EXCLUSIVE TO THE SILVER BAY BEACON FROM ROWENA MEIGS
SILVER BAY, FLORIDA—Following the tragic death last week of her husband, Thirty-fifth District U.S. Rep. Simms Robinette, Mrs. Vanessa Robinette revealed in an exclusive interview with this correspondent that she will mount a campaign to run for the remainder of her husband’s term in Congress.
Simms Robinette died in a one-car accident on County Road 321 last Thursday night.
“Of course, I am heartbroken over the sudden loss of the love of my life,” Mrs. Robinette told the Beacon this week. “But public service has long been the focus of my life with Simms, and I can think of no better way to honor his legacy than to seek to continue serving his constituants in Congress.”
Mrs. Robinette said the entire family will travel to Washington, D.C., on Tuesday, where Rep. Robinette’s body will lie in state in the Capitol Rotunda. Among the important dignitaries expected to honor our eighteen-term congressman are the president and First Lady, the vice president, Florida governor Roy Padgett and Florida First Lady Heidi Padgett, the Speaker of the House of Representatives, and others.
The memorial service will be presided over by the House chaplain. Mrs. Robinette divulged that she will wear a simple black Chanel suit, a black hat and veil, and black Louboutin pumps for the service. Her only jewelry will consist of her late husband’s gold wedding band and his FSU fraternity pin, as well as a jeweled American flag broach, which was a recent birthday gift.
Conley stopped reading aloud. “You’re not really going to run this drivel, right?”
Grayson spread her hands apart in a gesture of surrender. “What choice do I have? You heard her. Rowena thinks her exclusive is the biggest scoop since the sinking of the Titanic.”
“You can’t run this crap,” Conley repeated. “She didn’t even spell Symmes correctly. Or constituent. Or Louboutin. Or brooch. Rowena’s right about one thing. It is a big story. But she’s buried the lede. She doesn’t even mention the fact that Vanessa plans to run against Charlie.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Fold her story into mine. Her byline can run above mine. This once. I’ll write a new lede, saying that we’ve learned, exclusively, that Vanessa will run for the seat, against Charlie, who’s already established a campaign committee and started raising money. And we’ll add that Symmes was diagnosed with cancer late last year, a fact he hid from the public.”
“Rowena will pitch a hissy if we do that,” Grayson said gloomily. “She’ll probably get her damn nephew to take the legal ads away from the paper. If we lose that revenue, Conley, I don’t think the Beacon can survive.”
“If we don’t own this story, cover it aggressively and professionally, we deserve to lose the legals,” Conley said. “But if we jump out ahead on this, show the community that we do hard-hitting, quality journalism here, then I think we’ll gain ad revenue. And subscribers.”
“And what if that plan doesn’t work? It’s fine for you. You’re not planning to stick around here and save the ship. You’ll be outta here with the first job offer that comes across the transom. But I’m the one—me—Grayson Hawkins, whose name is on the masthead as publisher and managing editor. And I’m the one who’ll get to take the blame for running our family business into the ground after over a hundred years. I’ll be the one left to put a FOR SALE sign in the window and lay off Lillian and Michael.” She pointed toward the ceiling. “I’ll be the one to turn off that stupid fucking lighthouse.”
Grayson buried her head in her hands. Her voice was muffled. “It’s all on me.”
Conley was shocked by the despair in her sister’s voice. She stood behind Grayson’s chair and awkwardly patted her back as though soothing a colicky baby. “Come on, Gray,” she said softly. “It’s not that bad. We can do this. I’ll help. We’re gonna write an amazing story, and all of us—you, me, Michael—we’ll kick ass. Look. As soon as Mike gets us a reaction statement from Charlie Robinette, I’ll put the story together.”
She looked up. “I appreciate it, but I just don’t think—”
“I haven’t even had a chance to tell you yet,” Conley added. “I talked to a woman who lives near the wreck site. She heard voices sometime after midnight that night, coming from up near the road. Two men arguing loudly. And a woman telling them to stop. Not even the sheriff knew about that. And don’t forget, I’ve got those photos of the fire. Hell, I nearly forgot—I’ve got video!”
“What good’s video gonna do?” Grayson asked.
“If we put out a digital edition tonight, which we totally should do, we can embed the video of the car fire. Have you got any idea how many more people look at video than just still photos?”
She shrugged. “Not really.”
“Gawd,” Conley groaned. “Gray, I love you, and I don’t want this paper to fail. But we have got to get you and the Beacon into the twenty-first century.”
“You don’t think it’s too … disrespectful? Or macabre? I mean, Symmes Robinette died in that fire.”
“Newspapers and television broadcasts have been using photos and videos of fatal accidents for decades and decades,” Conley said. “Think of the Hindenburg. Or the Zapruder film of the Kennedy assassination. It’s news. Sad and tragic, but nonetheless noteworthy.”
“Okay,” Grayson said reluctantly. “Call Michael and see if he’s gotten any statement from Charlie Robinette. Lillian usually sends out our digital news briefs. I’ll let her know we’re doing one today.”
Conley had another thought. “You run ads in the digital updates. Right?”
“No. I never thought of that.”
“Think of it now,” Conley urged. “Make a list of your biggest advertisers. The Island IGA, for sure, right? And Mort’s Liquors? And the Lamplighter? Call ’em all. Or better, go out and see them. Offer them a combined ad buy for … what? Maybe an extra fifty bucks? They get display space in tonight’s digital edition, plus whatever they usually do in the print edition.”
“I’m just not sure,” Grayson said. “You can’t believe what a hard sell these businesses are. I’m practically giving away ad space as it is.”
Conley was nearing the end of her patience. “Take a look at the online editions of other dailies, if you don’t believe me.” She pointed at her desktop computer. “Go ahead. Call up the Tampa Bay Times, Tallahassee Democrat, Orlando Sentinel, Miami Herald. They’ve all monetized their online editions. They use flashy graphics, video, all kinds of stuff to get eyes on their ads. That’s what we’ve got to do too.”
Grayson tapped some keys and stared at the screen. “Hmm.”
“Just do it, okay?”
Grayson sighed a heavy, embattled sigh.
Conley’s stomach growled loudly. It was after two, and she’d missed lunch. “Hey,” she said, whirling around. “What about Kelly’s Drugs? Do they advertise with us?”
“Nope,” Grayson said. “As far as I know, they never have.”
“Why not?”
“I guess our former ad sales manager just neglected to put the hard sell on them.”
“Who was our former ad sales manager?”
“That’d be me,” Grayson said. “It felt awkward, trying to sell something to Miss June.”
“But we’ve always done business at Kelly’s. For as long as I can remember, G’mama’s had an account there.”
Grayson shrugged.
Skelly was behind the pharmacy counter but looked up when Conley entered the store, his face lighting up when he saw his newest customer.
“Hey,” he said. “What can I get you?”
“Some lunch? I haven’t eaten, and I’m starved.”
He finished filling a bottle with a creamy white liquid, capped it, and slapped a label on it. “Let me bag this and call the patient to tell him it’s ready, then I’ll meet you over at the soda fountain and get you fixed up.”
Conley set her backpack on the floor and twirled around on the stool, surveying the luncheonette as though she’d never seen it before. Nothing had changed since she’d first started coming here as a child.
“What’s your pleasure?” Skelly asked when she spun around to face him.
“Hmm. Do you still make the pulled pork with that tangy sweet sauce?”
He nodded. “Yep. George still smokes four or five pork butts for me every Sunday. He makes the sauce from my mom’s old recipe. I usually sell out by Thursday or Friday morning at the latest. I have a couple of dozen customers who put in standing orders to pick it up on the way to their beach houses every week.”
“Pulled pork, definitely.”
“How’s your coleslaw? You don’t serve that vile creamy mayonnaise-drenched mess, do you?”
He pretended to be shocked. “Mayo in my slaw? What kind of joint do you think this is? We do sweet-sour vinegar slaw. And George’s wife hand grates the cabbage and onions herself. None of this pre-shredded crap you buy at the store.”
“Coleslaw, then. And coffee, if you’ve got any. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
He fetched two mugs and poured one for her and one for himself. He dumped sugar and a creamer into his own mug and sipped. “Breaking news, right? I heard Buddy Bright this morning talking about Charlie Robinette’s announcement.”
Conley made a face. “That damn guy! He’s everywhere. He might have gotten the jump on Charlie’s announcement, but we’ve got an even better story. We’re going to put out a special digital-only edition later today.”
“The Beacon? You guys do that?”
“Grayson says they sometimes do it for elections or big football news, but this is too good a story to hold for another day, so yeah, we’re gonna go for it.” She tapped her fingernail on the countertop. “Which reminds me. Grayson says Kelly’s Drugs doesn’t advertise in the Beacon. Mind if I ask why not?”
Skelly took another sip of coffee. “It just never came up. Mom used to handle all that stuff. When I came home to work here, I just kinda kept up with what she’d been doing. I know we buy space in those cheesy coupon mailers, but I think that’s all the advertising we do.” He gave her a quizzical look. “So now you’re the ace reporter plus ad saleswoman?”
“Not by choice,” Conley said. “I’m trying to drag my sister into the brave new world of digital news. Newspapers don’t make money on subscriptions, you know. In fact, we lose money on them. Most papers depend on revenue from advertising. And if we can sell ad space in digital editions, it’s a win-win. More eyes on your ad, more money for us.”
“I guess I could try doing an ad buy in the Beacon,” he said. “Tell Grayson to come see me, okay?”
“Do you have the graphics for the ads you run in that mailer?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, email them to Grayson. She can send you the rates, and if you decide to do it, your ad can run in tonight’s digital—which should get a lot of hits.”
“Why’s that?”
She waggled her eyebrows. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. No, really. This story is starting to take off in ways I’d never imagined.”
“You’re not even gonna give me a hint, are you?”
“Nope. Now about my lunch?”