Page 42 of Hello, Summer
“Older than dirt,” Lillian volunteered. “And twice as mean.”
“Hellooooo,” the voice on the other end of the line sang out. “This is Rowena. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“Oh, hi, Rowena. This is Conley Hawkins.”
“Conley?” There was a long pause at the other end of the line.
“Sarah Conley Hawkins.”
“Oh. Sarah. How niiiiice,” Rowena trilled. “How are you today? And how is that darlin’ grandmother of yours?”
“I’m fine, thanks. G’mama is fine too. I’m calling because I agreed to write the obituary for Symmes Robinette forthe Beacon—”
“Such a shock!” Rowena said. “My phone has been ringing off the wall since yesterday. In fact, I’m going to dedicate this week’s column just to Symmes.”
“Great idea,” Conley said. “Since you’re such an institution in Silver Bay and knew him and his family so well, Grayson thinks it would be a good idea if I picked your brain before I start writing.”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Rowena said. “Would you like to drop by my house for some coffee and doughnuts?”
“That would be really helpful,” Conley said.
“Wonderful! I like those maple-bacon-frosted doughnuts they have at the Corner Café. And Tuffy just likes the bacon, so be a dear and bring three of those, plus whatever it is that you young girls eat these days. We’ll have a lovely little talk. You know where my house is, don’t you?”
“I do,” Conley said.
Everybody in town knew Rowena Meigs’s house. The Crispin-Meigs House, as it was known, had once been what Rowena herself would have called a showplace, a formerly stately Greek revival mansion with six massive Doric columns marching across a sweeping veranda thatlooked out on Silver Bay’s moss-draped Lee Street, named, of course, for Robert E. Lee, who, according to unreliable local sources, had once spent the night there during the waning days of “the Late Unpleasantness.”
Nowadays, the mansion resembled a crumbling wedding cake. Each of the front porch columns seemed to list in a different direction, and the porch itself sagged. The long-neglected front garden featured azaleas that had grown head-high and a towering magnolia tree whose roots had knuckled up the front walkway. The white-brick façade of the house was covered with a fine sheen of green mold.
When she reached the front porch, Conley was startled to see a large raccoon casually dining from a tin pan full of what looked like cat food.
“Shoo!”
The raccoon slinked away into the tall weeds at the edge of the porch.
The front door opened before she could ring the bell.
Rowena was dressed in a pale pink floor-length caftan with pink ostrich feathers outlining the hem, the kind her grandmother would have called ahostess gown.Her face was heavily powdered, her lips caked with fuchsia lipstick. She clutched Tuffy tightly under one arm, and in her right hand she held her cane, which today was decorated with a jaunty pink satin bow. “Why, Sarah Hawkins,” Rowena trilled. “What a nice surprise.”
“Um, you invited me here, Rowena. Remember? I wanted to ask you about Symmes Robinette.”
“Of course, you silly girl,” Rowena said. “You come right on in here.”
The interior of the house was gloomy and dimly lit, but Conley glimpsed faded wallpaper and rows and rows of portraits of even gloomier-faced Meigs ancestors.
“I’ve set us up in Judge Meigs’s office,” Rowena said, leading her into a high-ceilinged room with dark paneling. A fireplace took up one wall of the room, and mahogany bookcases lined the other three walls. The room was hot and airless, with a single propped-open window offering the only ventilation.
“Let’s sit right here and have a nice chat,” Rowena said, using her cane to indicate a spindly, gilt-trimmed settee with faded crimson upholstery. She seated herself in a high-backed leather chair. A mahogany tea table rested between the chairs, and on it was a highly polished silver tea set. Beside the tea service were a pair of delicate bone china cups and saucers and a small jar of Sanka.
Conley sat and handed over the white cardboard box from the Corner Café.
“Oooh, goody!” Rowena said, lifting out a doughnut. “Bacon-maple. My favorite. Now,” she said, spooning the Sanka into a cup and adding water from the teapot. “Tell me why your sister thinks I might know something of importance about poor old Symmes Robinette.” She handed the teacup to her guest.
Conley took a sip of coffee and immediately wished she hadn’t. The “coffee” was boiling hot and thick as maple syrup.
She set the cup on the table. “Grayson says you know everything and everybody in town.”
“And where all the bodies are buried too,” Rowena said, breaking off a bit of doughnut and feeding it to Tuffy, who was nestled in her lap. Crumbs showered down the front of Rowena’s pink gown, and the tiny dog quickly hoovered them up.
