Hello, Summer

by Mary Kay Andrews

  He winced. “But, as you say, it’s interesting.”

  “Winnie had nothing to do with Robinette’s death,” Conley said. “I was with her when we got the news that the wreck victim had been identified. She was as shocked as we were.”

  “I’m not saying your housekeeper is a suspect. I’m not saying anybody’s a suspect,” Goggins said. “It’s still an open investigation.”

  She heard her phone ping with an incoming text message. Glancing down, she saw the text was from Grayson.

  Need you back here ASAP.

  “Gotta go,” she said, stowing her notebook in her backpack. “Will you let me know if Poppell turns up any information on the mysterious men arguing in the nighttime?”

  “Possibly,” Goggins said. “And you’ll do me the same courtesy?”

  “Possibly.”

  31

  Lillian King pulled Conley aside as soon she as entered the Beacon’s tiny reception area. “It’s your lucky day,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Vanessa Robinette this morning and now Rowena Meigs in the afternoon.”

  “Noooo,” Conley groaned. “Why didn’t Grayson give me a heads-up?”

  “She was probably afraid you’d turn tail and run all the way back to Atlanta,” Lillian said. “They’re in her office now, waiting for you.”

  “What’s Rowena want? She already turned in her column this morning. I haven’t even had time to fix that.”

  “From what I could tell by eavesdropping outside Grayson’s door, Rowena has got herself a hot tip about Vanessa Robinette. She wants us to run it on the front page.”

  * * *

  Rowena was sitting in a chair facing Grayson, with her back to the door. Conley stood there and, catching her sister’s eye, put her forefinger to her temple and mimed pulling a trigger.

  “Here’s Conley now,” Grayson said, a little too heartily.

  “Hello, Sarah Conley,” Rowena said, giving her a curt nod of acknowledgment. She’d been holding her Pomeranian in her lap, but the tiny ball of fluff gave a small yip of protest and jumped down onto the floor.

  Rowena was dressed in a hot-pink tracksuit, blindingly white Velcro-fastened tennis shoes, and her customary string of pearls.

  “Hi, Rowena,” Conley said. “Lillian tells me you have another story for us?”

  “Yes,” Rowena said. “I was just explaining to Grayson here that I won’t be filing my exclusive unless she can guarantee me front-page, above-the-fold placement.”

  “Oh?” Conley grabbed a chair from the outer office and rolled it in to sit beside the paper’s society columnist. She set her backpack on the floor. “What’s the big story?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

  “Why, it’s just the biggest scoop this paper has ever seen,” Rowena said. “Much bigger than the time the PTA treasurer embezzled all the money from the school’s fruitcake sale to pay for her breast implants.”

  Grayson gave her sister a weak smile. “Rowena managed to get an interview with Vanessa Robinette today.”

  “An exclusive interview,” the columnist put in. “Vanessa is going to run for Symmes’s seat.”

  “Really?” Conley said. “That’s quite an achievement. How’d you manage to pull that off, Rowena, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I don’t mind at all. I ran into Vanessa at Mignon’s, not even an hour ago.”

  “Mignon? Is that someone in town who I should know?”

  “Mignon’s Salon de Beauté,” Rowena said. “Of course, the actual Mignon’s been dead for years now, but yes, dear, you should know about the hair salon. It’s never too early for a girl like you to start thinking about covering up those pesky little gray hairs.”

  Conley wasn’t sure, but she believed she’d just been insulted.

  “Anyway,” Rowena went on, “Vanessa was getting a blowout, because she leaves bright and early in the morning for Symmes’s memorial service in Washington, and I was in the chair next to her, getting my rinse, and we just started to chat. I told her how sorry I was about Symmes and asked about her plans for the future. I’m a widow too, you know, and as I said to Vanessa, I’ve been through the same experience she’s going through.”

  “I’m sure she appreciated your wisdom,” Grayson said.

  “She really did,” Rowena agreed. “She told me that Symmes was dying of cancer! I had no idea, did you?”

  “She, uh, mentioned it when she was in to see me this morning,” Conley said. “I guess I’m surprised she didn’t mention her plan to run for Congress while she was here.”

  Rowena favored Conley with a pitying smile.

  “I’m afraid Vanessa doesn’t like you very much, dear. It’s possible you alienated her with all your pushy, big-city tactics.”

  “Pushy?” Conley said.

  Grayson gave her sister a warning shake of her head, signaling that Conley should stand down.

  “Vanessa told me that once Symmes got sick, he started grooming young Charlie to run for his seat. But Charlie, although a very dear boy, I’m sure, is a bit headstrong. Symmes was having second thoughts.”

  “Did Vanessa say why?” Grayson asked.

  “Some family matter,” Rowena said. “I’m not sure Vanessa and Symmes approved of the girl Charlie has been running around with.” The old woman lowered her voice. “She’s newly divorced. With a young child. Not very suitable.”

  “Pot meet kettle,” Conley said. “Remember, Symmes was ‘not yet divorced’ with two young children when he married Vanessa.”

  “Anyway,” Rowena went on, “according to Vanessa, Symmes had his doubts. He thought Charlie needed some life experiences before he’d be ready to go into government and that it would be a disservice both to his constituents and his family to put his son in a position he wasn’t really ready to assume.”

  “And Vanessa told you she is ready to assume those responsibilities?” Conley asked.

  Rowena shrugged. “Why not? I’m a little surprised at a career girl like you, Sarah Conley, for expressing doubts that a woman should run for Congress.”

  Conley gnashed her molars for a moment before deciding to ignore Rowena’s quaint “career girl” comment. “I don’t have an opinion on Vanessa’s qualifications as a candidate, Rowena. Grayson and I just need to make absolutely sure that Vanessa Robinette went on the record with you that she intends to run for her late husband’s seat. Against her own son.”

  “Of course,” Rowena said, bristling. “Despite what you might think, I am a seasoned, professional journalist.”

  “Did you ask her to go on the record about why she’s running for a seat her son has just declared for?” Conley asked.

  Rowena fiddled with a loose thread on the cuff of her jacket. “Of course not. That would be rude. I can’t insult a woman who’s just lost her husband like that.” Leaning heavily on her cane, decorated today with a red, white, and blue ribbon, Rowena heaved herself from the chair. “You have my story.”

  She snapped her fingers at the Pomeranian, who’d been sniffing the perimeter of the office. “Come, Tuffy,” she called. “Mommy has an important meeting to cover.”

  Tuffy scampered toward his owner’s outstretched arms, pausing before lifting a leg and releasing a vigorous stream of urine on Conley’s backpack.

  “Oh my goodness,” Rowena said, scooping up the dog. “Naughty boy!” She plucked a handful of tissues from her pocketbook and dabbed ineffectively at the damp bag. “There,” she said. “All fixed.”

  32

  EXCLUSIVE TO THE SILVER BAY BEACON FROM ROWENA MEIGS

  SILVER BAY, FLORIDA—Following the tragic death last week of her husband, Thirty-fifth District U.S. Rep. Simms Robinette, Mrs. Vanessa Robinette revealed in an exclusive interview with this correspondent that she will mount a campaign to run for the remainder of her husband’s term in Congress.

  Simms Robinette died in a one-car accident on County Road 321 last Thursday night.

  “Of course, I am heartbroken over the sudden loss of the love of my
life,” Mrs. Robinette told the Beacon this week. “But public service has long been the focus of my life with Simms, and I can think of no better way to honor his legacy than to seek to continue serving his constituants in Congress.”

  Mrs. Robinette said the entire family will travel to Washington, D.C., on Tuesday, where Rep. Robinette’s body will lie in state in the Capitol Rotunda. Among the important dignitaries expected to honor our eighteen-term congressman are the president and First Lady, the vice president, Florida governor Roy Padgett and Florida First Lady Heidi Padgett, the Speaker of the House of Representatives, and others.

  The memorial service will be presided over by the House chaplain. Mrs. Robinette divulged that she will wear a simple black Chanel suit, a black hat and veil, and black Louboutin pumps for the service. Her only jewelry will consist of her late husband’s gold wedding band and his FSU fraternity pin, as well as a jeweled American flag broach, which was a recent birthday gift.

  Conley stopped reading aloud. “You’re not really going to run this drivel, right?”

  Grayson spread her hands apart in a gesture of surrender. “What choice do I have? You heard her. Rowena thinks her exclusive is the biggest scoop since the sinking of the Titanic.”

  “You can’t run this crap,” Conley repeated. “She didn’t even spell Symmes correctly. Or constituent. Or Louboutin. Or brooch. Rowena’s right about one thing. It is a big story. But she’s buried the lede. She doesn’t even mention the fact that Vanessa plans to run against Charlie.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Fold her story into mine. Her byline can run above mine. This once. I’ll write a new lede, saying that we’ve learned, exclusively, that Vanessa will run for the seat, against Charlie, who’s already established a campaign committee and started raising money. And we’ll add that Symmes was diagnosed with cancer late last year, a fact he hid from the public.”

  “Rowena will pitch a hissy if we do that,” Grayson said gloomily. “She’ll probably get her damn nephew to take the legal ads away from the paper. If we lose that revenue, Conley, I don’t think the Beacon can survive.”

  “If we don’t own this story, cover it aggressively and professionally, we deserve to lose the legals,” Conley said. “But if we jump out ahead on this, show the community that we do hard-hitting, quality journalism here, then I think we’ll gain ad revenue. And subscribers.”

  “And what if that plan doesn’t work? It’s fine for you. You’re not planning to stick around here and save the ship. You’ll be outta here with the first job offer that comes across the transom. But I’m the one—me—Grayson Hawkins, whose name is on the masthead as publisher and managing editor. And I’m the one who’ll get to take the blame for running our family business into the ground after over a hundred years. I’ll be the one left to put a FOR SALE sign in the window and lay off Lillian and Michael.” She pointed toward the ceiling. “I’ll be the one to turn off that stupid fucking lighthouse.”

  Grayson buried her head in her hands. Her voice was muffled. “It’s all on me.”

  Conley was shocked by the despair in her sister’s voice. She stood behind Grayson’s chair and awkwardly patted her back as though soothing a colicky baby. “Come on, Gray,” she said softly. “It’s not that bad. We can do this. I’ll help. We’re gonna write an amazing story, and all of us—you, me, Michael—we’ll kick ass. Look. As soon as Mike gets us a reaction statement from Charlie Robinette, I’ll put the story together.”

  She looked up. “I appreciate it, but I just don’t think—”

  “I haven’t even had a chance to tell you yet,” Conley added. “I talked to a woman who lives near the wreck site. She heard voices sometime after midnight that night, coming from up near the road. Two men arguing loudly. And a woman telling them to stop. Not even the sheriff knew about that. And don’t forget, I’ve got those photos of the fire. Hell, I nearly forgot—I’ve got video!”

  “What good’s video gonna do?” Grayson asked.

  “If we put out a digital edition tonight, which we totally should do, we can embed the video of the car fire. Have you got any idea how many more people look at video than just still photos?”

  She shrugged. “Not really.”

  “Gawd,” Conley groaned. “Gray, I love you, and I don’t want this paper to fail. But we have got to get you and the Beacon into the twenty-first century.”

  “You don’t think it’s too … disrespectful? Or macabre? I mean, Symmes Robinette died in that fire.”

  “Newspapers and television broadcasts have been using photos and videos of fatal accidents for decades and decades,” Conley said. “Think of the Hindenburg. Or the Zapruder film of the Kennedy assassination. It’s news. Sad and tragic, but nonetheless noteworthy.”

  “Okay,” Grayson said reluctantly. “Call Michael and see if he’s gotten any statement from Charlie Robinette. Lillian usually sends out our digital news briefs. I’ll let her know we’re doing one today.”

  Conley had another thought. “You run ads in the digital updates. Right?”

  “No. I never thought of that.”

  “Think of it now,” Conley urged. “Make a list of your biggest advertisers. The Island IGA, for sure, right? And Mort’s Liquors? And the Lamplighter? Call ’em all. Or better, go out and see them. Offer them a combined ad buy for … what? Maybe an extra fifty bucks? They get display space in tonight’s digital edition, plus whatever they usually do in the print edition.”

  “I’m just not sure,” Grayson said. “You can’t believe what a hard sell these businesses are. I’m practically giving away ad space as it is.”

  Conley was nearing the end of her patience. “Take a look at the online editions of other dailies, if you don’t believe me.” She pointed at her desktop computer. “Go ahead. Call up the Tampa Bay Times, Tallahassee Democrat, Orlando Sentinel, Miami Herald. They’ve all monetized their online editions. They use flashy graphics, video, all kinds of stuff to get eyes on their ads. That’s what we’ve got to do too.”

  Grayson tapped some keys and stared at the screen. “Hmm.”

  “Just do it, okay?”

  Grayson sighed a heavy, embattled sigh.

  Conley’s stomach growled loudly. It was after two, and she’d missed lunch. “Hey,” she said, whirling around. “What about Kelly’s Drugs? Do they advertise with us?”

  “Nope,” Grayson said. “As far as I know, they never have.”

  “Why not?”

  “I guess our former ad sales manager just neglected to put the hard sell on them.”

  “Who was our former ad sales manager?”

  “That’d be me,” Grayson said. “It felt awkward, trying to sell something to Miss June.”

  “But we’ve always done business at Kelly’s. For as long as I can remember, G’mama’s had an account there.”

  Grayson shrugged.

  * * *

  Skelly was behind the pharmacy counter but looked up when Conley entered the store, his face lighting up when he saw his newest customer.

  “Hey,” he said. “What can I get you?”

  “Some lunch? I haven’t eaten, and I’m starved.”

  He finished filling a bottle with a creamy white liquid, capped it, and slapped a label on it. “Let me bag this and call the patient to tell him it’s ready, then I’ll meet you over at the soda fountain and get you fixed up.”

  Conley set her backpack on the floor and twirled around on the stool, surveying the luncheonette as though she’d never seen it before. Nothing had changed since she’d first started coming here as a child.

  “What’s your pleasure?” Skelly asked when she spun around to face him.

  “Hmm. Do you still make the pulled pork with that tangy sweet sauce?”

  He nodded. “Yep. George still smokes four or five pork butts for me every Sunday. He makes the sauce from my mom’s old recipe. I usually sell out by Thursday or Friday morning at the latest. I have a couple of dozen customers who put in standing orde
rs to pick it up on the way to their beach houses every week.”

  “Pulled pork, definitely.”

  “How’s your coleslaw? You don’t serve that vile creamy mayonnaise-drenched mess, do you?”

  He pretended to be shocked. “Mayo in my slaw? What kind of joint do you think this is? We do sweet-sour vinegar slaw. And George’s wife hand grates the cabbage and onions herself. None of this pre-shredded crap you buy at the store.”

  “Coleslaw, then. And coffee, if you’ve got any. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

  He fetched two mugs and poured one for her and one for himself. He dumped sugar and a creamer into his own mug and sipped. “Breaking news, right? I heard Buddy Bright this morning talking about Charlie Robinette’s announcement.”

  Conley made a face. “That damn guy! He’s everywhere. He might have gotten the jump on Charlie’s announcement, but we’ve got an even better story. We’re going to put out a special digital-only edition later today.”

  “The Beacon? You guys do that?”

  “Grayson says they sometimes do it for elections or big football news, but this is too good a story to hold for another day, so yeah, we’re gonna go for it.” She tapped her fingernail on the countertop. “Which reminds me. Grayson says Kelly’s Drugs doesn’t advertise in the Beacon. Mind if I ask why not?”

  Skelly took another sip of coffee. “It just never came up. Mom used to handle all that stuff. When I came home to work here, I just kinda kept up with what she’d been doing. I know we buy space in those cheesy coupon mailers, but I think that’s all the advertising we do.” He gave her a quizzical look. “So now you’re the ace reporter plus ad saleswoman?”

  “Not by choice,” Conley said. “I’m trying to drag my sister into the brave new world of digital news. Newspapers don’t make money on subscriptions, you know. In fact, we lose money on them. Most papers depend on revenue from advertising. And if we can sell ad space in digital editions, it’s a win-win. More eyes on your ad, more money for us.”