“I guess you’ve got your front-page story for next week,” Conley said. “Big news, right?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You were there. You could write a hell of a first-person story to go along with those photos.”
“Me?” Conley was taken aback by the request.
“Why not? It’s not like you’ve got anything else going on.”
“Grayson Hawkins!” G’mama’s unspoken rebuke was sharp.
“Thanks,” Conley said bitterly. “Way to go, Grayson! Reminding me that I’m out of work is a surefire way to get me to do you a favor.”
Grayson had the grace to blush. “Okay. I’m sorry. Really. But like you said, this is a big story. Symmes Robinette wasn’t just a big deal in Silver Bay. This is national news, sis. I mean, eighteen-term congressman, senior member of the Florida delegation. You could do a great piece about what a Cinderella story his was—a mill kid from Varnedoe, raised by a widowed mother. Joined the Marines and went to Vietnam, law school on the GI Bill, the whole thing.” Grayson’s normally placid face became animated as she continued her pitch. “This is a guy who literally never made a wrong move. He gets out of law school and makes the right kinds of friends in local politics. The local Dems anoint Symmes to run for and win a seat in the statehouse.”
“I remember that,” Lorraine said. “The paper endorsed him. Your grandfather had reservations, because Symmes was so young, but Pops said he was a young man with a future.”
“I checked,” Grayson said. “The only time the Beacon didn’t endorse Symmes Robinette for office was when he switched parties, back in the eighties.”
“It caused quite an uproar when he joined the GOP,” Lorraine said. “Hard to believe the Democrats once held such a death grip on politics in this state.”
“From the state legislature, he goes to Congress. I’m telling you, this is a great story, Sarah.”
“No.” Conley shook her head vigorously. “I’ll download the video and photos, you can use them with your story, but no, thanks. Not interested.”
“Sarah!” G’mama said. “Why on earth not?”
Grayson was leaning forward, her hands clamped on her tanned knees. “If it’s about money, I’ll pay you. We don’t run a lot of freelance, but obviously, this is a whole different set of circumstances. What do you say to five hundred?”
“No, thanks. It’s not about the money.”
Grayson raised one delicately plucked eyebrow. “Oh. Oh yeah,” she said softly. “I forgot about your history with Charlie Robinette. I wouldn’t worry about that. Most people never even knew you two were a thing.”
“Fuck you, Gray,” Conley said from behind her gritted teeth.
“Sarah Conley!” G’mama’s voice sounded a warning note.
Grayson’s lips tightened, and her eyes narrowed. “You don’t want your byline in a shitty, hometown weekly, do you? Big-deal Conley Hawkins is just too good for The Silver Bay Beacon. Too good for Silver Bay, right?”
“No,” Conley said, trying to keep her cool. “I don’t know anything about local politics. You’ve got a reporter; let him write the story. How is this kid Michael going to feel if you hand the biggest story of the year off to your sister, who just shows up—what’s that word you used yesterday? Somebody who parachutes in from out of town and assumes she knows best?”
“You let me worry about my staff,” Grayson said heatedly. “You don’t give a shit about this paper or this town. Or this family. You never have.”
“That’s enough,” Lorraine said suddenly. “It’s quite enough.”
She grabbed each sibling by the hand, the way she’d done when they were young children, bickering over whose turn it was to ride in the front seat or battling over the remote control.
“I won’t have this fighting,” she said, her voice steely. “We are family, and I, by God, will not have the two of you at each other’s throats like this.” Lorraine released their hands. “Now. Sarah? Grayson was absolutely out of line with some of her remarks. Especially that dig about Charlie Robinette. I feel certain that what your sister meant to say was that she couldn’t imagine anyone who could do a finer job of writing up a story about this tragic accident. I’m sure she feels that it would be an honor to have a Hawkins byline in our family newspaper again. Isn’t that right, Grayson?”
Grayson picked at the cuticle on her right thumb until it started to bleed. “Yeah,” she muttered. “Something like that.”
“Good,” G’mama said. “So that’s settled. “Sarah will write a first-person piece about Symmes Robinette’s death for next week’s paper.”
“What?” Conley started to object, but her grandmother quickly shushed her.
“You’ve been bored and restless practically since the minute you got back home. This will give you something constructive to do with your time.”
“But I’ve never covered Florida politics—”
“Then you’d better get started doing your research,” G’mama said. She picked a slice of lime from her drink and nibbled at the rind.
Conley knew she’d been beaten. So much for her plan to loll on the beach and sip fruity umbrella drinks. “Okay,” she said, putting her drink down. “If you need me, I’ll be upstairs in my room, looking up Symmes Robinette in the Congressional Record.”
“And, Grayson?” Lorraine said, turning to her other grandchild.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You’ll pay Sarah $1,000. But that includes the main story and whatever sidebars you two decide are necessary.”
“A thousand!” Grayson exclaimed. “That’s a full week’s payroll for me. What if my other reporters find out I’m paying my sister that kind of money?”
“They won’t,” Lorraine said serenely. “Your sister knows how to be discreet.”
“Okay, but she’s gotta do the police blotter too,” Grayson said, as she headed for the door.
“One last tiny detail,” Lorraine called after her. “From now on, I want Sarah to do rewrites on Rowena’s column. We may not be able to fire her, but at the very least, we can make Hello, Summer literate and accurate.”
Conley was standing by the wide french doors that separated the porch from the living room. “What? No, absolutely not. I can’t be babysitting that old lady.”
“Rowena won’t stand for that,” Grayson said. “You know what she’s like.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to make it sound like a great opportunity,” Lorraine said. She held out her glass and jiggled the half-melted ice cubes. “But before you go, dear, fix me another sunsetter, would you? That last one tasted awfully light on the vodka.”
12
Winnie stood at the huge, old, cast-iron kitchen sink peeling shrimp, with Opie directly underfoot while Lorraine sat at the kitchen table working a crossword puzzle. The turquoise transistor radio was perched on the windowsill, and they were listening to the news on NPR.
“Hey, shug,” G’mama said when Conley walked into the kitchen with her laptop. She pointed at the radio. “Buddy Bright just announced that Symmes Robinette was killed in an accident in his home district. But ‘no further details are available.’”
“That was fast,” Conley said. “Hey, do we not have Wi-Fi here? I’ve been upstairs trying to get online.”
“No Wi-Fi, no cable television, no dishwasher,” Winnie grumbled. She pointed at the rust-tinged water trickling from the kitchen faucet. “Might as well be living in a covered wagon out here.”
“I meant to ask you what’s going on with the water after I showered this morning,” Conley said. “There’s hardly any water pressure upstairs, and what water there is looks kinda weird.”
“It’s an old house with old pipes,” Lorraine said. “You’ve gotten spoiled living in Atlanta.”
“You want some supper?” Winnie asked, ignoring her employer. “I was just fixing to holler up at you.” She placed a plate with sliced hard-boiled eggs, shredded iceberg lettuce, and a mound of shrimp in the c
enter of the table, then spooned pale coral remoulade sauce over the salad.
“I guess.” Conley took a seat across from her grandmother and poured a glass of iced tea from the pitcher in the center of the table.
Lorraine set aside her puzzle book and watched as Conley spooned salad onto her plate and began eating.
“Are you mad at me for making you work for your sister?”
Conley edged some of the shrimp salad onto a saltine cracker and chewed before answering. “A little bit. Yeah. Grayson resents me. She resents my success. I really think working for her is a terrible idea.”
“I know,” Lorraine said calmly.
“You do?”
“Yes. Your sister also resents the fact that she’s been stuck here in Silver Bay all these years, doing a job she never wanted, trying to keep a family business afloat and having to look after a cantankerous grandmother instead of having power lunches—whatever those are—and working for a white-shoe law firm anyplace but here.”
“Cantankerous? That’s putting it mildly,” Winnie remarked, joining them at the table.
“Hush,” Lorraine said. “Look,” she went on. “I didn’t want to burden you with this, but now that you’re here and between jobs, as it were, you might as well know. This is make-or-break time for the Beacon. For all of us in this business. We—that is, Grayson and I—could really use your help.”
“How bad is it?” Conley asked, shocked to hear her grandmother asking for help.
Lorraine nibbled at a bit of shrimp. “Our circulation has never been this low before. Ever. Grayson’s done everything she knows to do, but she tells me this new generation doesn’t read newspapers. That’s not how they get their news.”
“I know,” Conley said sadly. “Print journalism seems to be a dying form. Digital is the future. Or at least, it was supposed to be.”
“Advertising is the one thing that keeps us going,” Lorraine said. “Of course, it’s nowhere near what it used to be. Green’s is long gone, and we don’t have the used-car advertising we used to get, thanks to that damn Craigslist, but we do have a few loyal longtime advertisers. The IGA, the hardware store, and there’s the new Dollar Holler, and they buy the occasional preprint ad inserts, so that helps.” She pointed a finger at her granddaughter. “Anyway, since you’re here, what’s the harm in writing a few stories for the Beacon?”
“You really think Grayson is going to like anything I write?” Conley asked, scowling.
“Yes. She may resent you, but your sister is a pragmatist. She’ll never admit it to your face, but she knows how good you are. She read every word of that series you did for the Atlanta paper.”
“She did?”
“We both did. We have an online subscription to the AJC. Or we did. Sarah, we were both so proud of the work you did, and winning that Polk Award, well, I kept wishing Pops were still alive.”
“Think he would have put it on the front page of the Beacon?”
Winnie scoffed. “That old man? You were always his little pet. He woulda put out a whole special edition.”
“Okay,” Conley said, resigned to her fate. “Enough with the flattery. I don’t really have a choice here. Since we don’t have Wi-Fi, and the word’s out about the congressman’s death, I guess I’d better get busy. I’m gonna run into town and use the Wi-Fi at the house. Okay?”
“That’s fine,” G’mama said. “Just promise you won’t stay out until three again.”
* * *
On the way into town, Conley made a detour to the Bronson County Sheriff’s Office.
Varnedoe, the county seat, was an even smaller town than Silver Bay, with two stoplights and a business district that consisted of a single block of stores and office buildings that clustered around a courthouse square dominated by a Civil War–era cannon and a marble plinth serving as a memorial to the county’s soldiers killed in the two world wars. The streetlights were on, bathing the empty landscape in a melancholy yellow glow.
The sheriff’s office was a single-story, tan-brick building on the east side of the courthouse square, dwarfed by a magnolia tree that seemed to have swallowed up half the building.
A lone police cruiser was parked on the street out front. Conley found the deputy on duty sitting behind a counter separated from the lobby entrance by a sheet of bulletproof glass.
He looked up from the computer monitor he’d been staring at. “Can I help you?”
He was in his early forties, with blond hair fading to gray. The nameplate fastened to his khaki uniform shirt said he was J. DuPuy.
“Yes,” she said, her manner crisply professional. “I’m Conley Hawkins, from the Beacon, and I’d like to see the incident report for Symmes Robinette’s accident yesterday.”
He tilted his head and frowned. “The Beacon? What’s that?”
“The Silver Bay Beacon.”
“Y’all still got a paper over there?” He chuckled at his own joke.
“Just the oldest weekly newspaper in the state,” Conley said. “And I’d like to see that incident report. Please.”
“I’d have to ask the sheriff if that kind of thing is authorized,” DuPuy said. “You can check back tomorrow.”
“Police reports are a matter of public record in Florida,” Conley said. “The sheriff’s office is required by law to make them available—and in a timely manner.”
“That so?” He raised one eyebrow.
She was doing a slow burn, trying not to let him bait her. “Look, we both know the law here. Why do you want to hassle me? I’m like you. I’m doing my job.”
“How’d you hear about the congressman?” he asked.
“It was on the radio. And as it happens, my friend and I were the first ones on the scene. We called 911 and tried to get him out of the car, but it was already smoking when we got there.”
That piqued his interest. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Conley Hawkins,” she repeated. “From the Beacon.”
He began typing on the computer’s keyboard. After a moment, he nodded and silently read the document on the screen.
“Okay. I see here that the patrol officer interviewed you and your friend. Kelly?”
“Yes. Sean Kelly.”
“Three fifteen in the morning? What were y’all doing out running around that time of night?”
She chewed the inside of her cheek. “What was the congressman doing out running around at that time of night? He’s what, in his seventies?”
“The sheriff’s looking into that,” DuPuy said. “Now what about you?”
“What’s that got to do with anything? I’m a member of the media, and I’ve requested that report. Which you are obliged to hand over to me.”
“You got any ID? I mean, how do I know you’re who you say you are?” Deputy DuPuy was really enjoying himself now.
Conley passed her driver’s license through the small slot in the window.
He studied it like it was a blood-spattered knife instead of a laminated driver’s license. “This says you live in Atlanta.”
“I did. Until this week. Now I live in Silver Bay. Can I get that incident report, please? I’m on a deadline.”
He gave her a stern look. “You’ll need to get yourself a Florida driver’s license, you know. Now that you’ve moved here.”
Haven’t had a Florida license since I was twenty-one, and I ain’t getting one anytime soon again, she thought.
“I won’t be here that long, but thanks,” she said impatiently. “This is sort of a … temporary arrangement. I really need to get back to work now. Okay?”
“Says here your name is Sarah,” DuPuy passed the driver’s license back to her.
“It’s my first name, but I go by my middle name.” She looked over at him. “How about you, Deputy DuPuy? What’s the J stand for?”
Jerk? Jerkwater? Jerk-off? she wondered.
“James. Not Jim or Jimmy. Just James.”
“Okay, James. I really need that report.”
/> “It’s Deputy DuPuy to you, Sarah.”
He tapped some keys, and she heard the whir of a printer coming from beneath the counter. He stapled four sheets of paper together. “There’s a fee for copying. A dollar a sheet. Think your paper can afford it?”
Probably not.
She handed over the bills, and he handed her the incident report. There was a wooden bench bolted to the wall opposite the counter window. Conley sat on the bench and skimmed through the report.
Not much here she didn’t already know. The Escalade, or what was left of it after the body was removed and the fire was extinguished, had been towed to Wiley’s Garage. Symmes Robinette’s body had been transported to Gulf Regional Hospital, and then to Apalachicola, to the regional medical examiner’s lab.
Her own name and contact information—and Skelly’s—were part of the report’s narrative, which was signed by good old W. R. Poppell.
* * *
Conley went back to the front counter. “I’m going to need to speak to your sheriff. When will he be available?”
DuPuy didn’t look up from the computer. “The sheriff doesn’t like to talk to reporters as a rule.”
“Well, he’s gonna have to make an exception this time,” she said. “This is a national story. Symmes Robinette was a public figure.”
DuPuy shook his head. “Sheriff Goggins will be in tomorrow at eight. You can leave your number, and I’ll pass it along. That’s the best I can do.”
Conley hadn’t covered the police beat since her early days working for a crappy weekly in Belvedere, Louisiana, but things hadn’t changed much in the intervening years. Cops were still notoriously closemouthed, even antagonistic to members of the press. She had no doubt that she’d be calling the sheriff, repeatedly, starting first thing in the morning.
* * *
She stopped at the Silver Bay Police Department on her way back from Varndoe to skim through the week’s incident reports, before driving back to G’mama’s house on Felicity Street. When she unlocked the door and stepped inside, the only sound was the loud ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the dimly lit front hallway.
Hello, Summer Page 9
