Page 66 of Hello, Summer
“After my aunt and uncle died, my cousins couldn’t agree on what to do with the cottage, so they sold it. The Cooleys sold out too, andso did the people who owned that squatty little brown concrete-block house.”
“I remember that place. We used to call itthe shit house,” Conley said.
“A developer came in, knocked everything down, and built those ‘villas’ in their place.”
“They must cost a small fortune. They’re huge!”
“I’m surprised Miss Lorraine hasn’t complained about them to you. Everybody on the beach has been up in arms about the villas.”
“Because they block out the sunlight?”
“That too. Somehow, the developer got the county to grant a height variance. They’re now the tallest structures on the beach, which means they effectively block the view of the houses across the street from them.”
“That’d piss me off,” Conley said. “Of course, G’mama’s house is big too, but it’s only two stories, raised up off the ground, and it’s been there since the 1920s.”
“It’s not just the view that has people riled up. None of those owners are local. They built those houses as investment properties. Each one has ten bedrooms and ten baths. They’re rented out through Airbnb, which means every weekend, and all week long during tourist season, as many as ten cars descend on each house. Sometimes lots more. People rent them out for frat parties and weddings and corporate functions. Sometimes there’ll be a hundred people or more, spilling out on those patios, partying in the pools ’til dawn, blasting music, clogging the street with illegally parked cars.”
“Ohhhhh,” Conley said.
“The neighbors are righteously pissed,” Skelly said. “To them, it’s like somebody plunked down motels right in the middle of their quiet, quaint little street.”
“And there’s nothing anybody can do about it?”
“The neighborhood association hired a lawyer who complained to the county, and they’ve made noise about trying to get an ordinance passed prohibiting multifamily rental units, or at least putting a moratorium on more of them. But the Villa Valencia homeowners have a lawyer too. You’ll never guess his name.”
“Not Symmes Robinette?”
“Close. Like blood close. Charlie Robinette.”
Conley felt her phone buzzing in the pocket of her shorts. She pulled it out, looked at the caller ID screen, and turned to Skelly. “Sorry. I gotta take this.”
“Hi,” she said softly. “Thanks for calling me back, Kev.”
“Where are you? Are those waves I hear?”
“I’m taking a walk on the beach,” she said, deliberately omitting the fact that she wasn’t walking alone.
“Sounds nice. Our D.C. correspondent did some asking around and managed to get your guy’s address in Georgetown and down there in Florida. I’ll text it to you. I also got you the names of the corporate officers of Sugar Key Partners, Ltd.”
“Who are they?” she asked eagerly.
“The names don’t mean anything to me,” he said curtly. “Guess you’ll have to do your own legwork. Okay, bye. Have a nice walk.”
Kevin had every right to hang up on her. But she couldn’t deny that it hurt when he did.
She sighed and put her phone away.
“Business call?” Skelly asked.
“Yeah. A friend at the paper. I’d asked him to help me with some research about Symmes Robinette.”
He raised one eyebrow. “A friend or a special friend?”
“Former special friend. That was the guy I told you about. Kevin Rattigan, my ex-boyfriend. He has access to a lot of databases and sources that I don’t have down here.”
“He’s helping you out even though you dumped him?”
“It’s a newspaper thing, Skelly. We were colleagues before we were a couple. That’s what colleagues do in our business.”
