Hello, Summer

by Mary Kay Andrews

  Bronson County sheriff Merle Goggins said the congressman’s death remains under investigation. He said foul play is not suspected.

  Robinette’s namesake and heir presumptive to his now vacant seat in the U.S. House, C. Symmes “Charlie” Robinette Jr., startled many in the overflow crowd at Silver Bay Presbyterian Church on Saturday, when, while delivering the eulogy, he acknowledged the presence of his father’s “secret family” in the church—including Symmes Robinette’s first wife, Emma “Toddie” Sanderson, and her adult children, Hank, fifty, and Rebecca Robinette, forty-eight, who were seated only a few pews away from Vanessa Monck Robinette, fifty-nine, Robinette’s widow and the mother of Charlie Robinette, who has also announced her intention to run for her late husband’s seat.

  During his eulogy, Charlie Robinette said his father only divulged the existence of his first marriage and the children from that marriage recently, following his diagnosis of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.

  The family kept Rep. Robinette’s cancer diagnosis a secret from all but his closest friends, Charlie Robinette said, because his father “didn’t want to be a poster boy for cancer.”

  Vanessa Robinette has said she brought her husband back to Silver Bay earlier in the spring because she wanted him to spend his last months in the comfort of his own home.

  But the younger Robinette said his mother spirited the ailing congressman away from world-renowned physicians treating him at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, returning him to Silver Bay, where Vanessa Robinette deliberately cut Symmes Robinette off from all contact with the outside world, keeping him a virtual hostage in the couple’s lavish Gulf-front home in Sugar Key. Charlie Robinette said that in the final months of his father’s illness, his mother confiscated the congressman’s cell phone and instructed Sugar Key security guards to deny Charlie Robinette admittance to the gated community.

  A bitter family feud has erupted in the wake of Symmes Robinette’s death. Earlier this week, on the same day Symmes Robinette was being memorialized with full honors in the Capitol Rotunda in Washington, D.C., his son skipped that event, instead calling a press conference to announce that he had asked Florida officials to investigate Vanessa Robinette for elder abuse.

  Today, Vanessa Robinette told Beacon columnist Rowena Meigs she intends to sue both Charlie Robinette and Toddie Sanderson over ownership of Oak Springs Farm, the eight-hundred-acre Bronson County quail-hunting plantation that Symmes Robinette deeded to his ex-wife two weeks before his death.

  Vanessa Robinette told the Beacon that her son and Toddie Sanderson exerted undue influence over her husband while he was suffering from diminished faculties to persuade him to deed over the farm, with an estimated value of $1.8 million, to Toddie Sanderson. Ms. Sanderson, seventy-six, had leased the property from Robinette for decades, following her uncontested divorce from the congressman.

  Reached Saturday night, Toddie Sanderson said it was Symmes Robinette’s idea to sell her the farm, which was originally owned by her family, for one dollar “and other considerations” because “he had a guilty conscience and wanted to make things right after the way he ripped me off in the divorce settlement.”

  * * *

  “Gray?” Conley swiveled around in her chair to face the open door of the editor’s office. “I’m still waiting on callbacks from Charlie and Vanessa Robinette, and then I’ve got to merge Mike’s stuff into my story. Did Rowena call in from the party at Sugar Key?”

  Grayson walked out into the newsroom. “About an hour ago. I cut Lillian loose to go home after she typed it into the system.”

  “Was it as bad as usual?”

  “Worse. We got a full description of what the governor’s wife was wearing, as well as what the caterers were wearing, what kind of flowers were floating in the swimming pool, and how chic Vanessa looked. There were also some blurry photos of the crab salad on the buffet and of Tuffy peeking out of a potted palm on the veranda. It’s gonna take major surgery to make chicken salad out of this batch of chicken shit.”

  “Sorry, but you’re going to have to whip it into shape yourself. I’ve got at least another hour’s worth of work on the main story,” Conley said, glancing at the clock on the newsroom wall.

  “Me? I’m no writer,” Gray protested.

  “And I’m no miracle worker. There’s no way I can get to Rowena’s column and finish the main story. Either fix it yourself or leave it for next week’s edition when I can get to it.”

  “Ugggghhhh,” Gray moaned. “This is why I went to law school. So I’d never have to set foot in a newsroom.”

  “And it’s why you make the big bucks,” Conley said. “My advice? Hold your nose and get busy.”

  54

  Change was in the wind. He could feel it, had been feeling it since he’d awakened that morning, anxious, moody, tense. Hi-Fi felt it too, had reached out and given him a wicked scratch on the face before retreating under the sofa in the apartment. Buddy Bright didn’t believe in astrology or moon phases or any of that woo-woo crap. He believed in his gut. And his gut told him change was on the horizon.

  The courthouse square was mostly deserted. It was after eleven, moving toward the midnight hour. If he got up and walked out to the station’s tiny reception area, he could see lights burning in the Beacon office across the square.

  It had been a big news day, for sure, with Symmes Robinette’s funeral and all the unfolding drama with his family. Thinking back to their brief, late-night encounters at the Waffle House, Buddy wondered what the congressman would make of it all. He’d wanted to make amends, he said, but all he’d really made was a mess.

  The commercial break was winding down. Buddy took one last drag, then stubbed out his cigarette in a foam coffee cup and switched on his mic.

  “Welcome back, Silver Bay. This is Up All Night, and I’m Buddy Bright. We’re gonna be howling at the moon soon, so let’s play a little wicked Wilson Pickett, shall we?”

  He slotted “In the Midnight Hour” onto the turntable and sat back in his chair. He worked the theme for the next hour or so, following up with Gladys Knight and the Pips’ “Midnight Train to Georgia” and the Grass Roots’ “Midnight Confessions.”

  “Gonna open it up to callers now,” Buddy drawled. “Let’s see who’s still up and listening as we approach the midnight hour.”

  The switchboard lit up, and he picked the first caller.

  “Hey, Buddy,” the male caller said. “It’s me, Pooh Bear. Remember me from the other night?”

  “Hiya, Pooh Bear,” Buddy said. “You got a midnight confession to share?”

  “I don’t, but I’m thinking you probably do. See, it was bugging me so bad, I did a little research.”

  Buddy’s hand hovered over the switch. He could cut off the call now, claim operator error, but that would only prolong the inevitable.

  “Did you now?” he asked.

  “Amazing what you can find on the internet if you know where to look,” Pooh Bear said. “And I figured it out. Back in Detroit, in 1992, you were Robert ‘Robbie’ Breitweis. Isn’t that right?”

  With shaking hands, Buddy lit another cigarette and inhaled a lungful of smoke.

  “Buddy? You still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “You were a pretty big deal in Detroit, weren’t you? Had the morning drive-time slot, were doing television commercials, pulling down the big money.”

  “If you say so, Pooh Bear.”

  “Was that where you started the hard partying? I always heard you rock jocks were big partiers back in the day. Drugs, booze, chicks, all of it that you could handle.”

  The cigarette ash spilled onto Buddy’s shirt. He flicked it away. “What’s your point here, Pooh Bear?” he said, trying to sound bored. “I got other callers waiting.”

  “The point is, I found the old newspaper clippings,” Pooh Bear said with a mocking laugh. “Online. You killed a chick, right? Drunk driving. Got sent to jail, but then one day, while you were on a
highway work detail, you up and walked away. Disappeared into thin air. But now, here you are, working in Silver Bay, Florida, under a made-up name. That’s my point, Buddy—I mean, Robert.”

  Buddy cut the caller off and cued up the next song on his midnight playlist. He’d met Gregg Allman on tour once. He read somewhere that Allman grew up down in Daytona Beach. He liked this state, liked the weather, the notion that everybody here had escaped from someplace else. Daytona, he decided, would be his next stop.

  As Gregg Allman’s guttural voice filled the tiny studio, Buddy gathered his things, sweeping them into a plastic grocery sack. “I’ve got to run to keep from hiding,” he muttered. The last verse of the song was playing as he turned the lock in the studio door.

  “Not gon’ let them catch the midnight rider,” Buddy whispered.

  The Corvette was parked around the back of the studio. He walked around the car, surveying it like always, wiping away a bit of dust with the cuff of his black shirt. The engine rumbled to life, and he steered the sports car slowly around the square. The beacon on the newspaper building’s tower cast a yellow light on the darkened street before him. As he passed the building, he spotted the black truck again, parked across the street, and the shadowy figure of a driver behind the steering wheel.

  He glanced back at the newspaper and saw, silhouetted in the window, the figures of two women.

  Buddy’s fingers drummed the steering wheel in a frenzied staccato. He could stop, go inside, warn Conley Hawkins that she was being watched. He could call the newspaper, an anonymous caller like Pooh Bear, and issue some ominous decree.

  Or he could keep driving. He made another loop around the square, passing the truck for a second time. It still hadn’t moved. The driver was waiting, biding his time. Buddy decided he would do the same.

  55

  “Okay,” Grayson said, emerging barefoot from her office. “I just hit the Send button on issue 2 of The Silver Bay Beacon digital edition.”

  “Yay.” Conley was slumped down in her chair. She looked around the office. Michael had clocked out an hour earlier at Grayson’s insistence, and Lillian was long gone. Now it was just the Hawkins sisters, in a room littered with grease-stained pizza boxes, empty Diet Coke and Red Bull cans, and trash bins overflowing with multiple discarded drafts of stories prominently featured in the digital edition of The Silver Bay Beacon.

  Conley felt as grimy as the office. She wanted to go home, take a bath, walk on the beach, drink an entire bottle of wine, and then sleep for a week. But all of that would have to wait. She stood up, yawned, and stretched.

  Grayson slung an arm around her sister’s shoulder. “We should do a victory dance, don’t you think?”

  “Too tired,” Conley said. “But we did good tonight, right?”

  “We did awesome. All of us. Even Rowena, in her own way, bless her heart.” Grayson squeezed Conley’s shoulder. “I’m so proud of you, Conley. I know I never tell you that, but I really am.”

  “Thanks,” Conley said. “I’m pretty proud of what we achieved together these past few days.”

  “Okay, then get out of here. Go home and get some sleep.”

  “And what about you? You can’t keep sleeping on that ratty sofa. And you can’t keep on living here in the office, Gray. It’s not healthy. I’m not driving all the way out to the beach tonight. I’m too tired. I’ll stay over at Felicity Street. I can use the Wi-Fi there to finish my freelance piece and sleep in my old room. At least come over there with me tonight. Okay?”

  “Maybe I will.”

  The response surprised Conley. “For real? I was sure you’d tell me to shut up and mind my own business.”

  “I’ll be over after a while. It’s only nine out on the coast. I want to call Tony.”

  “That’s great. What will you tell him?”

  “That the grass needs cutting. And my back needs scratching. And that I want us to take another shot at making this marriage work and maybe even have a baby.”

  Conley raised an eyebrow. “All that plus cutting the grass? That’s a lot to ask, Gray.”

  “I know. I miss the guy, And even if you don’t stay here at the Beacon, I know now that we can make it work, somehow. I got a good piece of advice recently, about asking for help when you need it. And accepting that help, with grace. I’m gonna work on that.”

  Conley hugged her sister. “That sounds like a great plan. Guess you really are the smarter sister. Okay, I’ll head over to G’mama’s now. I have absolutely got to have a shower.”

  * * *

  Conley called her grandmother from the car and left a message on her voice mail, knowing Lorraine probably would have left her cell phone plugged in on the kitchen counter.

  “Hi, G’mama. Sorry to call so late, but we finished putting out the special edition, so I’m going to spend the night at Felicity Street and try to get some work done. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  The air inside the house was stale and overly warm. Conley felt only slightly guilty about turning the thermostat down before trudging upstairs to her old bedroom. After digging around in the closet and dresser, she found a pair of hot-pink gym shorts, an oversize Silver Bay Beach Club T-shirt, and some panties whose elastic had given up the ghost sometime earlier in the decade.

  She stayed in the shower until every inch of her flesh was scrubbed and scoured and shriveled and pink, then toweled off and slathered herself with lotion before dressing.

  Winnie had done a depressingly thorough job of cleaning out the fridge and pantry before decamping for the beach, but Conley rummaged around the kitchen and the dining room sideboard until she found an overlooked box of saltines and a bottle of Wild Turkey with a Christmas gift tag addressed to her grandfather still attached to a red ribbon around the bottle’s neck.

  She dropped four ice cubes in one of G’mama’s cut glass old-fashioned tumblers and poured two fingers of bourbon over the ice. Sipping her drink, she made her way to the dining room, where she’d dropped her backpack.

  Her cell phone rang, and she reached for it but didn’t answer when she saw the words UNKNOWN CALLER on the phone screen.

  Conley opened the waxed paper sleeve of crackers and dipped one in the bourbon. It tasted surprisingly good, but the trick was to remove the cracker from the liquid before it disintegrated in the bourbon.

  She was munching on her second cracker and thinking about how to take the Beacon story she’d written earlier and recast it for the AJC when her phone rang again. She shook her head and opened her laptop.

  The third call from an unknown caller came less than a minute later. It was nearly 1:00 a.m. Annoyed, she stood up and went to the living room window, peering out at the driveway. Where was Grayson? Conley wasn’t afraid of being alone in the house, but she was irritated that her sister was apparently choosing to sleep on the sofa in the office for another night, and annoyed at the string of nuisance calls.

  Still, she walked around the house, double-checking that all the doors were locked. Then she picked up her phone and dialed the Silver Bay Police Department nonemergency number. Instructed to leave a recorded message to be answered during office hours, she did so.

  “Hi. This is Conley Hawkins. I’m staying with my grandmother, Lorraine DuBignon Conley, at 38 Felicity Street, and I want to report that I’ve been getting harassing and threatening anonymous phone calls. The calls could be coming from a disgruntled reader, since I’m a reporter at The Silver Bay Beacon. Just now, there were three from an unknown caller in the space of five minutes. Please have a detective call me at this number as soon as possible.”

  * * *

  A vintage white Corvette with Working Press tags was never meant for covert ops, Buddy realized, as he crept along behind the black pickup. Luckily, the truck’s driver seemed oblivious to the fact that he was being tailed. The truck had parked, briefly, on Felicity Street, just down the block from the house where Conley Hawkins had parked her Subaru. Buddy breathed a sigh of relief when, about five minut
es later, the truck pulled away from the curb. Just in case, he continued trailing the truck. The driver made two stops, one at a drive-through ATM downtown, and a second at the Toot ’n’ Tote convenience store.

  Buddy had parked the Vette on the other side of the gas pumps in order to stay out of his quarry’s sight. He shifted uncomfortably in the cracked red leather seat. He needed to take a leak, but he didn’t want to risk entering the store. In the end, he jumped out, sprinted over to a dumpster, and relieved himself.

  He’d just slid back into the seat when the truck’s driver emerged from the convenience store. He was drinking a forty-ounce bottle of beer and held a paper sack with his free hand.

  The driver was a bulked-up white dude, dressed, like Buddy, in all black—black tactical pants, motorcycle boots, and a black T-shirt whose fabric strained over the guy’s outsize biceps. Unlike Buddy’s shirt, the front and back of the truck driver’s shirt had SWAT printed in bold, four-inch-high yellow letters.

  “Shit,” Buddy whispered. It was the cop, the same one he’d seen at Waffle House. He wasn’t a local cop, because Buddy made it his business to know every cop who worked for either the city or Griffin County.

  And now the truck was on the move again. Buddy waited until the cop pulled onto the road and followed, hoping his past-midnight vigil would come to an end soon. He needed to get back to the apartment, pick up Hi-Fi and his stuff, and hit the road. With any luck, he’d be rolling into Daytona Beach by sunrise. He’d find a cheap motel room, get some sleep, and, in the morning, start looking around for a new gig.