* * *
The front desk at the Silver Bay Police Department was manned by a light-skinned black woman named Claudette, who had deep dimples and a fondness for nail art. Every time Conley stopped by to pick up copies of incident reports, her nails were different. Today, each nail was painted a bright blue, with tiny yellow smiling sunrays emanating out from each tip.
“Hey, Claudette,” Conley said, bellying up to the front counter. “Love your nails.”
“Oh, hey, Conley,” Claudette said. She fanned her fingers out, admiring them herself. “My girl Sue really outdid herself this week, didn’t she?” Without being asked, she plucked a file folder from a tray on her desk and handed it over. “There’s your reports. I made copies for you.”
“How come you’re so nice to me?”
Claudette grinned, showcasing her dimples. “All us single ladies got to stick together,” she said, laughing.
“Anything good in here?” Conley asked, riffling through the reports.
“No murders or bank robberies,” Claudette replied. “Same shit, different day.”
* * *
After leaving the cop shop, Conley stopped by the bakery next to the hardware store and picked up a pound cake. “Could you wrap up the box with some ribbon?” she asked the salesclerk. “It’s for a gift.”
Afterward, she took the causeway toward the beach until she spotted the discreet green-and-white signs to Sugar Key. As she grew closer to the development, the landscape transitioned from scrub pines and palmettos to emerald swaths of bermuda grass, sabal palms, ferns, and oleanders. A wide median strip divided the road in two and was landscaped with a riot of pink, blue, and white annuals. Hard to believe that twenty years ago, this area had been a sandspur-studded, mosquito-infested swamp known to every teenager in the county as “the Goonies,” the preferred location for dope smoking, underage drinking, and sweaty, back seat shenanigans.
Half a mile down what was now Sugar Key Boulevard, she spotted a red-tile-roofed guard shack that had been built in the center of the road. To the right was the entrance, a two-lane road, each lane protected by a high, wrought iron gate. Arrows directed Residents to one side and Visitors to the other.
Conley slowed the Subaru and pulled onto the shoulder of the road. A pickup truck loaded with landscape equipment passed her on the left, and she watched as it slowed and then stopped at the visitor’s gate. A uniformed security guard stepped out of the shack and approached the truck. She saw the driver stick his head out of the open window and converse with the guard, who held a clipboard, which she now consulted. After a moment, she handed the driver a white-and-green pass and waved him through.
Five minutes later, she watched as an Audi convertible zoomed past, barely slowing as it approached the Residents gate, which swung open on the Audi’s approach.
“Might as well give it a shot,” she muttered to herself.
She stopped at the Visitors entrance and waited. The same security guard walked over to her car at a smart pace. She was petite, with military bearing, and wore her white-blond hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her uniform was spotless—sharply creased navy slacks, shiny lace-up black oxfords, white tailored shirt with faux gold epaulets, hash marks on the sleeve, even a shiny tin security badge pinned over her breast.
“Yes, ma’am?” the guard said, peering into the car and scrutinizing her closely, probably checking for concealed nuclear weapons, Conley thought.
“Hi! I’m Conley Hawkins, and I’m here to visit Mrs. Robinette,” she said.
The guard frowned. “Is she expecting you? Did she leave you a visitor’s pass?”
“Uh, well, not exactly. I go to her church, and I wanted to drop off a cake.”
“A cake?” This appeared to be a foreign concept.
“Yeah. You know, like a bereavement gesture, to show my condolences. I figure she probably has enough chicken casseroles.”
The guard did not laugh at Conley’s little joke, nor did she smile. She held up her clipboard for Conley to see. “Mrs. Robinette isn’t expecting guests. And she’s not accepting any kind of condolence cakes.”
“Oh.”
The guard pointed to a narrow, curving drive just inside the gate. “You can turn around here and go through the exit.” She did not offer a bye-bye wave, but stood stiffly, watching as Conley pulled the Subaru around and out of the subdivision.
Conley drove a few hundred yards, then pulled onto the shoulder again, turning around to examine the guard shack. As she did, she noticed a tall metal utility pole, bristling with cameras. She also noticed the blond guard, who came out of the shack and stood in the road, staring at the Subaru. Conley gave her a backward wave, then drove on.
46
A cloud of dust rose up as the Subaru bumped down the narrow dirt road to Margie Barrett’s little turquoise cottage. The old dog tottered toward her as she approached the house, and Conley leaned down and scratched his ears. “Hey, Sport,” she crooned. “Hey, Sporty boy.”
The screened door opened, and Margie Barrett stepped out onto the porch. For a moment, she looked puzzled, then she smiled in recognition of her visitor. “Chet Hawkins’s girl, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s Conley. Sorry to bother you again, but I wanted to ask you a few more questions about the night of the wreck.”
“No bother at all. I’m glad to have the company,” Ms. Barrett said. She turned to the dog. “Sport, you stay outside for a while and stretch your legs some more.”
She fussed around, filling glasses with ice cubes and Cokes and telling Conley she’d read her story in the Beacon. “I’ve got a sister-in-law who lives over there in Silver Bay, and she carried me a copy of the paper this morning when we met for coffee,” Margie said. “My goodness, can you imagine, your own son accusing you of locking up your husband?” She clucked her tongue in disapproval. “And just imagine, he had those other two children he hadn’t seen in all these years. Sometimes I wonder what gets into men like that when they get some money and some power.”
“The Robinettes are quite the political dynasty,” Conley said tactfully.
“Now what else can I tell you, honey?” Margie asked. “I mean, I’d like to help, but there just wasn’t much to what I saw and heard that night.”
“I’m curious. Did a sheriff’s deputy call or come around and ask you about that night, after I talked to you?”
“No. Hadn’t been anybody from the sheriff’s office come by. But I was over at my daughter’s house for a couple of days this week, so maybe somebody came while I was away.”
“Maybe so,” Conley said. “Okay, I was hoping you’d just walk me through it again.”
Margie folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes. “It was way after midnight, and I fell asleep right here in this recliner. Sport needed to go outside to do his business, so I walked him outside, and he was kinda growling and straining at his leash. He can’t hardly see anymore, but his hearing is still sharp. After a little bit, I heard these men’s voices, yelling. And then a woman was telling them to stop. And then I heard car doors slamming and a car peel off.”
“And you said you didn’t hear the crash at all.”
“Didn’t hear a thing until Sport started yowling because the sound of the fire trucks and ambulance hurt his ears. That’s when I rode up there to see what had happened.”
Conley sipped her Coke. There was a scratching at the screened door, and Margie heaved herself out of the recliner.
“Oh, Sport!” she cried. “Bad boy! Not again!” She slammed the door, and the dog crouched outside, on the other side, whining.
The sick, sweet smell of rotting flesh wafted into the small room.
“He’s gone and found what’s left of that dead deer up in the pasture and rolled all around in it,” Margie said, holding her hand over her mouth. “He loves nothing better than getting stinky. Does your dog do that too?”
Conley’s mind drifted back to the ride she’d taken on the Ranger o
n her last visit and the deer carcass they’d spotted, with the vultures circling overhead.
“Margie, was that deer there before the night of the wreck?”
“I don’t know,” the older woman said slowly. “Let me think. No, I don’t believe it was.” She sighed heavily. “I can’t stand that smell. I guess I’d better see about getting the stink washed off.” She went into the kitchen and came back with a bucket and a bottle of dish detergent.
Conley followed her onto the porch, holding her hand over her own nose, choking back the urge to gag.
“What can I do?” she asked, her eyes watering.
Margie clipped a leash to Sport’s collar. “We’ll take him over to the side of the house and turn the hose on him. If you can hold him still, I’ll soap him up real good.”
The dog’s cloudy brown eyes were downcast in shame as Conley grasped him by the shoulders while he was hosed and soaped, rinsed and soaped, and rinsed again. Finally, Margie shut off the hose, and Sport shook himself vigorously, spraying water on both of them.
They took the dog back inside, and Margie toweled him off, scolding him good-naturedly.
“Margie, do you think maybe Robinette’s crash happened because he hit that deer?” Conley asked. “Could hitting a deer cause a wreck like that?”
“Oh, sure. My boys have both hit deer a couple of different times coming home on that road,” Margie said. Her face colored slightly. “Happens more often in what they call rut season when the bucks are chasing after does, but not always. A couple of summers ago, one big ol’ buck’s antlers came clean through my older boy’s windshield. He coulda been killed,” Margie said, shaking her head at the memory. “I been passing that doggone carcass twice a day, every day, going back and forth to my mailbox up on the road. Don’t know why I didn’t think about it causing that wreck ’til you asked just now.”
“And I don’t know why somebody from the sheriff’s office never came to talk to you,” Conley said. “Maybe if they had, they’d have spotted that deer.”
Before she left, she crouched down on the floor beside the damp, bedraggled dog. “Sport,” she said, cradling his muzzle between her hands. “If we’re right, I believe the sheriff’s office needs to swear you into the department.”
* * *
“Hi, Sheriff,” Conley said after she’d been ushered back to his office by the desk sergeant.
“Miss Hawkins,” Merle Goggins said, nodding. “Did I miss something? Did you have an appointment for an interview with me this afternoon?”
“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in and say howdy,” Conley said. She set the bakery box with the pound cake on his desk. “I even brought a hostess gift. Because I’m such a nice, proper Southern girl.”
“Since I know you were raised in Griffin County, I’ll give you the Southern girl thing,” Goggins said. “But I’m gonna call bullshit on nice and proper.” He untied the ribbon and lifted out the cake, breaking off a piece and tasting it. “For me? You shouldn’t have.”
“To be perfectly honest, I bought that to take to Vanessa Robinette. But the security guards at Sugar Key say she’s not accepting visitors. Or condolence cakes.”
“We’d like to talk to her again too, but she’s kind of hard to pin down these days,” Goggins said. “And I imagine you’re not real popular with her either.”
He gestured toward the chair opposite the desk. “As long as you’re here, you might as well sit down.”
“Can I have a hunk of that cake?” she asked. “I didn’t get lunch today.”
“Neither did I, come to think of it,” the sheriff said. “Want some coffee with that?”
“If you’re buying,” she said, surprised at his hospitality.
“I’d have it with creamer and sugar if I were you,” he advised. “Otherwise, it’s like crankcase fluid.” He came back from the break room with two mugs of coffee, two paper plates, and a plastic knife. He served her a generous portion of cake, and they sat, sipping their coffees and enjoying the pound cake.
“Hard to find good pound cake these days,” Goggins said. “My mother-in-law makes a sour cream pound cake so good it’ll make you slap your mama.”
“Our housekeeper, Winnie, makes a good one,” Conley said. “She does a glaze with fresh-squeezed oranges.”
“Now tell the truth,” Goggins said, wiping his hands with a napkin and disposing of his plate. “What really brings you out here today?”
“Symmes Robinette,” she said promptly. “I’ve got questions. Has the medical examiner signed off on cause of death?”
“Like I told you, massive head injuries,” Goggins said.
“And yet I saw your deputy Poppell in town earlier this week. I know he went to Kelly’s Drugs to get a list of Robinette’s prescriptions, and then he went over to the body shop and took the driver’s-side mirror from the congressman’s Escalade.”
“Don’t you have anything better to do with your time than follow my deputy around?” Goggins sounded annoyed.
“Not really. This is a big story.” She reached into her backpack and brought out the latest edition of the Beacon and slid it across his desktop.
“Thanks, but I read the online version. It’s always interesting to read about rich white folks’ problems.”
“Wait ’til you see my next story,” Conley said. “I had a long conversation with Toddie Sanderson, the original Mrs. Robinette this morning. Seems like she’s much more willing to talk than the second Mrs. Robinette.”
Goggins clasped his hands behind his neck. “I guess she still feels like she’s the injured party. Even after all these years.”
“Have your deputies talked to Toddie?”
“They had a brief conversation, right after the accident,” Goggins said. “Did she tell you anything worth repeating?”
Conley smiled. “Is this the part where I tell you what I know and you tell me what you know?”
“No,” Goggins said. “It’s the part where I tell you that I can’t comment on an active investigation.”
She decided to try another tack. “I really did try to get into Sugar Key to speak to Vanessa Robinette before I came over here, and I noticed the video cameras at the entrance gate. Have you looked at the footage from the night of the crash?”
“Yes,” Goggins said.
“Do they show Symmes Robinette leaving? Was he alone?”
“Can’t comment on that,” Goggins said.
“Did you check out Vanessa’s claim that it wasn’t the first night Symmes got up and drove around in the middle of the night because he had ‘chemo brain’?”
“We check out all leads,” he said blandly.
“The reason I ask is that Toddie Sanderson told me her daughter met with Symmes, in secret, more than once in the weeks leading up to the crash. She claims he even came out to Oak Springs Farm to tell her he’d deeded it over to her.”
“Interesting,” Goggins said.
“What I think is interesting is that Charlie Robinette is the one who acted as the go-between for that meeting. His fiancée reached out first, then he called Toddie, alerting her about Symmes’s cancer diagnosis, even before Vanessa moved him back to Sugar Key, saying he thought his half siblings should know that their father’s prognosis wasn’t good.”
“Are you saying there’s something nefarious about the son’s wanting to help his father make peace with his kids?” Goggins asked.
“Charlie had never met Toddie or his half siblings. And Toddie said Vanessa eventually forbade Symmes to see his kids after their divorce.”
“Too damn bad. But you see a lot of that these days. What are you trying to get at here, Miss Hawkins?”
“Just drop the ‘miss,’ please. It’s Conley. And I’m still trying to understand what would have motivated Symmes Robinette to be driving around out here, this far from home, in the middle of the night. I don’t buy that it was random. Why Bronson County? I think he came out here again to go to Oak Springs Farm.”
&
nbsp; “You’re entitled to your theories,” Goggins said, sipping his coffee.
Conley’s frustration boiled over. “Look, the last time I was here, I asked if your deputies had re-interviewed Margie Barrett, the woman whose farm is directly adjacent to the crash site. I went to see her again today, and she said she still hasn’t been contacted by your department.”
“No?” Goggins frowned. “I’ll have to check on that.”
“You really should,” Conley said. “You should also check out the rotting deer carcass in the pasture about a quarter of a mile away from the crash site. Ms. Barrett says it wasn’t there before the crash. You know what I think? Again, just another of my ‘theories.’ I think it’s possible Robinette hit that deer when it ran out into the roadway.”
Goggins set his mug on the desktop and reached for his phone. “Curtis?” His voice was sharp. “Have dispatch radio Poppell. I want him back to the station immediately. Send him back to see me as soon as he gets here.” He looked over at Conley and shook his head. “Dumb-ass.”
“Is that something you can test for?” Conley asked. “Like, deer guts or whatever?”
“The state crime lab can,” he said, his expression grim. “But I’ll have to get the car towed over there, which I’d hoped to avoid. That’s why I had Poppell just collect the mirror to send over.”
“You know, Sheriff, I think it’s only fair since I told you about the deer carcass that you tell me what you’re looking for on that mirror.”
“And I believe I told you I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
“How about off the record? There’s a flock of vultures feasting on that deer carcass right now. If I hadn’t seen it and reported it to you, all you’d have to look at is some bleached-out bones.”
Instead of responding to her, he picked up the copy of the Beacon and studied the front page. “A red substance,” he said without looking up. “Something sideswiped that Escalade. Coulda been a car, coulda been that deer.” He looked up. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you might ought to air out those clothes you’re wearing. Social hour is over now, Miss Hawkins. Thanks for the cake.”
Hello, Summer Page 34
