Conley didn’t mention seeing Winnie at the back of the church.
“Skelly is our knight in shining armor once again,” Conley said. “Are you two going over to the reception?”
“I feel we should at least put in an appearance,” G’mama said, giving Skelly a meaningful glance.
“Okay by me,” Skelly said. “I’ve got my high school girl working until four.”
“I might see you over there,” Conley said. “But I think Rowena’s actually going to be working the crowd, taking notes, and misspelling people’s names.” She touched Skelly’s sleeve. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
He shrugged and followed her a few yards away.
“Thanks for being so sweet to G’mama,” Conley said. “I know you’re mad at me, but I really appreciate that you’re not taking it out on her.”
“I’m not mad at you,” Skelly said, his expression mild. “Maybe it’s all for the best that you made it clear you’re not interested.”
“It’s not that I’m not interested,” Conley protested. “If we were both in the right place at the right time…”
“But we’re not,” Skelly finished her sentence. “And I’ve been through this already. Go do your job,” he said wearily. “I’ll take your grandmama home after the reception. And I’m not doing it as a favor. I’m doing it because that’s what neighbors do.”
“Okay,” she said.
* * *
He was standing at the edge of the crowd, hands in his pockets, dressed in a sport coat and tie, trying to blend into the landscape, but the wraparound aviator sunglasses, military bearing, and spit-shined, lace-up shoes gave him away as law enforcement.
“Sheriff,” she said, sidling over to him.
“Miss Hawkins.”
“I did ask you to call me Conley.”
“So you did.”
“What are you doing here today?” she asked.
“Can’t a fella pay respects to his congressman at his homegoing celebration?”
“Of course. But I’m getting a vibe that there’s more to your visit than that.”
“Who am I to argue with a vibe?” Merle Goggins asked. “Whatever that is.”
“I think you owe me, Sheriff. And I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“There’s a lot I’m not at liberty to tell you, even if I wanted to, this being an ongoing investigation.”
“What if you told me off the record?”
His eyes looked straight past her, and she saw that he was watching Vanessa and the rest of the family climb into limos for the short ride to the reception. He seemed to be weighing a decision.
“I had a call from the medical examiner’s office late yesterday,” he said finally. “We’re completely off the record, right?”
“That’s right.”
“He told me Symmes Robinette was already dead when that deer hit his windshield.”
“So I was right! He did hit the deer.”
Goggins nod was barely perceptible.
She waited to see if he would explain, but he was still watching the crowd on the church lawn. “How can they tell he was already dead?”
“There wasn’t much bleeding from his head injuries. If he’d been alive and his heart had still been pumping, you’d have seen way more blood.”
“So what did kill him?” she asked.
The sheriff’s smile was enigmatic. “Are we still off the record?”
“Yes, damn it. Quit stalling. Are you going to tell me or not?”
“The medical examiner tells me he had elevated levels of fentanyl in his blood. And a blood alcohol level of .06. Pretty toxic combination.”
“I talked to a friend who’s an oncology nurse. She said cancer patients using a fentanyl patch can tolerate much higher levels of opioids because they metabolize it at a different rate. Are you saying it was an accidental overdose?”
“I’m not saying anything at all,” Goggins said. “Because we didn’t have this conversation. Have a nice day, okay?”
50
The Baptist church gym was at or near capacity. Conley edged between clumps of people balancing coffee cups and plates loaded with food, making her way to a row of bleachers on the far side of the room. She climbed halfway up and stood, looking out from her vantage point over the wood-floored room. A buffet had been set up beneath the large electric scoreboard, and a long, white-clothed table held polished silver candelabras and an endless array of silver trays holding dainty tea sandwiches, cookies, and cakes, the tray lineup punctuated by massive arrangements of ferns, palm fronds, white lilies, and white carnations.
Not far from one of the side doors, she spotted Toddie, Rebecca, and Hank sipping coffee and looking ill at ease.
Only a few yards away, Vanessa was stationed in front of a round table holding a silver coffee urn and a cut glass punch bowl, chatting with two white-haired women in dark dresses. If Vanessa saw Toddie and her clan, she made a good show of pretending she hadn’t.
While she watched, Charlie walked up to Toddie and her children and began chatting with his half siblings. Kennedy McFall stood a safe distance away in neutral territory, with the dozing Graceanne slung over her shoulder.
As much as she dreaded another confrontation with the Little Prince, Conley needed an off-the-cuff, unscripted quote from him for her story. She clambered down from the bleachers as quickly as she could, but before she could reach the reunited Robinette siblings, she saw George McFall sidle up and whisper something in Charlie’s ear while Toddie and her children drifted away into the crowd, which seemed to swallow them up whole.
As she worked her way through the crowd, keeping an eye on the two men, she saw Charlie shake his head vehemently, brushing off the funeral director with some sort of sharp exchange. McFall turned his back on Charlie, stopped to speak briefly to his daughter, then returned to Vanessa’s side.
Conley saw an opening and went for it. “Charlie? Can I have a moment?”
“What the hell do you want?” he snapped.
“That was quite a moment back there in church,” she said. “Did your mother know you were going to mention Toddie and the others in your eulogy?”
“She’s not currently taking my calls.” He started to walk away, but she hurried after him.
“If it’s any consolation, she’s not taking mine either,” Conley said.
He turned around, and the expression on his face said that he wasn’t amused. “I read that piece-of-crap story you wrote in the Beacon. It’s clear you’re still nursing some old beef and mounting a personal vendetta against me, so I don’t have anything else to say to you.”
“No vendetta,” Conley said. “This is professional, not personal. I’m a journalist, reporting the news. Like it or not, your father was a public figure. You’re running for Congress in this district, and so is your mother, which makes you public figures too. So any comment on what the medical examiner says was your dad’s cause of death?”
He blinked. “That hasn’t been released yet.”
“Not officially, no.”
“The sheriff says his car hit a deer,” Charlie said. “That’s really all we know. Look, I gotta get back to the reception.” He turned again to join his waiting fiancée.
“He was already dead when he hit that deer,” Conley said.
Charlie whipped around. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I was there that night. I’ve been back to the crash site twice. There were no skid marks. Think about that.”
“So what’s your point? My dad was seventy-seven years old. He was dying. And in case you haven’t noticed, Sarah, we’re burying him today, so I’d appreciate it if you’d just back the hell away from me and my family.”
* * *
She was pondering her next move. The gym’s air-conditioning wasn’t adequate for a crowd this size. It was hot, and the air was thick with the cloying scent of lilies and aftershave. She was trying to spot Toddie in the crowd when George
McFall suddenly materialized at her side. “Mrs. Robinette would appreciate it if you would leave now,” he murmured, grasping her elbow.
“You’re kicking me out of a funeral reception?”
“That story of yours in this week’s paper was offensive and libelous,” he said, his face stern. “I knew your grandfather, and he never would have printed something like that.”
She felt her cheeks burn. With her left hand, she pried his fingers off her arm. “My grandfather was in the news business, and he taught my sister and me that we publish the news—whatever it is, without fear or favor.”
“Sarah Conley?” G’mama held out a plate with a slice of cake and an egg salad sandwich. “I thought you might like something to eat.” She gave McFall a cool glance. “Is there a problem here?”
“He’s kicking me out,” Conley said. “Mr. McFall thinks my story was offensive. And libelous.”
“George, is that true?” G’mama asked.
“Hello, Lorraine,” McFall said, his tone instantly becoming conciliatory. “I pointed out to your granddaughter that it’s incredibly poor taste for her to be here after that old stuff she dredged up about Symmes last week. Vanessa objects to her presence.”
“Is that so?” Lorraine asked. “Does she object to my presence here as well? I’m the president of the Presbyterian church altar guild. I helped organize this function today, you know.”
“And I’m sure the family appreciates your efforts,” McFall said, furiously backpedaling. “But they don’t appreciate that scurrilous garbage you people printed. Really, Lorraine, Woodrow Conley would never have published something like that.”
G’mama’s eyes flickered around the room. “I can assure you that my husband absolutely would have published that story. As the Beacon’s current publisher, I’m incredibly proud of the work both my granddaughters have done this past week. And, George, in case you’re not up on libel law, let me remind you that truth is a defense to libel. Can you quote me a single sentence in Conley’s story that was inaccurate?”
“Not inaccurate,” the funeral director sputtered. “Just trashy. And inflammatory. Symmes Robinette was a war hero. He spent most of his life as an elected official, serving the people of this community. Good God, the man is dead. He can’t even defend himself.”
“Our story made prominent mention of Symmes’s achievements,” Lorraine said. “But we both know he was no saint, and he most certainly wasn’t selfless. Conley has researched his financial disclosure statements, which show that Symmes Robinette managed to line his own pockets quite nicely while he was in office.”
“A funeral reception is not the place to have a discussion like this,” McFall insisted.
“I agree,” Lorraine said, her chin tilted at a dangerous angle. “So you can tell Vanessa and Charlie that the Beacon stands by Conley, and we stand by her reporting. And we don’t intend to back away from this story.”
She tucked her hand under her granddaughter’s arm. “It’s awfully close in here, isn’t it? Could you walk me outside for some fresh air?”
* * *
They found a shaded bench in the church courtyard.
“Thanks for the show of support back there,” Conley told her grandmother after they’d seated themselves and she’d eaten the tiny sandwich in one bite. “You rock, by the way.”
“I meant every word I said,” G’mama said.
“I’m afraid things are about to get ugly,” Conley said apologetically.
“They already have,” Lorraine said. “Vivienne Tompkins and Dana Goodman deliberately turned their backs and walked away from me in the church kitchen a little while ago. I’ve known them both since your mother was in preschool with their daughters.”
“They snubbed you? Because of my story? I’m sorry, G’mama.”
“Don’t be,” Lorraine said. “We were never really that close. Forget about them. Have there been any new developments in your story?”
“I saw the sheriff before I walked over here. He confirmed that the wreck happened because Robinette’s car struck that deer. But the medical examiner also says Robinette was already dead before he hit it.”
“How bizarre.”
“He told me—completely off the record, by the way—that Robinette had a toxic combination of fentanyl and alcohol in his system.”
“Is that a pain medication he was taking for the cancer?”
“I assume so. Which explains why the sheriff asked Skelly to hand over a list of all Symmes’s medications. And Vanessa’s.”
“Oh my.”
“Doesn’t necessarily mean there was any foul play,” Conley said. She explained what her oncologist nurse friend had told her about the increased levels of fentanyl a long-term cancer patient could tolerate. “So that could explain his cause of death. But it still doesn’t really explain what Robinette was doing that far from home that late at night. And what or who he was drinking with.”
“With whom he was drinking,” G’mama said, automatically correcting her grammar. “I assume you have a theory?” She broke off a morsel of cake and nibbled it.
“I think he must have been visiting Oak Springs Farm. Toddie told me herself that Symmes came out to the farm not long before he died. She said he was trying to make amends for those lost years, which is why he deeded Oak Springs over to her.”
They heard footsteps approaching and looked up to see Grayson walking toward them. She’d changed before the funeral and was wearing a belted black silk dress and heels.
“Scoot over,” Grayson instructed, seating herself on the other side of their grandmother.
“Did you get kicked out too?” Conley asked.
“Excommunicated is more like it,” Grayson said. She sank down onto the bench, slipped her feet out of her high-heeled pumps, and sighed contentedly. “So much for polite society,” she said. “I’ve spent the last thirty minutes getting chewed out by three different little old ladies as well as Kennedy McFall, who’s threatening to pull their funeral notices out of the Beacon over this brouhaha.”
“Yikes,” Conley said, grimacing. “That’s not good.”
“Empty threats,” Grayson assured her. “We’re the only game in town. And don’t forget, they make just as much money charging families for those notices as we do. They’re not gonna bite off their own noses to spite their faces.”
“I can’t understand what a lovely young lady like Kennedy McFall sees in that vile Charlie Robinette,” Lorraine said. “She’s much too good for the likes of him.”
“Agreed,” Grayson said. “Conley, maybe you should take Kennedy aside and tell her about the horrible way that gutless weasel treated you back in high school.”
Conley did a double take. “How did you know? You were away at college.”
“I had my sources,” Grayson said. “By the time I heard about those disgusting rumors he was spreading, it was too late to stop them. But I did make sure he knew better than to tangle with the Hawkins girls again.”
“Help me up, girls,” G’mama said, extending a hand to each of the sisters. “I don’t know about you two, but I think I’m ready for a nice, stiff drink at the club. Or two. And I’m buying.”
“You can have one drink and one drink only,” Grayson said, wagging a finger at Lorraine. “But Conley and I had better stick to seltzer. We’ve got a paper to put out.”
“What about Skelly?” Conley asked, looking around. “We won’t have time to take you back out to the beach after this, G’mama.”
“Call him up and invite him to join us at the bar,” G’mama said. “I really am feeling quite parched.”
51
Grayson slowed the BMW at the entryway to the Silver Bay Country Club and waved at the guard standing casually by the open gate.
“When did they put up a gate?” G’mama asked.
“I don’t know, maybe two or three months ago?” Grayson said. “I think somebody on the board of directors decided it looked prestigious, but it’s really a waste of money.
I’ve never been here when those gates were closed, and the guards always just wave members on through, so it’s not like they’re keeping out a horde of infidels or something.”
“They definitely didn’t stop me when I drove through earlier in the week,” Conley said thoughtfully. “And I don’t even have a membership sticker on my windshield.”
“A waste of money,” G’mama fussed. “The only criminal activity I’ve ever heard of over here consists of sandbagging golf scores and a little low-stakes gambling at the poker table.”
“Not true, G’mama,” Conley said. “Just last week, I included an item in the police blotter about a car that was burglarized here.”
“That’s right,” Grayson said, maneuvering the BMW into a parking spot near the clubhouse. “Seems like whoever broke in stole some pretty valuable stuff. Jewelry or something?”
“Some expensive diamond earrings. And according to the incident report, the car wasn’t even broken into, because it had been left unlocked,” Conley said.
* * *
The club’s bar, formally known as the Tap Room, was decorated to resemble a Scottish Highlander tavern plunked down in the Florida Panhandle, with ersatz tartan carpet, dark walnut paneling, and plenty of vintage fox-hunting and golfing prints.
“Never seen the place so dead,” Grayson said as they found a table in a corner of the mostly empty room. Two golfers sat at the bar, sharing a pitcher of beer, and a table of women dressed in tennis togs sipped margaritas.
“All the best people are still at Symmes’s funeral,” Conley said.
“Be right with you, ladies,” the bartender called. A moment later, he appeared table-side, a supremely tanned septuagenarian in a white waiter’s apron and black bolo tie.
“Well, hey there, Miz Lorraine,” he said. “Welcome back. Haven’t seen you around here in a long while.” He grinned at Grayson. “Course, this lady is one of my favorite customers, so I see a good bit of her.”
Hello, Summer Page 37