Buddy froze. He cleared his throat. “Well, now, Pooh Bear, I’ve worked in lots of different places over the years. That’s the nature of the radio business. But the one place I haven’t worked is Detroit.” He chuckled. “Guess you’ve got me mixed up with some other devastatingly handsome and talented disc jockey.”
“No,” the caller insisted. “I was in town the other day, and I happened to walk by the station while you were on the air, and I saw you sitting right there on the other side of that big plate glass picture window. See, years ago, my wife and I went to the grand opening of a new shopping center in Bloomfield Hills, and that’s when we saw this deejay who looks and sounds exactly like you.”
Buddy felt the blood rush to his face. He had to get this guy off the air. “They say everybody’s got a twin somewhere, right, Pooh Bear? Okay, thanks for listening, and thanks for calling in tonight.”
He cut the caller off and cued in the next block of commercials with shaking hands. He needed a cigarette in the world’s worst way. God, how he missed the days before all the do-gooders and tobacco Nazis ruined the world.
Neal, the station owner, was a reformed smoker, and his kind were the worst tobacco Nazis of all. Every wall in the tiny station had a NO SMOKING sign tacked up. But it was after ten now, and there was nobody else around.
He tapped a cigarette out of his pack, lit up, and inhaled deeply, flicking the ashes in the dregs of his coffee mug. It ended up taking two more cigarettes before his nerves settled back down.
He flipped the mic on again. “Okay,” he said finally. “Let’s see what everybody else in Silver Bay thinks about the state of the world.”
“Hey there, Buddy! It’s me, Alice. I can’t believe I finally got through to you. Feels like I’ve been trying for forever. Am I on the radio right now?”
He could hear her voice playing on her own radio at home.
“If you turn down the volume, Alice, I’ll be able to hear you a lot better.”
“Oh.” She giggled. “All right. I usually keep it turned up because I’m a little bit hard of hearing.”
“That’s better, sweet Alice. Now what’s on your mind on this beautiful night?”
“My goodness, Buddy. I can’t even believe what’s going on in this wicked world we live in. I think if more people would read their scripture, we wouldn’t have all these troubles. I couldn’t believe that lady who called in earlier. And I want to say, for the record, that I would not vote for that home wrecker Vanessa Robinette even if she were running for dogcatcher.”
* * *
Lillian was working quietly, listening to the radio on her desk. Michael had left to meet up with friends for an evening of video games. Grayson was gone too, probably for dinner at the Wrinkle Room.
Despite her animosity toward Buddy Bright, Conley would grudgingly admit she’d gotten used to his easy, late-night patter with his listeners. She was still chuckling over the last caller’s dogcatcher comment.
She wasn’t unused to hard work and long hours—it was part of the business—but this had been one of the longest days in recent memory.
Once she’d gotten Grayson’s reluctant agreement that she could freelance for the AJC and the network, she’d called both news outlets to alert them on the latest twist in the ongoing Robinette family drama.
She’d stopped work briefly while everyone in the office watched cable coverage of Symmes Robinette’s memorial service in the Capitol Rotunda. It was an appropriately solemn occasion, what with the flag-draped coffin, and lines of somber-faced politicians filing past and shaking hands with Vanessa, who was pale-faced and striking in her black Dior suit, her late husband’s fraternity pin twinkling from her lapel.
Earlier in the day, Conley had handed off the story about Vanessa’s and Charlie’s dueling congressional campaigns to Michael so that she could concentrate on the elder abuse allegation. It had taken the better part of the day to fight her way through the thicket of bureaucrats at the state’s Department of Children and Families to find someone willing to speak on the record about Charlie Robinette’s explosive claim.
“We can confirm that a family member has issued a formal complaint, but we have no further comment until our investigation is completed,” a caseworker supervisor told her.
She’d finally managed to reach Symmes Robinette’s former political patron—and his son Charlie’s campaign chairman—late in the afternoon. Miles Schoendienst was clearly reluctant to talk on the record, but she’d finally managed to pin him down.
“I understand you live next door to Symmes and Vanessa Robinette,” she said. “Were you aware that Vanessa was deliberately keeping friends and family away from the congressman?”
He let out a long sigh. “Vanessa was very protective of Symmes. Frankly, my wife and I thought she was going a little overboard. Since they’d moved out here, we’d had a sort of standing Saturday night supper club. Very casual, just three or four couples. But after she brought Symmes home from the hospital, she made it clear that he couldn’t have visitors. We thought she’d turned into a germophobe.”
Conley was typing as rapidly as she could. “Were you surprised when he left Washington and came home for treatment?”
“God, yes,” Schoendienst said. “Those docs at Walter Reed are supposed to be some of the best in the country. I tried to broach the subject with her, but Vanessa is a very strong-minded woman. She basically told me to mind my own damn business. So that’s what I did. Still, it pained me to see how rapidly Symmes declined.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
He chuckled. “Maybe a month or so ago? Vanessa had gone into town. He drove over here in his golf cart, and we sat and had a beer and watched an inning of the ball game. He didn’t stay long, because he tired so easily, plus he said he didn’t want the warden to know he’d escaped from solitary.”
Conley typed the word in all caps. “He called his wife the warden? And he said he was in solitary?”
“It was his idea of a joke. Symmes had a quirky sense of humor.”
“How did he look a month ago?”
“Not too good. He couldn’t walk very far without getting out of breath.”
“Did you know she was keeping Charlie from visiting or speaking to his father?”
“Charlie and I talked about it,” Schoendienst said. “As you might know, Symmes had asked me to guide Charlie in the process of mounting a campaign committee. I’ve known Charlie his whole life.”
“So Symmes was grooming Charlie to run for his seat?”
“Look, I feel like this whole business is disrespectful to Symmes’s memory so soon after his death,” Schoendienst said. “Been nice talking to you.” He disconnected.
An hour before deadline, her cell phone rang. To her surprise, the caller was Vanessa, who didn’t bother with a greeting.
“I assume the Beacon won’t be printing the outrageous and slanderous accusations my so-called son hurled at me today,” she said. “Because if you do, my lawyer will sue you for every last dime you people have.”
“Do you deny you were keeping the congressman isolated from family and friends?” Conley asked. “Has a caseworker from the state contacted you about the allegations?”
“I’m not going to dignify this crap by responding to it,” Vanessa said. “I loved my husband and did everything in my power to make his last days peaceful and pain-free. The same can’t be said for his so-called friends and family members.”
It was the second time that day she’d been hung up on, which made Conley believe she was getting close to the truth.
Ten minutes later, Lillian strolled over and dropped a fax on her desk. “This just came,” she said.
“We’ve got a fax machine?” Conley asked, impressed.
“Mm-hmm.”
The document had a letterhead from Alexandra Watters, press secretary for the Vanessa Robinette for Congress Campaign.
Today, in our nation’s capital, a widow mourned and saluted the memory
of her beloved husband, the honorable U.S. Representative C. Symmes Robinette, in a ceremony attended by his colleagues from the House and Senate, along with the vice president, First Lady, and hundreds of everyday citizens whose lives were bettered by this dedicated public servant.
But in a deliberately cruel and outrageous action, Mrs. Robinette’s estranged son chose this day to sabotage his recently widowed mother.
That Charlie Robinette would choose to exploit what should be a private family matter in such a way speaks volumes about his own character, or lack thereof.
Vanessa Robinette vehemently denies these baseless allegations. In the meantime, she looks forward to launching a vigorous congressional campaign that will bring her issue-focused message to the voters of the Thirty-fifth District, whom she served alongside her husband of thirty-four years.
The final version of Conley’s story ran to nearly thirty column inches. Grayson had arranged to buy photos of the Washington service, with Vanessa shaking hands with the president, standing beside the flag-draped casket, and she’d designed the Beacon’s front page with the cell phone photo of Charlie Robinette’s press conference right beside the photo of the widow Robinette.
As soon as her copy had been edited, she called Selena Kwan in Atlanta.
“I saw the piece that ran on the wire earlier today. This story is absolutely nuts,” Selena said. “If I’d known the son was gonna accuse the widow of trying to kill his dad, I would have sent a camera crew down there.”
“Nobody had any idea he was going to do this. The CBS reporter said he just happened to be nearby doing another story when his editor called and diverted him over to Silver Bay, just in case. This came completely out of left field,” Conley told her. “I just filed my piece for the paper. I’ve got a strong denial from Vanessa, not to mention a lawsuit threat, confirmation from the state that ‘an unnamed family member’ has filed a complaint—although they won’t comment on an investigation until it’s completed—and some juicy quotes from Symmes’s neighbor and one of his oldest friends.”
“Define ‘juicy,’” Selena said.
“The neighbor, who also happens to be Charlie’s new campaign chairman, Miles Schoendienst, said that Symmes referred to Vanessa as ‘the warden.’ He said the last time he saw Symmes was a month ago, when Symmes ‘escaped’ while Vanessa was out of the house. I asked if he was ‘surprised’ that Vanessa brought Symmes home to Silver Bay instead of letting the docs at Walter Reed continue his care and his response was ‘God, yes.’ That day Symmes snuck over to see him, Schoendienst said it pained him to see how weak Symmes was.”
“Okay, can you send me your story that you just filed? And your video of the son’s press conference today?”
“I will.”
“Great. I finally got the okay for your contract. I just emailed it to you. Sign it and send it back, and we’ll get you on the books.”
Conley felt a flutter of excitement, like a racehorse that had finally been let out of her stall.
But by midnight that night, with the office quiet, every ounce of energy was drained from her body. She tucked her laptop into her backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and prepared to lock up the office before her long drive out to the beach. She only hoped she could stay awake.
The night air felt cooler, less humid as she walked outside to the Subaru. She tossed her backpack in the passenger seat and started the car. On a whim, she drove slowly around the square. The Confederate soldier on the memorial statue was lit up and a solitary pigeon perched on his shoulder. On the flagpole beside the courthouse, the American flag hung limply, at half-mast, while the Florida state flag fluttered below it. She found herself slowing in front of Kelly’s Drugs and realized, to her own chagrin, that she’d been hoping maybe she’d glimpse Skelly inside, flicking off the lights and closing up shop, as she’d just done.
As tired as she was, Conley realized, she craved companionship, craved the sensation of talking over the day’s events, sharing her minor frustrations and semi-major victories. She missed having somebody to talk to. But only the neon Kelly’s Drugs sign was still lit up.
42
At midnight, Buddy began his own routine of packing up. Since he’d worked two shifts already, Neal had left it up to him about whether to work the overnight. Ever since that harrowing caller, Pooh Bear, the dude from Detroit, his nerves had left him jittery and anxious.
He needed to get out of the station, to clear his mind, think, and reassess his situation. He’d landed in this fly-speck burg in the Florida Panhandle because it was a place where nothing ever happened. And that had been true until a week ago, when Symmes Robinette’s car had flipped and burst into flames. The death of the congressman and the ensuing circus was shining a national spotlight on Silver Bay.
Was it time to pack up and move on? He hoped not. After six years, he’d grown fond of this place.
Just before he left, he cued up the tape of one of his “Best of Buddy” programs.
As he was pulling the Corvette onto Main Street, he spotted the blue Subaru as it idled in front of the drugstore. He recognized the car and the driver. Conley Hawkins, the hotshot reporter who’d moved to Silver Bay under her own set of mysterious circumstances. She was the competition, and he should have resented her. Instead, he admired her gumption and her drive. She reminded him of himself, back when he was young and hungry and burning up with ambition. Before Detroit.
Half a block before she reached the drugstore, he saw the black Ford pickup slide onto the street, keeping back a little, right until the moment when she slowed to a near stop. The driver braked, then held back until he was a few car lengths behind.
Buddy recognized the truck and the driver, although he didn’t know the guy’s name.
He’d seen the driver quite a few times, saw him walking into the Waffle House late at night, flirting with the waitresses, loitering in a booth while he idly stared down at his phone. He’d spotted him again earlier in the day, hanging around the shadows of the courthouse square, during the press conference. Now he was back, apparently following Conley Hawkins.
Common sense said he should mind his own business and go on home. Curiosity drove him to tail both the Subaru and the truck as they drove west, in the direction of the beach.
For once, Buddy wished he were driving something less noticeable than the ’Vette. Everybody in town recognized his flashy car with the WORKING PRESS vanity plate. He’d liked that, liked being the closest thing to a celebrity in Silver Bay. Driving the ’Vette made him feel like a big shot. But now, if the truck’s driver bothered to glance in his rearview mirror, there could be trouble. The kind of trouble he didn’t need.
When they reached the causeway that led to the beach, he almost did a U-turn. But something made him keep going.
The Subaru and the black truck slowed at the beach road, with its twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit. For the second time, he fought the urge to turn around. He inched along in the wake of the two vehicles, the only ones on the road at this late hour. He saw the Subaru’s brake lights flare red, and she pulled into a crushed-shell driveway in front of a rambling old wood-frame beach cottage. The faded lettering on the mailbox said THE DUNES, EST. 1923.
The truck kept going, but only for about half a block. Then it slowed and turned into the sandy drive of a half-built house under construction. Buddy drove on for another block, then did a quick U-turn, pulling onto the shoulder of the road with the Vette facing the truck.
He watched while the driver pulled as far forward as possible, until a construction dumpster nearly concealed it. The driver got out of the car, looked around, then slipped quickly down the sandy path through the dunes.
Buddy waited, wrestling the urge to flee. He had no business here, and whatever happened next was none of his business. He was tired and needed to think.
* * *
When he got back to his snug garage apartment, he parked and went around to the trunk. He pulled out the vinyl dustcover and lovingly placed i
t over the Vette, as he did every night.
Inside the apartment, he moved quickly through the tiny rooms, gathering books, clothes, and his album collection. He went into the bathroom and dumped his toiletries into a plastic zip baggie.
Something brushed against his ankle, and he nearly screamed. But looking down, he saw that it was only Hi-Fi, his black cat.
She meowed loudly and rubbed her hindquarters against his ankles. He closed the commode cover, sat down, and scooped her into his arms, stroking her fur repeatedly.
“Did you think I’d leave you?” he whispered into her ear. She purred, and he hugged her. “I would never.”
Holding Hi-Fi always made him feel calmer, more centered. He walked into the living room and sank down into the sofa cushions with the cat in his arms.
Buddy looked around the room. Over his years on the run, he’d winnowed out his possessions to just the things that would fit in the trunk of the Vette. By design, the sum of his belongings could be packed in less than twenty minutes. All his business dealings were on a cash basis.
He could leave right now and be several states away by morning. When he was good and clear of Silver Bay, he could place an anonymous call to the newspaper and alert Conley Hawkins to the shadowy dude who was following her. He’d gotten good in his role as the anonymous tipster. Too good, maybe.
Payday was another week away. He could stay and watch and listen. He’d keep his head down, hoping that nobody would turn around and watch the watcher.
43
Grayson emerged from her office around midmorning, beaming, clutching a champagne bottle in one hand and a stack of Styrofoam cups in the other.
Hello, Summer Page 31
