“No, ma’am,” Lillian was telling the caller. “We are definitely not affiliated with the National Enquirer. Yes, I’m positive. Okay. I’ll be sure to tell Ms. Hawkins she’s gonna burn in hell for running that story about our good Christian congressman. Yes, ma’am, I’ll tell her sister too. And her grandmama. You have a blessed day, okay?”
The Beacon’s receptionist / office manager set the phone delicately back on its receiver. “You owe me,” she told Conley.
“Busy morning?” Conley asked.
“That phone hasn’t stopped ringing,” Lillian said. “Emails, phone calls. We haven’t had that many calls since we quit running the horoscope column. All because of that story of yours and Michael’s.” She handed over a stack of pink message slips. “Most of these people just want you to call ’em back so they can bitch you out personally.”
Conley riffled through the stack. “That’s all? Just fourteen? G’mama had eight phone calls before nine.”
Lillian pursed her lips. “That’s not counting the ones who started off saying, ‘Listen, bitch,’ at which point, I hung up on ’em. Y’all don’t pay me enough money to put up with that cussing shit.”
Conley tore the message slips in half and handed them back. “File those, will ya?”
Grayson was on the phone too. Her expression was pained. She looked up when Conley entered the office. “Okay. I can’t get into this right now.” She spun around in her chair so that it faced the wall. She lowered her voice. “You know it’s my deadline day. I’ll call you tomorrow, after the paper’s out.”
She spun her chair back around and placed the cell phone facedown on the desktop.
“God, what a day!”
“Yeah, Lillian told me the haters are out in force,” Conley said.
“It hasn’t all been bad,” Grayson said. “I hate to admit it, but you were right about the video and putting out the digital edition. The response has been unbelievable. The last time I checked, those videos had been viewed nearly two thousand times. And Michael’s idea to put in a special subscription coupon was genius. We’ve gotten thirty-two new subscribers. He set up the new Facebook page as soon as he got in this morning and made us all administrators so we can all post to it.”
“Cool,” Conley said. “Hey, there’s something I need to let you know about—”
“But like you said, the haters are coming out of the woodwork,” she said. “At last count, Lillian said we’ve had nine subscriptions cancelled. And I was parking out front this morning when a big old white Cadillac came cruising really slowly past me. The passenger-side window rolled down, and these two old geezers both leaned over and flipped me the bird!”
“That’s a badge of honor,” Conley said. “My old city editor at the AJC, Roger Sistrunk, used to say if a newspaper isn’t pissing people off, it’s not really doing its job.”
“Easy to say in a big city like Atlanta, where the readers don’t know your address and phone number and have no compunction about getting right in your face to tell you what they think of you,” Grayson said. And then she grinned. “But I gotta say, this story has been the most fun we’ve had around here in a long time.”
“It’s a thrill, right? And wait ’til you see the video I shot of the press conference.”
She handed over her cell phone and tapped the arrow to show the video. Grayson’s eyes widened as she heard Charlie Robinette’s accusations against his mother.
“Unbelievable,” she said when the video ended. “He comes this close to accusing Vanessa of having something to do with his father’s death. And is that our Kennedy McFall, from the funeral home?”
“One and the same.”
“Huh,” Grayson said. “I had no idea. She’s a little older than he is, right?”
“I think so. Rowena said Vanessa and Symmes didn’t approve of her because she’s divorced and has a kid. Maybe the age thing is part of it. Again, unbelievable irony. This thing is exploding, Gray. There were camera crews there from television stations in Tallahassee and Pensacola. And get this—despite what your buddy Merle Goggins says, I don’t think the cops believe that accident was entirely accidental. They’ve asked Skelly for records of all the prescriptions he’d filled for Symmes—and Vanessa.”
Grayson frowned. “Skelly told you that?”
“On my way to the office this morning, I saw the police cruiser parked outside Kelly’s, so I went inside and sat down at the soda fountain. Weirdly, it was the same deputy who showed up at the crash that night. After he was gone, I kinda wormed it out of Skelly. Also, Robinette’s wrecked car was towed to Silver Bay Auto Body, where Winnie’s nephew Jesse works. That same deputy showed up at the body shop. After he left, Jesse told me the deputy collected what was left of the driver’s-side mirror.”
“Did Jesse have any idea what the cops are looking for?”
“No, but I intend to call the sheriff ASAP and ask.”
“Good work,” Grayson said.
“One more bit of trivia. Jesse saw Symmes holding hands with an attractive young blonde at the Waffle House not far from the crash site two or three weeks ago. He even showed me a picture of them.”
Grayson crossed her eyes. “We definitely can’t run anything about that. Photo or no photo.”
“Agreed,” Conley said. “I just thought it was interesting.” She paused and cleared her throat. “Hey, uh, speaking of my old boss, Sistrunk called me this morning. He wants me to freelance a piece on the Robinette thing for this Sunday’s AJC.”
Grayson’s smile faded.
“Don’t worry. I’ll file my stories for the Beacon first. He doesn’t need my piece until Thursday afternoon.”
“I guess that’s okay,” Grayson said.
“There’s more. While I was on the line with Sistrunk, I got a call from the NBC bureau chief in Atlanta. We met briefly years ago at an Atlanta Press Club thing. Anyway, Selena saw my byline on the version of the story that went out on AP, and now they want me to string for them on this story.”
“You’re gonna be on television?”
Conley laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not gunning to be the next Anderson Cooper. What they want is somebody local with a handle on the Robinette story that can consult. Strictly off-camera. And it doesn’t hurt that I’ve got that video of the car fire. They want an exclusive on that.”
“What’s that mean for the Beacon?” Grayson scowled. “You’ve got a hot story, so now you’re just gonna walk away because Hollywood is calling?”
“I just told you, it’s not Hollywood, it’s Atlanta calling. I’m not walking away; I’m staying right here. I’ll still cover the story for the Beacon, but I’ll freelance on the side for the network. And probably the AJC too, if this story has the legs we think it does. Print reporters do this all the time, Grayson, especially when there’s a breaking story that’s off the beaten path.”
“What are they paying you?” Grayson demanded.
“That’s none of your business. I will tell you, it’s a lot more than you’re paying me.”
“Of course. And the fact that your family happens to own this newspaper? That means nothing to you, right?”
Conley planted both hands on Grayson’s desk and leaned forward. “Can I remind you? G’mama had to force you to hire me. And can I also remind you that as soon as I started making waves with this story, you threatened to fire me?”
“Let me remind you,” she countered, “I gave you this job when you showed up here, unannounced, because you had no place else to go to.”
“Look,” Conley said, exasperated. “I don’t understand why you’re so pissed about this. You’ve known all along that I didn’t plan to make a career here at the Beacon. I never hid that from you. And I’m not hiding the fact that I’m entering into a stringing gig with NBC and the AJC. I told you that as a professional courtesy.”
“And what am I supposed to do with that? I don’t have a choice in the matter.”
“You could be grateful,” Conley snapped, “that you’ve got an experienced reporter on staff who’s been on this story since Skelly and I rolled up on Symmes Robinette’s flaming Escalade. You could realize that you and the Beacon stand to gain readers and advertisers from all this, not to mention the prestige of scooping the rest of the world on this Shakespearean drama unfolding right in front of your eyes. But no, you can’t appreciate what you’ve got here. You’ve got a stick up your ass because you had to admit I was right and because your husband has walked off and left you.”
Grayson’s face paled. “Who told you that?”
“Nobody told me, you silly twit. You think I haven’t noticed you’re living in this office? That you spend your evenings drowning your sorrows at the Wrinkle Room at the country club? Jesus, Grayson! It doesn’t take a Woodward and Bernstein to figure out that Tony’s gone. Now. Do you wanna tell me what’s really bugging you?” Her face softened. “I hurt for you, sis. I do.”
“I don’t need your pity,” Grayson said, picking up a neat stack of papers and re-neatening them. “We’re going through some stuff, that’s all. It’ll work itself out. It has no bearing on your work here at the paper.”
“This isn’t about the paper. You’re my sister. I care about what happens to you. Please talk to me.”
Grayson massaged her temples with her fingertips. “Do you have any idea how much of my life I spend here? This place is like a gigantic boulder. Every day I push it uphill, and then overnight, it rolls back down, and I start all over again. When Pops ran the Beacon, he had an advertising salesman, a circulation manager, and an office manager. He had a managing editor who also did layout and pasteup, four reporters, and two full-time photographers. We owned our own printing plant, and we had a battalion of kids on bikes delivering it every week.
“Now? It’s just me. And Lillian. With the crappy salaries I can afford to pay, I can only afford either burnouts or kids right out of journalism school, most of ’em green as grass and biding their time before moving on to a bigger paper. The fact that I managed to find a gem like Michael Torpy is a friggin’ miracle. I sell the ads, edit the copy, worry over circulation, and design the pages. We couldn’t afford to modernize our old press, so now, as soon as we put the paper to bed, I drive ninety minutes away to the printing plant in Milton. Tonight, I’ll probably sleep in the front seat of my car so I can be the first one at the loading dock in the morning. Once I’ve got the papers loaded, tomorrow I’ll head back to Silver Bay and start driving around town to fill all the paper boxes.”
There was a silver-framed wedding photo of Grayson and Tony on the credenza behind the desk. Grayson picked it up, stared at it, then put it back, facedown. “According to Tony, I spend every waking hour of my day at the office anyway and I never have time for him. He travels, I work, and when I’m not working, I’m worrying. About the paper. About G’mama. About money.” She shrugged. “He got fed up. He’s been renting a condo in Houston.”
“How long ago did he leave?” Conley asked.
“About a month ago. I don’t have much of an appetite, so I eat dinner in the bar at the club most nights. And going home to an empty house is depressing, so I sleep here. Any other questions?”
Conley was too stunned to speak at first. “Why didn’t you say something? Does G’mama know the kind of pressure you’re under?”
“She knows we’re in a financial bind and that I’ve talked about selling out to that chain from Kansas City, which, of course, she’s opposed to. I don’t want her worrying about me. And I’d appreciate it if you’d keep the stuff about Tony to yourself.”
“I’m not gonna go tattling to her about your marriage,” Conley said. “If you’ll let me, I’d be happy to pitch in and help out with the other stuff.”
“Since we’re putting all our cards on the table, I guess I should tell you we’re gonna have to do something about G’mama’s finances.”
Conley looked up sharply. “Are you saying she’s broke?”
“Not broke, but she’s not exactly the dowager countess of Silver Bay these days,” Grayson said. “I really think we’re gonna have to sell one of the houses.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I wish. The house on Felicity Street is in okay shape, but the Dunes is in terrible shape, and the maintenance is killing us. The last hurricane did a number on the roof. I had it patched, but the whole thing needs to be replaced.”
“There’s something going on with the hot water heater too,” Conley said. “And the wiring.”
“That house is a firetrap,” Grayson said, her face gloomy. “I tried to tell you it wasn’t safe to have G’mama out there, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“No, you didn’t tell me it was unsafe,” Conley countered. “You just accused me of parachuting in and screwing everything up. What are we gonna do about all of this? It’ll break G’mama’s heart if we have to sell the Dunes.”
“For right now, we do nothing. It would take tens of thousands of dollars to get the house into shape to sell it. Money we don’t have.”
“I’m sorry, Gray. I wish you’d told me. About Tony. And the house.”
Grayson shrugged. “Shit happens. Let’s drop it for now, okay? I’m sorry I blew up at you about this stringing gig. I can’t blame you for wanting to make a living and for thinking about your career. It’s just that, this past week or so, I’d gotten my hopes up that maybe we can keep this place afloat. I know that’s not realistic, but what can I say? Maybe I’ve got printer’s ink in my blood after all.”
“Welcome to the club,” Conley told her.