Lillian King pulled Conley aside as soon she as entered the Beacon’s tiny reception area. “It’s your lucky day,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Vanessa Robinette this morning and now Rowena Meigs in the afternoon.”
“Noooo,” Conley groaned. “Why didn’t Grayson give me a heads-up?”
“She was probably afraid you’d turn tail and run all the way back to Atlanta,” Lillian said. “They’re in her office now, waiting for you.”
“What’s Rowena want? She already turned in her column this morning. I haven’t even had time to fix that.”
“From what I could tell by eavesdropping outside Grayson’s door, Rowena has got herself a hot tip about Vanessa Robinette. She wants us to run it on the front page.”
Rowena was sitting in a chair facing Grayson, with her back to the door. Conley stood there and, catching her sister’s eye, put her forefinger to her temple and mimed pulling a trigger.
“Here’s Conley now,” Grayson said, a little too heartily.
“Hello, Sarah Conley,” Rowena said, giving her a curt nod of acknowledgment. She’d been holding her Pomeranian in her lap, but the tiny ball of fluff gave a small yip of protest and jumped down onto the floor.
Rowena was dressed in a hot-pink tracksuit, blindingly white Velcro-fastened tennis shoes, and her customary string of pearls.
“Hi, Rowena,” Conley said. “Lillian tells me you have another story for us?”
“Yes,” Rowena said. “I was just explaining to Grayson here that I won’t be filing my exclusive unless she can guarantee me front-page, above-the-fold placement.”
“Oh?” Conley grabbed a chair from the outer office and rolled it in to sit beside the paper’s society columnist. She set her backpack on the floor. “What’s the big story?” she asked, feigning ignorance.
“Why, it’s just the biggest scoop this paper has ever seen,” Rowena said. “Much bigger than the time the PTA treasurer embezzled all the money from the school’s fruitcake sale to pay for her breast implants.”
Grayson gave her sister a weak smile. “Rowena managed to get an interview with Vanessa Robinette today.”
“An exclusive interview,” the columnist put in. “Vanessa is going to run for Symmes’s seat.”
“Really?” Conley said. “That’s quite an achievement. How’d you manage to pull that off, Rowena, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I don’t mind at all. I ran into Vanessa at Mignon’s, not even an hour ago.”
“Mignon? Is that someone in town who I should know?”
“Mignon’s Salon de Beauté,” Rowena said. “Of course, the actual Mignon’s been dead for years now, but yes, dear, you should know about the hair salon. It’s never too early for a girl like you to start thinking about covering up those pesky little gray hairs.”
Conley wasn’t sure, but she believed she’d just been insulted.
“Anyway,” Rowena went on, “Vanessa was getting a blowout, because she leaves bright and early in the morning for Symmes’s memorial service in Washington, and I was in the chair next to her, getting my rinse, and we just started to chat. I told her how sorry I was about Symmes and asked about her plans for the future. I’m a widow too, you know, and as I said to Vanessa, I’ve been through the same experience she’s going through.”
“I’m sure she appreciated your wisdom,” Grayson said.
“She really did,” Rowena agreed. “She told me that Symmes was dying of cancer! I had no idea, did you?”
“She, uh, mentioned it when she was in to see me this morning,” Conley said. “I guess I’m surprised she didn’t mention her plan to run for Congress while she was here.”
Rowena favored Conley with a pitying smile.
“I’m afraid Vanessa doesn’t like you very much, dear. It’s possible you alienated her with all your pushy, big-city tactics.”
“Pushy?” Conley said.
Grayson gave her sister a warning shake of her head, signaling that Conley should stand down.
“Vanessa told me that once Symmes got sick, he started grooming young Charlie to run for his seat. But Charlie, although a very dear boy, I’m sure, is a bit headstrong. Symmes was having second thoughts.”
“Did Vanessa say why?” Grayson asked.
“Some family matter,” Rowena said. “I’m not sure Vanessa and Symmes approved of the girl Charlie has been running around with.” The old woman lowered her voice. “She’s newly divorced. With a young child. Not very suitable.”
“Pot meet kettle,” Conley said. “Remember, Symmes was ‘not yet divorced’ with two young children when he married Vanessa.”
“Anyway,” Rowena went on, “according to Vanessa, Symmes had his doubts. He thought Charlie needed some life experiences before he’d be ready to go into government and that it would be a disservice both to his constituents and his family to put his son in a position he wasn’t really ready to assume.”
“And Vanessa told you she is ready to assume those responsibilities?” Conley asked.
Rowena shrugged. “Why not? I’m a little surprised at a career girl like you, Sarah Conley, for expressing doubts that a woman should run for Congress.”
Conley gnashed her molars for a moment before deciding to ignore Rowena’s quaint “career girl” comment. “I don’t have an opinion on Vanessa’s qualifications as a candidate, Rowena. Grayson and I just need to make absolutely sure that Vanessa Robinette went on the record with you that she intends to run for her late husband’s seat. Against her own son.”
“Of course,” Rowena said, bristling. “Despite what you might think, I am a seasoned, professional journalist.”
“Did you ask her to go on the record about why she’s running for a seat her son has just declared for?” Conley asked.
Rowena fiddled with a loose thread on the cuff of her jacket. “Of course not. That would be rude. I can’t insult a woman who’s just lost her husband like that.” Leaning heavily on her cane, decorated today with a red, white, and blue ribbon, Rowena heaved herself from the chair. “You have my story.”
She snapped her fingers at the Pomeranian, who’d been sniffing the perimeter of the office. “Come, Tuffy,” she called. “Mommy has an important meeting to cover.”
Tuffy scampered toward his owner’s outstretched arms, pausing before lifting a leg and releasing a vigorous stream of urine on Conley’s backpack.
“Oh my goodness,” Rowena said, scooping up the dog. “Naughty boy!” She plucked a handful of tissues from her pocketbook and dabbed ineffectively at the damp bag. “There,” she said. “All fixed.”