Page 124 of Hello, Summer
Claudette grinned, showcasing her dimples. “All us single ladies got to stick together,” she said, laughing.
“Anything good in here?” Conley asked, riffling through the reports.
“No murders or bank robberies,” Claudette replied. “Same shit, different day.”
After leaving the cop shop, Conley stopped by the bakery next to the hardware store and picked up a pound cake. “Could you wrap up the box with some ribbon?” she asked the salesclerk. “It’s for a gift.”
Afterward, she took the causeway toward the beach until she spotted the discreet green-and-white signs to Sugar Key. As she grew closer to the development, the landscape transitioned from scrub pines and palmettos to emerald swaths of bermuda grass, sabal palms, ferns, and oleanders. A wide median strip divided the road in two and was landscaped with a riot of pink, blue, and white annuals. Hard to believe that twenty years ago, this area had been a sandspur-studded, mosquito-infested swamp known to every teenager in the county as “the Goonies,” the preferred location for dope smoking, underage drinking, and sweaty, back seat shenanigans.
Half a mile down what was now Sugar Key Boulevard, she spotted a red-tile-roofed guard shack that had been built in the center of the road. To the right was the entrance, a two-lane road, each lane protected by a high, wrought iron gate. Arrows directed Residents to one side and Visitors to the other.
Conley slowed the Subaru and pulled onto the shoulder of the road. A pickup truck loaded with landscape equipment passed her on the left,and she watched as it slowed and then stopped at the visitor’s gate. A uniformed security guard stepped out of the shack and approached the truck. She saw the driver stick his head out of the open window and converse with the guard, who held a clipboard, which she now consulted. After a moment, she handed the driver a white-and-green pass and waved him through.
Five minutes later, she watched as an Audi convertible zoomed past, barely slowing as it approached the Residents gate, which swung open on the Audi’s approach.
“Might as well give it a shot,” she muttered to herself.
She stopped at the Visitors entrance and waited. The same security guard walked over to her car at a smart pace. She was petite, with military bearing, and wore her white-blond hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her uniform was spotless—sharply creased navy slacks, shiny lace-up black oxfords, white tailored shirt with faux gold epaulets, hash marks on the sleeve, even a shiny tin security badge pinned over her breast.
“Yes, ma’am?” the guard said, peering into the car and scrutinizing her closely, probably checking for concealed nuclear weapons, Conley thought.
“Hi! I’m Conley Hawkins, and I’m here to visit Mrs. Robinette,” she said.
The guard frowned. “Is she expecting you? Did she leave you a visitor’s pass?”
“Uh, well, not exactly. I go to her church, and I wanted to drop off a cake.”
“A cake?” This appeared to be a foreign concept.
“Yeah. You know, like a bereavement gesture, to show my condolences. I figure she probably has enough chicken casseroles.”
The guard did not laugh at Conley’s little joke, nor did she smile. She held up her clipboard for Conley to see. “Mrs. Robinette isn’t expecting guests. And she’s not accepting any kind of condolence cakes.”
“Oh.”
The guard pointed to a narrow, curving drive just inside the gate. “You can turn around here and go through the exit.” She did not offera bye-bye wave, but stood stiffly, watching as Conley pulled the Subaru around and out of the subdivision.
Conley drove a few hundred yards, then pulled onto the shoulder again, turning around to examine the guard shack. As she did, she noticed a tall metal utility pole, bristling with cameras. She also noticed the blond guard, who came out of the shack and stood in the road, staring at the Subaru. Conley gave her a backward wave, then drove on.
46
A cloud of dust rose up as the Subaru bumped down the narrow dirt road to Margie Barrett’s little turquoise cottage. The old dog tottered toward her as she approached the house, and Conley leaned down and scratched his ears. “Hey, Sport,” she crooned. “Hey, Sporty boy.”
The screened door opened, and Margie Barrett stepped out onto the porch. For a moment, she looked puzzled, then she smiled in recognition of her visitor. “Chet Hawkins’s girl, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s Conley. Sorry to bother you again, but I wanted to ask you a few more questions about the night of the wreck.”
“No bother at all. I’m glad to have the company,” Ms. Barrett said. She turned to the dog. “Sport, you stay outside for a while and stretch your legs some more.”
She fussed around, filling glasses with ice cubes and Cokes and telling Conley she’d read her story in theBeacon.“I’ve got a sister-in-law who lives over there in Silver Bay, and she carried me a copy of the paper this morning when we met for coffee,” Margie said. “My goodness, can you imagine, your own son accusing you of locking up your husband?” She clucked her tongue in disapproval. “And just imagine, he had those other two children he hadn’t seen in all these years. Sometimes I wonder what gets into men like that when they get some money and some power.”
“The Robinettes are quite the political dynasty,” Conley said tactfully.
“Now what else can I tell you, honey?” Margie asked. “I mean, I’d like to help, but there just wasn’t much to what I saw and heard that night.”
“I’m curious. Did a sheriff’s deputy call or come around and ask you about that night, after I talked to you?”
“No. Hadn’t been anybody from the sheriff’s office come by. But I was over at my daughter’s house for a couple of days this week, so maybe somebody came while I was away.”
