Page 128 of Hello, Summer
She went into the bathroom, turned on the hot water to allow it time to heat up, and inhaled the smell of lavender and bleach. Then she stripped, climbed into the cast-iron tub, and pulled down the shower attachment. Like Margie’s dog, Sport, she required two rounds of soaping and rinsing to wash away the stench of death.
Her cell phone was ringing as she emerged from the bathroom. She answered and put the call on speakerphone.
“Conley, hello!” Selena Kwan said. “The network loved the stuff you helped with the other night. In fact, we’re going to send a camera crew and a reporter for Robinette’s funeral. Can you send us your updates?”
“I can,” Conley said, donning a clean pair of shorts and pulling a T-shirt over her head. “I did a fairly long piece for theAJCskedded to run Sunday, and I’ll send you a recap of that. But I think your crew could do a nice human-interest piece—something like the secret family life of a public figure? Highlight the early years, when he was married to his high school sweetheart, poor but proud, raising two young kids, then he goes off to the state legislature, where he’s sworn in wearing a suit his first wife sewed for him, then Congress. Fast-forward a few years, and he sheds wife number one, gets a newer model with a new baby, and does a fast fade on family number one. Until he finds out he’s dying and suddenly wants to mend fences.”
“Love it,” Selena said promptly. “What kind of visuals would we do?”
“Toddie—that’s wife number one—loaned me some old family photos, and I have a few file photos from theBeaconthat I can transmit to you. Then your crew could maybe film a stand-up outside the entrance to Oak Springs Farm. I don’t know how you could get footage of Robinette’s waterfront house, though. It’s in a gated community, and the security guards there are hypervigilant.”
“We can probably get drone footage of the house if you get us the street address,” Selena said. “Now what about the funeral tomorrow?”
“That’s at two at the Presbyterian church. They’re expecting an overflow crowd, so the reception afterward will be in the gym at the Baptist church. Not sure you want to try to send a crew into the church, but I guess you could ask for permission.”
“If not, we’ll shoot some footage of mourners going into church, the funeral procession, generic stuff like that,” Selena said.
“Tomorrow evening, Vanessa is hosting an invitation-only dinner at her house for what they’re calling thedignitaries.I think they’re expecting a lot of Robinette’s political pals—like the governor of Florida, lieutenant governor, and so on.”
“Any chance you’re going?”
Conley laughed. “Zero chance. But I know somebody who probablyis on the list. Our society columnist, Rowena Meigs, has gotten pretty chummy with Vanessa. I’m sure she’d love to give you any deets you need.”
“We’ll see,” Selena said. “Sounds like we’ll have plenty to work with. Can I have the crew call you when they hit town tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
They ate dinner in the kitchen, on G’mama’s gold-rimmed bone china plates with thick damask napkins and the polished “casual” silver. Scoops of chilled shrimp remoulade were placed on green lettuce cups, and there were crisp carrot sticks and tiny, hot cheese biscuits, and sweet iced tea in cut glass tumblers with lemon wedges.
Opie crouched under the table, hoping for an errant crumb to fall, but G’mama was strict about feeding dogs from the table. Just a casual weeknight dinner—and a far cry from the diet of microwave popcorn, delivery pizza, and ramen she’d lived on in Atlanta.
She was really, really going to miss this part of life at the Dunes. After dinner, she cleared the table and hastily washed the few dishes Winnie hadn’t already taken care of.
She poured herself a glass of wine and headed toward the porch. “I’m gonna go take a walk on the beach,” she called over her shoulder.
She strolled almost all the way to the pier, then turned around and went back, timing it so that she’d be on the swing in time for sunset.
When her phone rang, she answered it out of habit. Five seconds of heavy breathing and then the words that sliced through her brain like a hot knife through butter. “You’re dead, bitch.” A man’s voice, low, disembodied. And then the disconnect. She knew without looking what the caller ID would say.UNKNOWN CALLER.
She felt acid rise in her throat and tried to dispel her own fears. The Robinette story was controversial. The town was divided into two camps, and emotions were running high, so it shouldn’t have been unexpected that she’d get death threats. Haters gonna hate, she’d told herself back when it had happened in Atlanta.
Her mind returned to the winter morning more than a year ago when she’d discovered a dead rat, wrapped in the previous day’sAJCwith her story on the front page, on her doorstep. She’d been shaken enough to report the incident to Roger Sistrunk, who’d reported it to the Atlanta police, as well as the newspaper’s head of security.
Sistrunk had insisted that the paper put her up in a motel for three or four nights, but when there were no further threats, she’d returned home, right after installing a home security system with a video camera.
But Silver Bay wasn’t Atlanta. Her hometown was the kind of place where people rarely locked doors, where you could have a charge account at the grocery store or have your prescriptions delivered by the man who owned the drugstore.Probably,she told herself,this gutless, anonymous caller is just blowing off steam.But the next time she dropped by the Silver Bay cop shop, she’d mention the call to Claudette. Just in case.
The fierce afternoon sun had cooled enough that the warmth felt good on her shoulders. She leaned her head against the back of the swing and closed her eyes, trying to force herself to release the tension that always came when she was chasing a breaking story. The breeze off the Gulf rippled the sea oats, and she stared out at the waves, trying to find a calm center. She’d never been very good at calm.
“Mind if I join you?”
G’mama walked haltingly down the beach path from the house, stopping at the dune line to deposit her shoes. Conley jumped up, gave her an arm, and guided her over to the swing.
“This is nice,” G’mama said with a deep sigh. “Pops and I used to try to make it a point to sit out here and watch the sunset every night we were home. We’d have some good discussions. These days, with all the world’s troubles, I forget to enjoy it like I ought to.”
“I guess you take it for granted when it’s right outside your door,” Conley agreed. “But after all that time in Atlanta, I’ve come to appreciate sunsets again.”
G’mama reached over and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her granddaughter’s ear. “You could have sunsets like this every night, you know.”
