Hello, Summer

by Mary Kay Andrews

  Conley heard the scream of police sirens approaching, and looking toward the street, saw three cruisers streaming toward the house.

  “Conley!” The lights on the front of the house were so bright she had to squint, but she knew that voice and ran straight toward it now, throwing herself into Sean Kelly’s open arms.

  He held her tightly against his chest, stroking her hair, whispering in her ear, “It’s over. You’re okay. It’s over, Conley.”

  Her voice was muffled by his shirt. She looked up at him. “He’s dead, Skelly.”

  “Poppell? Yeah, I saw.”

  “Not him. Buddy Bright. He’s dead. He saved my life.” She shuddered violently. “Poppell would have killed me. He said he was going to. He was watching me, Skelly. I don’t know how Buddy knew, but he did. Poppell was dragging me out of the house. He said he’d take me out to the beach and—”

  “Never mind,” Skelly said quickly. He touched the side of her face. “Your face is bleeding, and it’s starting to swell and bruise. I think we need to get you to the hospital.”

  “No!” She shook her head. “I’m okay. Really. Poppell slapped me is all. I’m fine.”

  “Ma’am?” A man’s voice cut through the far-off sound of more sirens. Two uniformed Silver Bay police officers approached. “Are you the person who called to report an intruder? We need to talk to you, ma’am.”

  Skelly wrapped a protective arm around her waist.

  “I know.” Her voice was shaky. “I’ll tell you everything. Can we … go someplace else to talk? This is my grandmother’s house. Maybe we could go around back and go in the kitchen?”

  “Do you know who those men are?” the other officer asked, pointing toward the bodies.

  “Yeah,” she said. “The driver of the Corvette’s name is Buddy Bright, and the one on the grass is a Bronson County sheriff’s deputy.”

  “His name is Walter Poppell,” Skelly said.

  Conley looked up at him again. “I’ve got to give these guys a statement. But could you do me a favor? Call Grayson. She must have slept at the paper tonight. Tell her what happened here and ask her to send Michael Torpy over. And tell her to tell him to bring the good camera.”

  57

  The kitchen door banged open. “Conley?”

  Grayson rushed into the kitchen, nearly knocking aside the Silver Bay Police detective who’d been interviewing Conley. “Oh my God! Are you okay? Wait. You’re bleeding. What happened?”

  “Sit down,” Conley said wearily, gesturing toward the only empty chair at the kitchen table. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’m getting you an ice pack for that bruise on your face,” Grayson said. She opened a drawer, got out a plastic bag, filled it with ice cubes, and handed it to Conley. “Put that on your face. I feel horrible. Tony and I talked for over an hour, and then I guess I fell asleep on the sofa. Maybe if I’d been here, none of this would have happened.”

  “It’s not anybody’s fault,” Conley said. “If you’d been here, he would have waited for another time. Poppell was determined to hurt me. I’m glad you weren’t here.”

  “Who’s this?” the detective asked, looking annoyed. He addressed himself to Grayson. “We’re working on a homicide investigation here, ma’am, so maybe you could come back later?”

  Grayson pulled herself up to her full five-foot-four height. “I’m not going anywhere. I happen to be her attorney.” She looked over at her bruised and battered sibling and her expression softened. “And her big sister.”

  “And my boss,” Conley added. “Detective Jefferson, meet Grayson Hawkins, managing editor of The Silver Bay Beacon.”

  “Anything you hear in here is off the record,” Jefferson said. “And if you’re not okay with that, we can continue this interview at the police station.”

  * * *

  Three hours later, Jefferson finally declared himself done with the formal interview. “For now,” he cautioned as he stood by the kitchen door. “We’ll have more questions after we talk to the sheriff over in Bronson County.”

  “Where’s Michael?” Conley asked as soon as the detective was out of earshot. “Did he get photos of everything? And have you called G’mama yet? I don’t want her hearing about this from anybody but us.”

  “I called G’mama on the way over here from the office,” Grayson said. “She’s worried, but I assured her that you’re okay.”

  “Can’t say the same about the front of this house,” Conley said sadly. “You still haven’t answered my questions about Michael. Is he outside, shooting?”

  “The cops have the whole front yard taped off, but he got some good stuff with the zoom lens. And,” she added, pulling out her cell phone, “I got a great shot of Detective Jefferson interviewing you, from right outside the kitchen door.”

  “That’s good. Now Mike needs to start doing some background work on that freak Poppell. He needs to get the sheriff in Bronson County to talk about why he fired Poppell, and then we need his background. I know he went to high school and played jayvee football with Skelly. Find out if he has family here, all of it.”

  “Hold up!” Grayson said. “Michael is working as hard and as fast as he can. But you need to back off and slow down. When was the last time you slept?”

  “Maybe a few hours Friday night?”

  Grayson leaned over and placed a hand on each of Conley’s shoulders.”I need you to go upstairs and try to get some sleep. The story will still be here after you’ve rested.”

  “I’m fine,” Conley protested.

  “You’re not fine. Look at you! You’ve got cuts and scrapes and bruises on your legs and hands and arms. Your face is swollen. In fact, maybe we should take you to the hospital to get you checked out.”

  “No way!” Conley said. “I’ve got a story to write.” She flexed her arms and legs. “See? No broken bones. I’m just a little banged up. After a shower and some clean clothes, I’ll be good as new.”

  The kitchen door opened, and Skelly walked in. “Thank God,” Grayson said. “Sean, can you talk some sense into my little sister? She barely survived being abducted by a homicidal maniac who was then mowed down by an avenging angel, but she still thinks she’s on deadline.”

  “Conley?” he asked. “Would you listen to me if I tried to tell you to slow down and take it easy? As your sister pointed out, you’ve had quite a morning already.”

  “No,” Conley admitted. “I promise I’ll slow down. Later. Right now, I need two things. A phone and a car. Your pal Poppell smashed my phone, and I’m guessing the cops still have the driveway blocked.”

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Grayson asked.

  “Buddy Bright saved my life. He literally took a bullet for me. I think I owe it to him to find out what his story was and report it.”

  “I’ll take you wherever you need to go,” Skelly said. “One of Mama’s old friends takes her to church on Sundays, then over to the country club for brunch. You can use my phone ’til you get a new one tomorrow.”

  Grayson shrugged. “I guess I’ve been overruled.”

  * * *

  By the time Conley showered and changed into a threadbare pair of jeans and a T-shirt, Skelly had managed to perform a miracle in the kitchen.

  “First we eat,” he said, motioning for her to sit at the table. He opened the oven and brought out a cast-iron skillet. The smell of onions and bacon filled the room.

  “First, how did you know I was starved?” Conley asked. “Second, where did that food come from? And what is this magical dish?”

  “You’re always starved,” he said, bringing two plates loaded with food to the table. “This is just a simple Spanish tortilla I made with some leftovers from my house. Eggs, bacon, sliced potatoes, some onion, and red pepper.”

  She took a bite, chewed, and rolled her eyes in ecstasy. “You never fail to amaze me, Skelly. Where’d you learn to make something like this?”

  “Pharmacy school,” he said, pouring her a cup of coffee. “
Like I said, we’d have these study sessions, and everybody would bring potluck. One of the women had spent a year studying abroad in Spain, and she’d always bring this dish. I like it because you can use whatever you’ve got hanging around in the fridge, and it can be breakfast or lunch or dinner.”

  “Or brunch après a postapocalyptic night from hell,” she added. “Who are you really, Sean Kelly?”

  “Just a guy, trying to impress a girl he’s kinda got a crush on.”

  “A crush?”

  “Yeah. Pretty goofy, huh?”

  She leaned across the kitchen table and kissed him on the lips. “I heart goofy.”

  He caught her face gently between his hands and gave her a lingering kiss before finally releasing her.

  She resumed devouring the tortilla, but he put his fork down.

  “Can I tell you something? Seriously?” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “Last night, when I saw that car barreling at you, that was the worst moment of my life. Worse than when my dad died. Worse than when the doctors finally diagnosed my mom. I thought I’d lost you, Conley.” He exhaled slowly. “I thought I’d lost you, but then, I realized I never really had you. Did I?”

  “Don’t talk about it like that,” she said, shaking her head. “But I still don’t get how you even saw what was going on.”

  “Mom was having a bad night. I finally managed to get her to bed around one, but then I couldn’t get to sleep, so I went out, and I was sitting on the porch, just kind of enjoying the peace and quiet. I guess I was looking down the block toward your house, and then I saw the Corvette, parked in the driveway of the Bennetts’ old house. Suddenly, the driver revved the engine and shot backward out of there like a rocket. Then he screeched off, and the next thing I knew…” He took a sip of coffee. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

  “Me either,” she admitted. “While it was happening, it felt so surreal. I called 911 to report the phone calls, and they said they’d send an officer to check it out, and the next thing I know, somebody’s right there, holding up a badge. I was so relieved! I was unlocking the door, but then he kicked it in. Like it was nothing.”

  “What phone calls?” Skelly said, frowning.

  “The calls only started recently. At first I just assumed it was a disgruntled reader. Like, harmless crank calls. It would be a man’s voice, and he’d say, ‘You’re dead, bitch,’ and then he’d hang up.”

  “I should have warned you about Poppell after that night at the wreck,” Skelly said. “I saw the way he was checking you out. He was hitting on you, but I thought that was just Popps being Popps. Same old weirdo. Nobody ever took him seriously, back in the day, when he’d say crude stuff to girls.”

  “He was always like that?”

  “Yeah. He kind of had a reputation as a perv even back then.”

  “Did he ever get into serious trouble?” Conley asked.

  “You know,” Skelly said slowly, “he did get kicked off the football team, which was weird, because you saw him—he was a beast. I don’t remember what the reason was.”

  “I ran into Poppell a couple of more times when I was at the sheriff’s office, working on the Robinette story,” Conley said. “He asked me out, and I didn’t really think anything of it. I told him I was busy, which I guess made him angry. And then, when Sheriff Goggins fired him, Poppell blamed me.”

  She took a last bite of tortilla and pushed her plate away. “He’d been stalking me, Skelly. He told me so. He even followed me out to the Dunes. He said he saw us that night. On the beach.”

  “Jesus! I should have known! I should have warned you about him,” Skelly said.

  “Stop,” Conley said calmly. “It’s not Grayson’s fault, and it’s not your fault. It’s not anybody’s fault. Clearly, Poppell had some kind of mental issues.”

  “How does a guy like that get a job with a gun and a badge?” Skelly wondered aloud.

  “That’s what I want Michael to find out.”

  “While you figure out Buddy Bright?” Skelly asked.

  “With your help.”

  “What’s our first stop?” he asked.

  “The radio station. They knew the guy, worked with him, right?”

  * * *

  Neal Evancho sat slumped at the desk in the reception area. “I already told all this to the cops,” he said, running a hand through his thinning hair. “He came in here, according to my records, six years ago. Had a good voice, said he’d been in radio a long time, and after I tried him out, I knew he was the goods, so I hired him.”

  Conley considered this. “Don’t deejays usually have tapes from previous jobs? Résumés, references that you check?”

  “I was shorthanded,” Evancho said. “My night guy just didn’t show up one day. I was filling in his slot myself, and I’m getting too old for this shit. Buddy showed up out of nowhere, and I figured, what the hell? He was a godsend. Listeners loved him.”

  “Let me guess,” Conley said. “He worked for cheap?”

  “I prefer to say his wage was reasonable. I guess, though, since he’s dead, I could tell you that he was a bargain. Never asked for much. Worked whatever shifts I needed, including double shifts. But the deal was, he had to be paid in cash.”

  “That didn’t seem odd to you?” she asked.

  “Everything about Buddy was odd,” Evancho said. “That dyed-black hair and him never wearing anything except black? The car with the homemade license plate. Working Press? The guy never slept. He’d get off the late-night shift, drive around all over the place. He was always calling in from some wreck somewhere. I guess he was an old newshound. The station’s got a website, you know? We put all the deejays’ photos on there, and their bios, but Buddy flat refused. He had some excuse about an ex-wife trying to nail him for alimony.”

  “What did you do about his paperwork, social security, all that?”

  Evancho shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I can’t get into that.”

  “You paid him under the table, in cash, and there was no paperwork, right?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You don’t even know if that was his real name, do you?”

  “Nobody’s real name is Buddy Bright,” Evancho protested. “Lots of folks in this business have radio names.”

  “But don’t most station managers and owners actually know their employees’ real names?” Conley asked.

  Evancho fiddled with a paper clip, bending and twisting it. “You didn’t happen to be listening to Up All Night last night, did you?”

  “No,” she said. “I was on deadline at the Beacon.”

  “Right,” he said slowly. “The competition. Anyway, I’m not normally up that late, but my lady friend fixed enchiladas for supper, and I had some awful acid reflux. I did happen to be listening. Buddy had a caller—guy called himself Pooh Bear—and he said he recognized Buddy’s voice from when he lived in Detroit. Buddy was playing it cool, but then the guy said he knew Buddy wasn’t even his name, that it was really Robert Breitweis, that he had killed some girl and then walked away from jail and was a wanted man.”

  “What?”

  “I can tell you that got my attention,” Evancho said. “Buddy cut the guy off, and then he cut his shift short. Put on one of his old ‘Best of Buddy’ tapes, and that was it. Didn’t even sign off. When my morning girl got here today, the station was locked up tight, and Buddy was gone.”

  Conley was taking notes as fast as she could. She looked up at Evancho. “Did you tell that to the cops?”

  The station owner nodded and sighed heavily. “That detective? I forget his name. He looked the name up on some database he had on his phone and got all excited. Said it was true about Buddy being a fugitive. Can’t hardly believe it. I hate like hell this happened to Buddy. He was born for radio. Not many like that these days. Folks really liked him. We’re gonna miss him.”

  Winnie, Conley thought, would be brokenhearted. Like a lot of other people.
/>   “Did he ever talk about his personal life? Family? Friends?”

  “Not really. He knew a lot about music. Could tell you anything about sixties and seventies rock. That’s mostly what he talked about. Music. And his car.” Evancho gave Conley an appraising look. “That cop told me Buddy saved your life by running over that dude, then ramming it into your house. Buddy must’ve thought an awful lot of you to do something like that.”

  “Yeah,” Conley said. “Guess so. Do you know where Buddy lived?”

  Evancho scribbled an address on a piece of paper. “I had to drop off his pay one time, when he was off work sick. It’s just a bitty little apartment, round back of the house.”

  58

  Skelly was in the car, waiting in the parking lot. “Did you get what you needed?”

  “Sort of.” She gave him a quick recap of what Neal Evancho had revealed about the late Buddy Bright.

  “That’s pretty damn odd,” Skelly said. “What’s our next move?”

  She showed him the slip of paper from Evancho. “We’re going to 505 Oleander Trail.”

  “That’s not too far away. What’s there?”

  “It’s Buddy’s place.”

  * * *

  The house was a modest, pale-yellow, concrete-block bungalow on a block of modest pastel houses of the same fifties vintage, with jalousie windows and a row of citrus trees in the front yard and an unpaved crushed-shell driveway.

  “The guy at the radio station said it’s around back,” she told Skelly.

  They heard the cat’s plaintive yowling as they walked down the vacant driveway.

  “Sounds like kitty’s missing Buddy,” Conley said.

  The apartment had once been a garage. Conley turned the door handle. It was locked.

  “No dice,” Skelly said, turning to go.