Page 82 of Hello, Summer
Conley walked slowly back to her makeshift work space, where she was soon joined by Lillian.
“Seems like Miss Thang there had kind of a bee up her butt,” Lillian said. “Who was she, anyway?”
“That was the widow Robinette,” Conley said grimly. “And I think that’s an accurate description of her current mood.”
Lillian handed her the sheaf of papers she’d managed to retrieve.
“What’s this?” Conley asked.
“Rowena’s latest masterpiece,” Lillian said. “Your sister said I should give it to you for ‘tweaking.’”
“Nooooo,” Conley moaned. “I’ve got my own story to write.”
“I’m just the messenger,” Lillian said. “But wait ’til you see this mess.”
29
HELLO, SUMMER
By Rowena Meigs
Cupid’s quiver must be mighty empty this week, as your correspondent received notices of no fewer than three recent engagements! Regrettably, we will not be announcing these upcoming nuptials, due to the fact that the brides-to-be have been living with their intendeds without benefit of clergy for several months now. Your correspondent realizes that this is an increasing fact of modern life, but we do not intend to publicize or sanctify such arrangements.
We are, however, delighted to announce that one of Silver Bay’s most talented young students,LizaJane Hooper,recently won second place in theUnited Daughters of the Confederacyspeech contest. This year’s topic was “Democracy: What It Means to Me.” LizaJane is a rising junior at Griffin County High School and the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Stephens Hooper. LizaJane’s maternal grandmother,Arthureen Gresham,is vice president of the North Florida chapter of the UDC. LizaJane’s prize was a dozen roses from Francine’s Florals and a gold-tone UDC medal.
What a delightful time was had by all at the elegant soirée hostedby the children ofHarkness and Jinxy Westphailin honor of the blessed couple’s fiftieth wedding anniversary. Golden and silver centerpieces of mixed mums and daisies decorated each table, and guests feasted on fried shrimp, fried catfish, hushpuppies, coleslaw, and a specially prepared wedding cake with a cake topper bearing an uncanny likeness of the honorees, crafted from Rice Krispies and colored frosting by talented granddaughterSonia Castleberry,who also decorates cakes at the Silver Bay Bakery.
A late note: Silver Bay was deeply saddened by the tragic death this week of longtime congressmanSymmes Robinette.Your correspondent will have all the news of the funeral in next week’s column. In the meantime, deepest condolences to the family.
Conley glanced down at Rowena’s copy. “I can’t,” she said, tossing the papers onto her desktop. “I haven’t had enough coffee yet to tackle this.”
“Take it from me. There isn’t enough coffee in Colombia to make sense of Rowena Meigs,” Lillian said. “But your sister was real specific that this needs to get done today.”
“I’ll rewrite it when I get back,” Conley said, heading for the door.
“Back from where?”
“Scene of the crime,” Conley replied.
She’d intended to make another visit to Bronson County sheriff Merle Goggins, but she slowed down as she approached the accident site on the county road where Symmes Robinette had died. Traffic was heavier this time of day, and with a pickup truck close on her rear bumper, she pulled onto the shoulder of the road about a hundred yards from the spot, spying, for the first time, a break in the barbed wire pasture fencing and a narrow dirt road that led through the field.
Conley parked the Subaru just inside the entrance to the dirt road, got out, and walked over to the crash site. The scorched pavement, still littered with bits of red taillights and shattered glass, made her stomach clench just as it had the previous week.
It apparently hadn’t rained lately in this part of the county. She saw several sets of heavy tire-tread marks crisscrossing in the hard-packed dirt and weeds along the shoulder. Probably from all the rescue vehicles that had responded to the 911 call, she thought. When she saw a break in the traffic, she darted across the two-lane road. The grassy weeds here were more matted down, with heavier tire imprints. The shoulder was strewn with cigarette butts and empty plastic water bottles, more evidence of the rescue crews who’d battled the car fire.
She crossed back to where she’d parked the Subaru and leaned against the rear bumper, swatting at mosquitoes and watching cars and trucks whiz by as she wondered exactly why she was drawn, yet again, to this macabre scene.
Her musings were interrupted by the putt-putting of a motor. As she turned, she saw a dust-covered, olive-green four-wheel Ranger vehicle like the ones used by local hunters approaching. But this one was driven by a woman, with a large dog riding shotgun in the seat beside her.
“Can I help you?” the woman called as she drew nearer. Conley saw that the driver was older, in her seventies maybe, with steel-gray hair topped with a white sun visor.
“Oh, uh, no. I’m okay,” Conley said when the ATV stopped a few feet away.
“You’re parked on my property,” the woman said pointedly. “Having some kind of car troubles, are you?”
Up close like this, Conley saw that the dog looked to be some kind of hound mix. He had large, floppy ears, a grayed muzzle, and big, droopy brown eyes filmed with cataracts.
“Oh no. My car is fine.” Conley found herself unaccountably flustered. “I’m, uh, a reporter, and I’m just trying to figure out what happened here last week.”
