Rowena settled back in her chair, waiting to see Conley’s reaction to this last gossip bombshell, idly picking bits of bacon from the last remaining doughnut and feeding them to Tuffy, nestled snugly in her lap, the pink bow on the dog’s topknot brushing the bottom of the old woman’s chin.
“Wow,” Conley said finally. She had to let the information sink in. Charlie Robinette was a love child? It made sense, now that she thought about it. “A child born out of wedlock to a sitting congressman’s secretary?” she said finally. “While he was still married to his first wife? Stuff like that’s not all that uncommon now, but back then, in Silver Bay, it must have caused quite a scandal.”
Rowena’s fuchsia-caked lips formed a girlish pout. “It would have, but your fuddy-duddy of a grandfather wouldn’t print it. The biggest story of my career, and it never saw the light of day.”
“Granddaddy?” This was more of a shock than the revelation about Symmes Robinette’s secret baby. “I can’t believe he would choose to suppress a story just to protect a local politician.”
“‘We are not the National Enquirer, Rowena,’” the columnist said, using fingers as quote marks. “That’s what he told me. ‘We do not deal in salacious gossip or scurrilous rumors.’”
“That part sounds exactly like Granddaddy,” Conley had to admit. Her grandfather had always been a stickler for facts.
“But it wasn’t gossip!” Rowena insisted. “I made it my business to get a copy of the baby’s birth certificate. I rode the Greyhound bus all the way up to Washington, D.C., and paid for my fare with my own money just to make sure it was true. Charles Symmes Robinette Jr. was born on February 15, 1986. And he weighed nine pounds and seven ounces, so Vanessa could hardly claim he was premature.”
Her chin was quivering with indignation at the memory of her suppressed scoop.
“Vanessa and Symmes were married—by the U.S. House of Representatives chaplain, mind you—three months later. The day after the divorce from Toddie was finalized.”
Conley struggled to put those facts together with what she’d already discovered about Symmes Robinette’s marital history. “So it wasn’t generally known around town? About the baby?”
“There was talk, of course,” Rowena said. “Around the bridge table and at cocktail parties. You know how people talk in a small town like Silver Bay.”
Conley’s smile was brittle. She knew all too well about the corroding nature of prying eyes and whispered insinuations and always the questions about her own mother’s whereabouts, couched in terms of sincere concern from those same bridge players and cocktail partygoers.
“The talk died down after Toddie disappeared,” Rowena said. “She never said a word to any of her friends. One day, she and the children just up and got in their station wagon and drove away.”
“Surely not,” Conley scoffed. “People, especially the wives and children of prominent politicians, don’t just vanish.”
Rowena sniffed. “I suppose she might have told someone where they were going, but even Myrtis, her real estate agent, swore she didn’t know where Toddie and the children relocated.”
“And then Vanessa settled into town pretty seamlessly, right? I mean, she’s a member of G’mama’s church and everything.”
“That woman slithered into Silver Bay,” Rowena said, waggling unkempt eyebrows that resembled a pair of fuzzy white caterpillars. “Some people have short memories. And I suppose, for poor old Toddie, it was a matter of out of sight, out of mind.”
Conley glanced down at her watch. She still had several more people to talk to before writing her story for the Beacon’s Tuesday deadline.
“I’ve taken up enough of your time today, Rowena. But I do keep wondering, what was Symmes doing out there in the country so far from home and at that time of night?”
Rowena polished off the third doughnut, chewing rapidly, and Conley realized her hostess had never offered her one.
“I really couldn’t say what he was doing. But I have my sources, and you can be sure if I find out, I’ll write all about it in my column.”
Conley picked up her backpack, preparing to leave, when Rowena said, “I wrote a book. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t. That must have been so exciting for you,” Conley said, trying to feign interest.
“Oh yes. It was the most … empowering thing I’ve ever experienced,” Rowena gushed. “Would you like a copy?”
“Oh no,” Conley said quickly. “I mean, I’d love to read it, but I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”
The old woman hoisted herself from the chair and tottered over to the wall of bookcases. Opening a cabinet door, she revealed rows and rows of garish pink-jacketed hardback books. She plucked one from the shelf.
“Here it is,” she said gaily, thrusting a copy at Conley.
The cover of the book featured the same heavily retouched photo of Rowena Meigs as the one currently used for her column in the Beacon, her blond bouffant coiffure an architectural marvel, lavish false eyelashes fluttering, smiling coquettishly into the camera, a pink feather boa draped loosely around her generous décolletage, her wrists, neck, and ears decked with diamonds—or something resembling diamonds. The title was written in flowing purple script: Rowena Remembers: Secrets of Silver Bay Society.
“It’s a collection of my columns from the Beacon,” Rowena said. “I had the most marvelous time compiling it. So many wonderful memories.” She sighed heavily. “Everyone said it was the most amusing thing they’d ever read. I really think it was the crowning achievement of my journalistic career.”
“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 that woman came 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. It was 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.
She sat back down. “What are you doing here?”
“Me? I’m doing my job. Protecting this community.”
“No, I mean here. How did you wind up in this Podunk county in the Florida Panhandle?”
He cracked a semi-smile. “My wife is a Cowart. Half the people in this county are related to her. It’s how I got elected. After we had our daughter, Elise wanted to raise our children around family. So here we are. And what exactly are you doing here, Sarah Conley Hawkins, formerly of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, working for a Podunk weekly paper in the middle of nowhere Florida?”
“The same thing,” Conley said. “I’m sure Grayson told you I’m between jobs. I came home to check on my grandmother, and my sister guilt-tripped me into helping out on this story.”
“Not a very interesting assignment, compared to what you’re used to. Single-car fatality. No evidence of foul play.”
Conley jotted her contact information on a page of her reporter’s notebook, ripped it out, and handed it to the sheriff.
“On the contrary. I find this story fascinating. And I’d appreciate it if you’ll call me with any new information.”
“We’ll see,” he said.
She was out in the parking lot, about to get into her car, when she heard someone call her name. “Hey, Sarah. Hold on.”
It was the sheriff’s deputy she’d met that night at the crash scene, hurrying toward her. He was dressed in sweat-stained workout clothes, black spandex bike shorts, and a sleeveless red T-shirt. She couldn’t remember his name.
“Oh, hi, um—” She flashed an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I’m completely blanking on your name. Skelly’s friend, right? Popp?”
“Walter. Poppell. These days, everybody calls me Walt. How you doing? Keeping busy?”
He placed a hand on her open car door. Looming over her, his presence was overpowering, as was the combined smell of sweat and a thorough drenching of his pine-scented body spray.
“I’m fine,” Conley said, taking a half step backward.
“You look really nice today,” Poppell said, letting his glance linger.
“Better than I looked that night out on the highway,” she said.
“Yeah. That was sick, right?”
She nodded and slid into the driver’s seat. “Good to see you again, Deputy. I’d better get going. Wouldn’t want to make you late to work.”
He stayed right where he was, with his hand on the car door. “So what are you doing here? I mean, you live over in Silver Bay, right?”
“For now. I’m staying with family. Actually, I was just checking with the sheriff about the victim of the crash.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s kind of my job,” she said. “I’m doing a story for the newspaper.”
“That’s cool. You’re doing a story about the wreck, huh? I guess you already know it’s that senator dude.”
“He was actually in the U.S. House, but yes, that’s the plan. If I can get somebody to talk to me.”
Poppell glanced over his shoulder at the department’s front door. “The sheriff didn’t talk to you?”
“He talked, he just didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.”
“Like what?”
“Like the cause of death, for starters.”
Poppell snorted. “The dude fried to death! You were there.”
Skelly was right, Conley thought. Walter Poppell really wasn’t the brightest light on the Christmas tree.
“I’m wondering what caused the crash in the first place. There were no other cars around when we arrived.”
“Right. Yeah.” He shrugged. “Maybe if I hear something, I’ll give you a call.”
“That’d be great,” Conley said. She put the key in the ignition and went to fasten her seat belt, but Poppell did not remove his hand from the door.
“Maybe we could grab some dinner, have some drinks, something like that,” Poppell suggested, giving her his winningest smile.
Was he hitting on her? “I’m pretty busy with this story right now and helping take care of my grandmother,” Conley said, trying to be tactful.
“But you gotta eat, right? We’ve got a kick-ass pizza place just opened here in town. Sal’s. The owner’s a real Italian guy from New York and everything.”
“Sounds great,” Conley said. She pulled firmly on the door, and he reluctantly loosened his grip.
“Sure thing,” Poppell said. “And I’ll keep my ears open, in case I hear anything good.”