will be on young Charlie Robinette, whose announcement this week that he would run for his late father’s seat—as well as his allegations of elder abuse against his mother, the vivacious and popular Vanessa Robinette—has divided the loyalties of family and friends.
Your correspondent has learned that Charlie Robinette had assumed he would succeed his father in Congress, reportedly at his father’s request, until recently, when the thirty-four-year-old attorney began squiring an attractive local divorcée to local social events.
The divorcée, who has a young daughter and has only recently split from her husband, reportedly did not meet with the approval of the younger Robinette’s parents. Vanessa Robinette has told friends that she and her husband recently began having doubts that their son was ready to take the national stage.
Of course, your correspondent will be attending both the after-service reception and the private, invitation-only dinner, which will be hosted by Mrs. Robinette later that evening at her lavish oceanfront home on Sugar Key.
Our sources tell us that one name that won’t be on the invite list for Vanessa’s dinner is retired railroad executive and longtime family friend Miles Schoendienst, who has accepted the role of campaign chairman for Charlie Robinette.
Coordinating floral tributes for the reception will be Agnes Ryan and Babs Tillery.
Conley’s thoughts returned to her own story and Vanessa Robinette’s assertion that “chemo brain” was to blame for her husband’s lack of sleep and out-of-character generosity in giving away the family farm.
She decided that if Merle Goggins over in Bronson County was interested in what kind of drugs Symmes Robinette was taking, she was interested too.
On a whim, she emailed an old friend from college, Carol Knox, who’d switched majors their sophomore year and had eventually become an oncology nurse. They’d stayed in contact over the years since, mostly through Facebook.
She knew Carol now lived down in St. Pete.
“Hey, gurlll. Can you give me a call? Working on a hot story and could use some research help,” she wrote, adding her phone number.
Conley turned back to Rowena’s column, typing it into the system, editing, refining, and generally trying to make it not so Rowena-ish. For the second time that morning, she pushed the Send button.
When her cell phone rang, and the number on the caller ID had a 727 area code, she grabbed for it.
“Carol? How are you? Thanks for getting back to me so fast.”
“Good to hear from you,” Carol said. “I’m actually sitting at the airport, and I’ve got nothing better to do.”
They exchanged a few pleasantries, catching up on each other’s lives, with Conley promising to get down to St. Pete soon for a visit, and Carol promising to read Conley’s stories online.
“Here’s what I’m working on,” Conley said. “You know who Symmes Robinette is?”
“The congressman, right? From up in the Panhandle. He died recently, right?”
“Yeah. He was killed in a one-car crash, forty-five miles from his house, at three in the morning. And according to his wife, he had end-stage cancer.”
“How old was he?”
“Seventy-seven. He was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma last fall, treated at Walter Reed, but then his wife decided to bring him back home to Silver Bay.”
“That’s a little odd in itself,” Carol said. “But if he was in his late seventies and terminal, yeah, I suppose it could be okay. Was he in hospice?”
“Don’t think so. His wife was keeping him isolated from everybody, including his own son, but that’s another story. Meanwhile, the cops down here have asked the local pharmacy for a list of his medications,” Conley said. “So I’m thinking they’re thinking what I’m thinking.”
“Which is?” Carol asked.
“Maybe he was impaired when he had the wreck? First off, if he was terminally ill, what’s he doing driving around that time of night? His wife told me his meds gave him insomnia, that he’d wake up in the middle of the night and just drive aimlessly around. She called it ‘chemo brain.’ But I thought if you had end-stage cancer, the docs would really dope you up.”
“Hmm,” Carol said. “You can’t quote me on any of this, okay? I’m not a physician, and I don’t know any of the particulars of this case. All I can give you is general observations. That said, my first thought is that if he’s end stage, he’s probably not doing chemo anymore. His docs are doing palliative care, just trying to keep him comfortable.”
“What kind of drugs does that involve?”
“Maybe a transdermal patch, fentanyl, or buprenorphine. They’re both heavy-duty opioids and commonly used for cancer patients.”
“Wouldn’t those dope him up to the gills?”
“Not necessarily,” she said. “Long-term users, especially cancer patients, can metabolize the drugs at a different rate. For instance, a dose of fentanyl that would knock you or me on our asses, maybe even be lethal, might not have that same effect on the cancer patient.”
“Huh,” Conley said. “Would he be on any other meds? Something for sleep, for instance?”
“Maybe. But buprenorphine especially can have pretty ser
ious, negative interactions with other drugs and even alcohol.”
“Like what?”
“Dizziness, wooziness, and the biggie. Death.”
“Would all those drugs show up in his body afterward? Even if he was pretty badly burned in the car fire?” Conley asked.
“They should,” Carol said. “But I’m not a pathologist. That’s a question for the medical examiner.”
“I’ve got lots of questions for the medical examiner,” Conley said. “But he’s not too keen on talking to reporters.”
“Whoops! They’re calling my flight. Good luck,” Carol said. “And come see me.”
* * *
After sitting at a desk writing all morning, Conley was anxious to get out of the office. She put in a call to Vanessa Robinette, but her call was immediately rolled over to the widow’s voice mail.
“Hi, Vanessa,” she said, trying to sound friendly, even deferential. “I’m working on a story about some last-minute details about the congressman’s service, and I’d appreciate if you’d give me a call back.”
Probably, she thought, Vanessa would return her call when hell froze over. She decided it was time to start knocking on doors.
She stepped inside Grayson’s office.
Grayson was reading a document on her computer screen and looked up. “Rowena’s column is much better. Almost literate. Thanks.”
“I’m headed out for a while,” Conley said. “Gonna go over to Bronson County to see if I can get your friend Merle Goggins to answer some questions. And I might make a couple of other stops too.”
“Speaking of cops, I need you to stop by the Silver Bay PD and pick up the police reports,” Grayson said. “Be good if you could put that together in the morning, since you’ll probably be busy covering the funeral on Saturday.”
“Ugh,” she said. “Can’t Mike cover cops this week? I’m kind of covered up.”
“He’s covered up too,” Grayson said. “No whining, okay?”
Hello, Summer Page 33