He glanced at his watch. “They’re on their way here now.”
Traci reached for the phone. “I’ll call Andy Plankenhorn and ask him to meet me here.”
“This could get really ugly, you know?”
“How is that possible?”
“Someone must have tipped off the news media. There’s television vans from Savannah, Jacksonville, and Atlanta camped outside the main gate. My guys, of course, have been instructed not to allow them on the property, under any circumstances. But it looks like they’re set up for the long haul.”
She closed her eyes and envisioned the circus atmosphere that would greet guests arriving at the Saint’s entry, and could alreadyanticipate the avalanche of alarmed phone calls, texts, and emails—and more cancellations.
“And there’s no way we can make them leave, right?”
“They’re on public property, so no.”
“All right,” she said. “I’m gonna call the restaurant and have them send up a cooler full of sandwiches and cold drinks for the reporters.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “You’re gonna feed those jackals?”
“I’m gonna kill ’em with kindness. Not treat them as adversaries. In fact, as soon as Andy gets here, I’m gonna go up there and give them a statement.”
“That’s a terrible idea, Traci. The press are like cockroaches. You throw them some crumbs, they’re never gonna leave.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t have anything to hide, and I don’t want anybody thinking we’re covering up a crime here.”
Bierbower rolled his eyes. “Okay, you’re the boss.”
“Yes. I am.”
“That’s a terrible idea, Traci,” Andy Plankenhorn told her, when she informed him of her intentions. “I think you should call the agency that handles the Saint’s PR and ask them to take care of this. Crisis management, damage control, whatever you call it.”
“There’s no way to spin this or minimize it, Andy. Something terrible happened here Saturday night. Hiding it or denying it only makes it worse.”
He was sitting in the same chair Ray Bierbower had vacated only an hour earlier. His silvery-gray hair flopped over his eyes. The lenses of his thick horn-rimmed glasses were smudged, and his short-sleeved dress shirt had seen better days. Still, he was the best, wisest lawyer she’d ever met.
“Traci, you need to understand how folks around here feel about the Saint. Ever since Fred put up those gates out on the causeway, people think you and everyone connected to the Eddings family are just a bunch of uppity, rich, entitled billionaires. And some, not allof ’em, get a morbid thrill, thinking about how some poor little rich girl got her comeuppance.”
“That’s… that’s sick. Parrish never did anything to deserve what happened to her.”
“You know it and I know it, but we also know why the locals talk about ‘Saints’ and ‘Ain’ts.’ It’s the haves and have-nots,” Plankenhorn said. “And it’s only gotten worse over the past few years. Folks see all these big houses over here, lining the waterfront, they see the rich kids in town, raisin’ hell and acting the fool, and it pisses ’em off.”
“Andy, I used to be an Ain’t,” Traci protested. “But in the years since Hoke took over, and I took over from him, we’ve donesomuch good in this community. We’re the biggest corporate contributor to United Way, we fund literacy programs, sponsor job training fairs, and donate excess banquet food to the food pantry…”
“All noble acts of charity. But some folks resent charity. They see the Eddings family as the Gotrocks, and your misery is their comfort,” the lawyer said.
“Understood. But I still think the best way to handle this is to address it head on, now.” Traci opened her laptop and turned to Plankenhorn. “Help me draft a statement, will you? And then let’s call the sheriff and tell him we’d like to have an impromptu press conference when he gets here.”
By the time she and Andy Plankenhorn made it to the Saint’s entry gates, the number of reporters had swelled to roughly a dozen, with television news crews from three different network affiliates as well as CNN, plus print reporters from newspapers around the southeast. True to Ray Bierbower’s description, they’d set up canopy tents to provide shade from the afternoon sun, and most sat around in folding soccer chairs, talking on their phones.
At roughly the same time the Saint’s management arrived, two sheriff’s cruisers arrived too, lights flashing, but sirens off.
Traci had sent Livvy as an advance team, to alert the media about the upcoming announcement, and to set up a wireless mike stand.When Traci arrived, Livvy quickly showed her the makeshift staging area she’d arranged.
Flanked by the sheriff on one side and her lawyer on the other side, Traci stepped up to the mike and gave each man a nervous, sideways glance.
“Hello. I’m Traci Eddings, the CEO and president of the Saint Cecelia resort.” She turned to the lawman on her right. “This, as you may know, is Bonaventure County sheriff Wynnton Coyle. He’s agreed to give you an update on his ongoing investigation into the death last week of Parrish Eddings, which occurred here on the resort property.”
Coyle, hands clasped at the waist, spine rigid, looking distinctly uncomfortable, gave a perfunctory nod, and then stepped up to the microphone.
