Page 162 of Hello, Summer
“What kind of proof?”
“We tracked his cell phone.”
“Charlie said Vanessa took his phone away.”
“Somebody gave him a new phone that the wife didn’t know about,” Goggins said. “I tell you what, this family? Rich folks? These people will turn on their own kin in a heartbeat.”
“I’m guessing Charlie gave him a phone,” Conley said. “Just to piss off his mother. But how did he get it to Symmes? Vanessa had him locked out of Sugar Key, although he hinted that he’d come up with some kind of workaround, which was how he’d managed the Symmes-and-Toddie reunion in the first place.”
“Charlie Robinette hasn’t been ‘available’ for follow-up interviews,but we looked at the video footage from the Sugar Key security gates,” Goggins said. “He came and went half a dozen times in the month before his father died. He sailed right through the gates for residents.”
Conley looked up from her notebook. “Because he had a transponder. And I bet I know where he got it.”
“How’s that?” Goggins asked.
“Just a hunch,” she said, being deliberately vague. “I’ll let you know if it pans out. Tell me more about the alcohol. Did you get Toddie to admit Symmes was drinking that night?”
“Once we told her we had the cell phone records, she became a little more cooperative. She confirmed that Symmes called shortly before midnight. Said he was upset and wanted to talk. She urged him to wait until morning, but he knew Vanessa was watching him like a hawk. According to Toddie, Symmes told her Vanessa took a sleeping pill and went to bed around eleven that night.”
“So he took a midnight ramble,” Conley said. “I wonder what upset him?”
“Toddie wouldn’t say,” Goggins said. “Her story is that he got there, they talked, and he wanted a drink. She tried to talk him out of it, because he had to drive back to Sugar Key, and it was late, but he insisted. So she let him fix himself a dirty martini.”
Conley laughed. “That’s appropriate.”
“Toddie Sanderson isn’t the most reliable witness,” Goggins commented. “First, she said it was just the one drink. Later, when we told her about her ex’s blood alcohol level, she allowed that maybe it was two martinis. Okay three, but no more than that.”
“Three martinis?” Conley exclaimed. “How was he even standing upright at that point? And she was okay with letting him drive forty-five miles home in the middle of the night? It’s a freakin’ miracle he didn’t hit and kill something much worse than a deer that night. Can you say ‘death wish’?”
“Bad decisions don’t equal foul play, though,” Goggins pointed out. “Seems to me every member of that screwed-up family had a part to play in Symmes Robinette’s death. The son was playing mind games with his mama, the wife locked up the husband out of spite, and theex-wife fed him enough booze to put down an elephant, then let him loose on a dark country road. I can’t prove any of this, of course, but I guarantee, it all boils down to money.”
“Symmes Robinette had a lot of it too,” Conley said. “He was a millionaire many times over. It’ll be interesting to see how all of this shakes out when his will is probated.”
“Blood money,” Goggins said, his expression serious. “They might get their hands on his money, but those same hands will have his blood all over them.”
“Guess I’d better get back to work,” Conley said. “Deadlines, you know.”
“You going to be writing about any of what I just told you?” he asked. “Remember, all of that was off the record.”
“Deep background,” Conley said. She held out her hand, which was still scratched and bruised, and the sheriff, though looking surprised, clasped it.
“I’d tell you to take care of yourself,” he said, “but I guess you already proved you can.”
She had one more stop to make before she headed into theBeaconoffice, where she was sure Grayson would be frantic, wondering about her whereabouts.
There was only one car in the parking lot at the funeral home. Mondays, she guessed, were slow days for dead people.
Conley heard Graceanne’s giggle echoing in the high-ceilinged hallway and followed it until she reached the marketing director’s office.
The little girl was sitting on the floor, playing with a pair of stuffed unicorns. Kennedy McFall was staring intently at a computer terminal, chewing on a pencil. She looked up at the sound of footsteps and frowned when Conley appeared in her doorway.
“I don’t want to be rude,” she started to say.
“Then don’t.” Conley sat without being invited. Her grandmother would not have approved. “Are you in the habit of breaking into people’s cars and stealing jewelry?” she asked, her face and voice pleasantly bland.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Kennedy said. She was a terrible liar, which didn’t bode well for her future as a political wife, Conley thought. But then, maybe Vanessa could give her lessons.
“Sure you do. You were at the country club one day, and your fiancéwas venting about how pissed he was that his mommy was denying him access to his daddy. I guess you parked next to a car with one of those Sugar Key decals on the windshield, looked in, and saw a transponder sitting there in the cup holder. It must have seemed like the perfect crime of opportunity. The car was unlocked. You were right there, nobody was around…”
