Page 45 of Hello, Summer
“I can’t wait to read it,” Conley lied.
“It will tell you everything you need to know about this town. And there are quite a few mentions of Symmes and Toddie, by the way. They were just the most darling couple back then. Before thatwomancame into the picture.”
“I’ll be sure to look for those mentions,” Conley said. She started to tuck the book into her backpack.
“That will be forty dollars, dear,” Rowena said. “You can’t imagine how much money it costs to publish a book with so many photographs.”
Conley returned to the accident site an hour later. The grass and pavement were charred black from the car fire, and bits of broken glass and metal littered the shoulder of the road.
She pulled over, got out of the car, and paced back and forth on the lonely stretch of asphalt, with no real idea of what she was seeking. Both sides of the road were lined with fields with ragged borders of pine trees and palmettos behind barbed wire fencing. A single hawk wheeled through the air, its screech the only jarring note in the pastoral scene. There was nothing remarkable about this place, except that a man had died here a couple of days ago.
Downtown Varnedoe was even sleepier than it had before. Deputy DuPuy reluctantly showed her into the sheriff’s office, where she found Merle Goggins sitting behind his desk, peering over half-moon glasses at something on a computer monitor.
“This is the reporter lady I told you about,” the deputy said, turning to go.
“Your sister emailed to say I’d be hearing from you, but she didn’t mention you’d show up on my doorstep today,” the sheriff said.
“I did leave you several voice messages,” Conley said pointedly.
Merle Goggins was a trim man, probably in his early fifties. He wore a starched khaki uniform shirt with a brass badge pinned to the breast pocket. His wary smile showed not a hint of remorse.
The office was as spartan as its occupant. The sterile, white, concrete-block walls held a bulletin board with the usual safety posters and departmental announcements, and a glass display case held dozens of embroidered patches from police departments around the country. His desktop contained the computer, a beige telephone, and a framed photograph.
“Sit,” Goggins said, pointing to a straight-backed chair opposite the desk.
He pulled a manila file folder from the top desk drawer and opened it. “Grayson said you’re writing a story about Representative Robinette. What do you want to know?”
“Cause of death, to start with.”
“To be determined. You were at the crime scene that night, so you know the condition of the body.”
“Okay,” Conley said. “So are you saying there’s no chance that you’ll get a blood alcohol level or anything like that?”
He shrugged noncommittally.
“Is there anything at all you can tell me about the accident? I mean, it was a mild spring night—no rain, full moon, no traffic that we saw.”
“We know,” Goggins said.
“Was there any physical evidence at all that you can tell me about?”
“Nope.”
Conley decided to try a different tack. “I know Robinette was in his seventies. Have you taken a look at his medical history?”
“We’ve requested it.”
“From whom?”
“I can’t get into that.”
Conley hadn’t written a single word in the reporter’s notebook on her lap because Goggins hadn’t given her a single fact. “Have you spoken to his family? His wife or son?”
“We’ve talked to the son, who’s a lawyer.”
Goggins spread apart the fingers of both hands, laying them flat on the open file. “We’re giving Mrs. Robinette time to grieve. As a courtesy to the congressman’s legacy.”
Conley leaned forward to see the framed photo on the desk. Itwas of a much younger Merle Goggins, wearing Marine dress blues, standing next to his bride, who was dressed in a short white wedding dress. She got up and studied the framed diplomas on the walls. One was from the FBI Academy, where she knew local law enforcement officials from around the country took all kinds of forensic and investigative classes. The other was a college diploma, for a bachelor’s degree in political science, from Oklahoma State University.
