47
Winnie was chopping celery and green onions when Conley walked into the kitchen at the Dunes Friday night.
“What’s for supper?” Conley asked, helping herself to a boiled shrimp from the blue bowl on the counter.
“Shrimp remoulade,” Winnie said. She wrinkled her nose. “Did you step in something nasty today?”
“Sorry,” Conley said, taking a step backward. She explained about her trip to visit Margie Barrett earlier in the day and about the old dog rolling around in the remains of a deer carcass.
“You oughta take a shower before dinner,” Winnie said. “And put those clothes right in the washing machine. Don’t leave ’em laying around and stinking up the whole house.”
G’mama walked into the kitchen just then. “What is that ungodly smell?”
Conley recounted the discovery of the deer carcass and its proximity to the crash site where Symmes Robinette had perished.
“Well, I’ll be,” Winnie said. “You mean to tell me that it was a deer that killed him? Kind of a letdown, if you ask me.”
“Winnie!” G’mama chided. “That’s not very Christian.”
The housekeeper was unrepentant. “I don’t have very Christian feelings about that man.”
“But the Bible says forgiveness is divine,” G’mama reminded her.
“It doesn’t say when I have to forgive him for letting those railroad bastards kill my sister and poison our whole family,” Winnie said. “Seems like I’m not quite ready yet.”
She dumped the chopped celery and green onions into the bowl with the shrimp and started on the remoulade sauce as Conley idly watched over her shoulder.
“You’re home awful late today,” G’mama said.
“That’s the life of the modern ‘career girl,’ as Rowena would say,” Conley said. “Guess I’ll go upstairs and get cleaned up before dinner.”
“Yes, please,” G’mama said.
Upstairs, she stood in the doorway of her bedroom to appreciate the pristine beauty of the room. Winnie might have a bad hip and a sassy attitude, but she was relentless in her approach to neatness.
The wooden floors gleamed softly and smelled of lemon wax. The old iron bed was made up with a snowy-white cotton bedspread and freshly ironed pillowcases on plump feather pillows. A box fan whirred in the window. The clothes she’d dumped in the wicker hamper in the bathroom had been laundered and folded and were stacked on top of the old painted dresser waiting for Conley to put them away.
It was a far cry from her haphazard housekeeping in Atlanta, where the apartment she’d shared with Kevin was a perpetual snarl of discarded newspapers and books, dust bunnies, empty takeout containers, and laundry baskets of clothes that never got folded or put away. She’d only been at the Dunes for a week and already she was spoiled.
She went into the bathroom, turned on the hot water to allow it time to heat up, and inhaled the smell of lavender and bleach. Then she stripped, climbed into the cast-iron tub, and pulled down the shower attachment. Like Margie’s dog, Sport, she required two rounds of soaping and rinsing to wash away the stench of death.
Her cell phone was ringing as she emerged from the bathroom. She answered and put the call on speakerphone.
“Conley, hello!” Selena Kwan said. “The network loved the stuff you helped with the other night. In fact, we’re going to send a camera crew and a reporter for Robinette’s funeral. Can you send us your updates?”
“I can,” Conley said, donning a clean pair of shorts and pulling a T-shirt over her head. “I did a fairly long piece for the AJC skedded to run Sunday, and I’ll send you a recap of that. But I think your crew could do a nice human-interest piece—something like the secret family life of a public figure? Highlight the early years, when he was married to his high school sweetheart, poor but proud, raising two young kids, then he goes off to the state legislature, where he’s sworn in wearing a suit his first wife sewed for him, then Congress. Fast-forward a few years, and he sheds wife number one, gets a newer model with a new baby, and does a fast fade on family number one. Until he finds out he’s dying and suddenly wants to mend fences.”
“Love it,” Selena said promptly. “What kind of visuals would we do?”
“Toddie—that’s wife number one—loaned me some old family photos, and I have a few file photos from the Beacon that I can transmit to you. Then your crew could maybe film a stand-up outside the entrance to Oak Springs Farm. I don’t know how you could get footage of Robinette’s waterfront house, though. It’s in a gated community, and the security guards there are hypervigilant.”
“We can probably get drone footage of the house if you get us the street address,” Selena said. “Now what about the funeral tomorrow?”
“That’s at two at the Presbyterian church. They’re expecting an overflow crowd, so the reception afterward will be in the gym at the Baptist church. Not sure you want to try to send a crew into the church, but I guess you could ask for permission.”
“If not, we’ll shoot some footage of mourners going into church, the funeral procession, generic stuff like that,” Selena said.
“Tomorrow evening, Vanessa is hosting an invitation-only dinner at her house for what they’re calling the dignitaries. I think they’re expecting a lot of Robinette’s political pals—like the governor of Florida, lieutenant governor, and so on.”
“Any chance you’re going?”
Conley laughed. “Zero chance. But I know somebody who probably is on the list. Our society columnist, Rowena Meigs, has gotten pretty chummy with Vanessa. I’m sure she’d love to give you any deets you need.”
“We’ll see,” Selena said. “Sounds like we’ll have plenty to work with. Can I have the crew call you when they hit town tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
* * *
They ate dinner in the kitchen, on G’mama’s gold-rimmed bone china plates with thick damask napkins and the polished “casual” silver. Scoops of chilled shrimp remoulade were placed on green lettuce cups, and there were crisp carrot sticks and tiny, hot cheese biscuits, and sweet iced tea in cut glass tumblers with lemon wedges.
Opie crouched under the table, hoping for an errant crumb to fall, but G’mama was strict about feeding dogs from the table. Just a casual weeknight dinner—and a far cry from the diet of microwave popcorn, delivery pizza, and ramen she’d lived on in Atlanta.
She was really, really going to miss this part of life at the Dunes. After dinner, she cleared the table and hastily washed the few dishes Winnie hadn’t already taken care of.
She poured herself a glass of wine and headed toward the porch. “I’m gonna go take a walk on the beach,” she called over her shoulder.
* * *
She strolled almost all the way to the pier, then turned around and went back, timing it so that she’d be on the swing in time for sunset.
When her phone rang, she answered it out of habit. Five seconds of heavy breathing and then the words that sliced through her brain like a hot knife through butter. “You’re dead, bitch.” A man’s voice, low, disembodied. And then the disconnect. She knew without looking what the caller ID would say. UNKNOWN CALLER.
She felt acid rise in her throat and tried to dispel her own fears. The Robinette story was controversial. The town was divided into two camps, and emotions were running high, so it shouldn’t have been unexpected that she’d get death threats. Haters gonna hate, she’d told herself back when it had happened in Atlanta.
Her mind returned to the winter morning more than a year ago when she’d discovered a dead rat, wrapped in the previous day’s AJC with her story on the front page, on her doorstep. She’d been shaken enough to report the incident to Roger Sistrunk, who’d reported it to the Atlanta police, as well as the newspaper’s head of security.
Sistrunk had insisted that the paper put her up in a motel for three or four nights, but when there were no further threats, she’d returned home, right after installing a home security system with a
video camera.
But Silver Bay wasn’t Atlanta. Her hometown was the kind of place where people rarely locked doors, where you could have a charge account at the grocery store or have your prescriptions delivered by the man who owned the drugstore. Probably, she told herself, this gutless, anonymous caller is just blowing off steam. But the next time she dropped by the Silver Bay cop shop, she’d mention the call to Claudette. Just in case.
The fierce afternoon sun had cooled enough that the warmth felt good on her shoulders. She leaned her head against the back of the swing and closed her eyes, trying to force herself to release the tension that always came when she was chasing a breaking story. The breeze off the Gulf rippled the sea oats, and she stared out at the waves, trying to find a calm center. She’d never been very good at calm.
“Mind if I join you?”
G’mama walked haltingly down the beach path from the house, stopping at the dune line to deposit her shoes. Conley jumped up, gave her an arm, and guided her over to the swing.
“This is nice,” G’mama said with a deep sigh. “Pops and I used to try to make it a point to sit out here and watch the sunset every night we were home. We’d have some good discussions. These days, with all the world’s troubles, I forget to enjoy it like I ought to.”
“I guess you take it for granted when it’s right outside your door,” Conley agreed. “But after all that time in Atlanta, I’ve come to appreciate sunsets again.”
G’mama reached over and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her granddaughter’s ear. “You could have sunsets like this every night, you know.”
Conley rolled her eyes.
“I’m a little bit worried about you, Sarah Conley,” G’mama said. “You’re working so hard, burning the candle at both ends. Up early, home late. When are you going to stop and smell the roses?”
“I’m working on a hot story. I’ll slow down when this Robinette story is over.”
“And when will that be?”
Conley gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Grayson tells me you’re doing some freelance work for the Atlanta paper and the network. That’s wonderful. Pops would be so proud.”
Conley smiled and squeezed her grandmother’s hand. “You do know this is a onetime gig, right? I still have to find a real job, with real benefits. And we both know that probably isn’t going to be in Silver Bay.”
G’mama deftly changed the subject. “How’s Sean? Have you seen him since the other night?”
“He’s fine. I saw him briefly today. I know how much you like Skelly. I like him too, but it’s not going to work out the way you want it to.”
Lorraine was shameless. “Why not?”
Conley stared out to where the blazing orange sun hung just above the horizon. “We want different things, and we’re headed in different directions.”
“How do you know what Sean Kelly wants?” G’mama demanded. “Did you ask him?”
“I just know. Okay? It’s why his marriage broke up. His first priority is taking care of Miss June and keeping the store running. I admire that, and I admire his loyalty, but it’s the total opposite of where I’m going.”
“And there’s no way you could meet him in the middle?”
“I don’t see how,” Conley said. “You’re gonna tell me I need to compromise, right? Isn’t that what my mom did? And look how that worked out.”
G’mama’s eyes welled with tears, and Conley felt a twinge of guilt at invoking her mother’s name.
“Your daddy tried so hard to make Melinda happy. Chet was such a good, good man. Better than she deserved. He never gave up on believing in her. That she would come home and be a wife and mother. He believed it long after I gave up.”
“I’ve never heard you talk about Mom like this before,” Conley said.
“Well, it’s high time I did,” G’mama said briskly. “I had the blinders on where your mother was concerned for too long. I loved my daughter. I still do, but I’ve done some reading and some studying, and I believe she is what they call a narcissist, someone who only lives for themselves. I’m afraid Melinda doesn’t really possess the capacity to love someone else, because she never learned to be selfless. I suppose I bear some of the responsibility for that.”
“No, G’mama,” Conley objected.
“It’s all right,” Lorraine said. “I’ve forgiven myself. I tried, but I made mistakes. We wanted a child so badly, we let her do anything she wanted. She was headstrong right from the time she was a toddler, throwing her little sippy cup at me if something made her mad or she didn’t get her way. It was easier to just give in and let her do what she wanted. Maybe I wasn’t a perfect mother. I should have made her clean up her own messes. But what I did, I did out of love.”
“You couldn’t have been all that bad,” Conley said, sliding an arm around her grandmother’s narrow shoulders. “You did a pretty good job raising Grayson and me.”
“I hope I learned from my mistakes,” G’mama said. “And you know, every night, I pray for Melinda. I pray that she’ll find herself, pray that she’ll find her place in the world and decide she wants us to be a part of her life.”
“You can’t do more than that,” Conley said. And she leaned her head on her grandmother’s shoulder. The two of them watched as the sun slid toward the horizon, and Conley held her breath as it disappeared into the shining dark sea.
48
POLICE BLOTTER WEEK MAY 11
FRIDAY, MAY 8 DOMESTIC DISTURBANCE. Approximately 7:00 a.m. Neighbors on Sycamore Lane reported screaming, cursing, and loud arguments coming from home next door. Officers responding to call were told by male, early forties, answering door that they were not source of noise. Officer observed bright red burn marks on man’s face and noticed smoke and smell of fire coming from residence, entered home. Found woman in kitchen, sitting at table drinking Miller Lite beer and holding ice bag to eye. Woman advised boyfriend grew angry after she burned grits for third day in a row. Man claimed woman threw pot of burned grits at his face, then tossed burning pan into trash, catching it on fire, at which point man made obscene remarks about woman’s cooking, weight, and mother. Both victims declined medical treatment. Both declined to press assault charges. Officer advised marital counseling and instant grits.
SUNDAY, MAY 10 POSSIBLE BREAKING AND ENTERING. Resident of house on Hibiscus Way reported hearing suspicious noises coming from roof at 2:00 a.m., requested armed patrol response. Upon arrival, officer walked around house with flashlight, noted upstairs bedroom window ajar. Officer entered residence, checked bedroom, found partially undressed sixteen-year-old female entertaining seventeen-year-old male. Advised male to leave house immediately, as female’s father was downstairs searching for shotgun. Advised daughter that parents have excellent hearing.
MONDAY, MAY 11 DISTURBING THE PEACE, PUBLIC DRUNKENESS, INDECENT EXPOSURE. Officer dispatched to Jiffy Stop Convenience Store where they encountered boisterous, possibly inebriated sixty-year-old male suspect, loudly cursing store management and throwing discarded beer bottles at side of building. Suspect claimed beer he’d purchased and consumed at store was “poisoned,” causing him to become inebriated. Demanded refund, and when management refused, entered store and urinated on beer display. Allegedly poisoned beer impounded for chemical analysis. Suspect transported to Silver Bay jail for observation.
Grayson looked up from the copy she’d just edited and gave her sister a grudging nod. “You’re really good at this, you know?”
“What? Picking up police reports?” Conley lounged on the chair in Grayson’s office, waiting for the hastily called staff meeting to start.
She’d dressed up in anticipation of a long day, wearing slim-cut black slacks, a pale gray silk short-sleeved silk top, and black ballet flats.
“You know what I mean. The light touch. This is the kind of thing our readers can’t get anyplace else. It’s hyper-local, it’s witty, and they’ll eat it up.”
“Wow. Thanks, I guess,” Conley said,
unused to any kind of praise from her big sister. “What’s the plan for the funeral today? I should tell you the Atlanta bureau is sending an NBC crew down to cover it, and I’ve been feeding them color.”
“Let’s wait for the others,” Grayson said, glancing at her watch. It was just after nine.
* * *
Lillian King breezed into the office ten minutes later.
“You’re fifteen minutes late,” Grayson pointed out.
Lillian plopped a box of doughnuts on top of her desk. “I stopped at Sweet ’n’ Tasty and got us breakfast. A dozen doughnuts means I’m only three minutes late, and you know that’s five minutes early on LKT. Anyway, it’s Saturday, and I hope you know I’m putting in for overtime for all this work I’m doing on my day off.”
Conley looked up from the emails she was reading on her phone. “LKT?”
“Lillian King Time,” Grayson said.
Michael Torpy walked in and helped himself to a pink-frosted doughnut with sprinkles. With one bite, he demolished half the pastry. “What’s up, boss? We talking funeral?”
“We are,” Grayson said.
“Good deal,” Mike said, spraying sprinkles down the front of his rumpled white dress shirt and skinny black silk tie. He’d slicked down his unruly red hair with gel and worn black jeans for the day’s occasion. “Hey, the reason I’m late is I just came by the church. You won’t believe it. There are two different TV trucks setting up camp. People are already lining up outside waiting to get in like it’s a Taylor Swift concert. You know, if old people went to Taylor Swift concerts.”
“This is a Taylor Swift concert for these people,” Conley said. “Did you shoot some photos?”
Michael held up the Nikon 35mm camera. “I got two old ladies in folding lawn chairs. They’re both wearing TEAM VANESSA T-shirts, and then I shot the Boy Scouts practicing their honor guard march over in the courthouse square, and some dudes circling the square in a pickup with a huge spray-painted CHARLIE FOR CONGRESS flag whipping in the wind.”
Hello, Summer Page 35