Page 137 of Hello, Summer
“I think he must have been visiting Oak Springs Farm. Toddie told me herself that Symmes came out to the farm not long before he died. She said he was trying to make amends for those lost years, which is why he deeded Oak Springs over to her.”
They heard footsteps approaching and looked up to see Grayson walking toward them. She’d changed before the funeral and was wearing a belted black silk dress and heels.
“Scoot over,” Grayson instructed, seating herself on the other side of their grandmother.
“Did you get kicked out too?” Conley asked.
“Excommunicated is more like it,” Grayson said. She sank down onto the bench, slipped her feet out of her high-heeled pumps, and sighed contentedly. “So much for polite society,” she said. “I’ve spent the last thirty minutes getting chewed out by three different little old ladies as well as Kennedy McFall, who’s threatening to pull their funeral notices out of theBeaconover this brouhaha.”
“Yikes,” Conley said, grimacing. “That’s not good.”
“Empty threats,” Grayson assured her. “We’re the only game in town. And don’t forget, they make just as much money charging families for those notices as we do. They’re not gonna bite off their own noses to spite their faces.”
“I can’t understand what a lovely young lady like Kennedy McFall sees in that vile Charlie Robinette,” Lorraine said. “She’s much too good for the likes of him.”
“Agreed,” Grayson said. “Conley, maybe you should take Kennedy aside and tell her about the horrible way that gutless weasel treated you back in high school.”
Conley did a double take. “How did you know? You were away at college.”
“I had my sources,” Grayson said. “By the time I heard about those disgusting rumors he was spreading, it was too late to stop them. But I did make sure he knew better than to tangle with the Hawkins girls again.”
“Help me up, girls,” G’mama said, extending a hand to each of the sisters. “I don’t know about you two, but I think I’m ready for a nice, stiff drink at the club. Or two. And I’m buying.”
“You can have one drink and one drink only,” Grayson said, wagging a finger at Lorraine. “But Conley and I had better stick to seltzer. We’ve got a paper to put out.”
“What about Skelly?” Conley asked, looking around. “We won’t have time to take you back out to the beach after this, G’mama.”
“Call him up and invite him to join us at the bar,” G’mama said. “I really am feeling quite parched.”
51
Grayson slowed the BMW at the entryway to the Silver Bay Country Club and waved at the guard standing casually by the open gate.
“When did they put up a gate?” G’mama asked.
“I don’t know, maybe two or three months ago?” Grayson said. “I think somebody on the board of directors decided it looked prestigious, but it’s really a waste of money. I’ve never been here when those gates were closed, and the guards always just wave members on through, so it’s not like they’re keeping out a horde of infidels or something.”
“They definitely didn’t stop me when I drove through earlier in the week,” Conley said thoughtfully. “And I don’t even have a membership sticker on my windshield.”
“A waste of money,” G’mama fussed. “The only criminal activity I’ve ever heard of over here consists of sandbagging golf scores and a little low-stakes gambling at the poker table.”
“Not true, G’mama,” Conley said. “Just last week, I included an item in the police blotter about a car that was burglarized here.”
“That’s right,” Grayson said, maneuvering the BMW into a parking spot near the clubhouse. “Seems like whoever broke in stole some pretty valuable stuff. Jewelry or something?”
“Some expensive diamond earrings. And according to the incidentreport, the car wasn’t even broken into, because it had been left unlocked,” Conley said.
The club’s bar, formally known as the Tap Room, was decorated to resemble a Scottish Highlander tavern plunked down in the Florida Panhandle, with ersatz tartan carpet, dark walnut paneling, and plenty of vintage fox-hunting and golfing prints.
“Never seen the place so dead,” Grayson said as they found a table in a corner of the mostly empty room. Two golfers sat at the bar, sharing a pitcher of beer, and a table of women dressed in tennis togs sipped margaritas.
“All the best people are still at Symmes’s funeral,” Conley said.
“Be right with you, ladies,” the bartender called. A moment later, he appeared table-side, a supremely tanned septuagenarian in a white waiter’s apron and black bolo tie.
“Well, hey there, Miz Lorraine,” he said. “Welcome back. Haven’t seen you around here in a long while.” He grinned at Grayson. “Course, this lady is one of my favorite customers, so I see a good bit of her.”
G’mama grasped his hand. “It’s good to see you again, Artie. How’s Verna?”
