Page 127 of Hello, Summer
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 fromthe 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 theBeaconand 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.”
47
Winnie was chopping celery and green onions when Conley walked into the kitchen at the Dunes Friday night.
“What’s for supper?” Conley asked, helping herself to a boiled shrimp from the blue bowl on the counter.
“Shrimp remoulade,” Winnie said. She wrinkled her nose. “Did you step in something nasty today?”
“Sorry,” Conley said, taking a step backward. She explained about her trip to visit Margie Barrett earlier in the day and about the old dog rolling around in the remains of a deer carcass.
“You oughta take a shower before dinner,” Winnie said. “And put those clothes right in the washing machine. Don’t leave ’em laying around and stinking up the whole house.”
G’mama walked into the kitchen just then. “What is that ungodly smell?”
Conley recounted the discovery of the deer carcass and its proximity to the crash site where Symmes Robinette had perished.
“Well, I’ll be,” Winnie said. “You mean to tell me that it was a deer that killed him? Kind of a letdown, if you ask me.”
“Winnie!” G’mama chided. “That’s not very Christian.”
The housekeeper was unrepentant. “I don’t have very Christian feelings about that man.”
“But the Bible says forgiveness is divine,” G’mama reminded her.
“It doesn’t saywhenI have to forgive him for letting those railroad bastards kill my sister and poison our whole family,” Winnie said. “Seems like I’m not quite ready yet.”
She dumped the chopped celery and green onions into the bowl with the shrimp and started on the remoulade sauce as Conley idly watched over her shoulder.
“You’re home awful late today,” G’mama said.
“That’s the life of the modern ‘career girl,’ as Rowena would say,” Conley said. “Guess I’ll go upstairs and get cleaned up before dinner.”
“Yes, please,” G’mama said.
Upstairs, she stood in the doorway of her bedroom to appreciate the pristine beauty of the room. Winnie might have a bad hip and a sassy attitude, but she was relentless in her approach to neatness.
The wooden floors gleamed softly and smelled of lemon wax. The old iron bed was made up with a snowy-white cotton bedspread and freshly ironed pillowcases on plump feather pillows. A box fan whirred in the window. The clothes she’d dumped in the wicker hamper in the bathroom had been laundered and folded and were stacked on top of the old painted dresser waiting for Conley to put them away.
It was a far cry from her haphazard housekeeping in Atlanta, where the apartment she’d shared with Kevin was a perpetual snarl of discarded newspapers and books, dust bunnies, empty takeout containers, and laundry baskets of clothes that never got folded or put away. She’d only been at the Dunes for a week and already she was spoiled.
