The Final Victim

by that's me

  Yes, pro­j­ect is a go­od way to think of it. It ma­kes it all so­und very bu­si­nes­sli­ke-which is pre­ci­sely what this is, when you get right down to it.

  He had no idea abo­ut this part, of co­ur­se. No re­ason for that.

  No, this is strictly my own lit­tle sce­ne.

  Time to roll up the sle­eves-and get to work.

  The third flo­or is al­ways stuffy at this ti­me of ye­ar. Elec­t­ric box fans in two of the win­dows do lit­tle to co­ol the sultry air.

  Perched be­si­de the third win­dow in her whe­el­c­ha­ir, Je­an­ne Re­min­g­ton longs for a ge­nu­ine bre­eze as she ga­zes down at the dar­ke­ning gro­unds of Oak­ga­te.

  Her la­te brot­her re­fu­sed to ha­ve cen­t­ral air-con­di­ti­oning in­s­tal­led in the old ho­use, sa­ying he didn't want to rip apart the walls to in­s­tall the ne­ces­sary duc­t­work. Nor wo­uld he even al­low win­dow units in the bed­ro­oms; the wi­ring was so old the ex­t­ra stra­in wo­uld be a fi­re ha­zard, and rep­la­cing it was, aga­in, too much tro­ub­le.

  Anyway, he li­ked to say, ge­ne­ra­ti­ons of Re­min­g­tons got thro­ugh Ge­or­gia sum­mers wit­ho­ut air-con­di­ti­oning. We don't ne­ed it.

  Maybe he didn't…

  But up he­re in the at­tic, the­re are only three win­dows that open, all of them small dor­mer-st­y­le. The ot­hers are even smal­ler: ro­und bull's-eyes sit­ting high be­ne­ath the eaves, lac­king even win­dow tre­at­ments to block out the af­ter­no­on sun.

  Gilbert ne­ver did spend ex­ces­si­ve ti­me wor­rying abo­ut an­y­body el­se's com­fort, tho­ugh. He was a dif­fi­cult, self-cen­te­red man, to say the le­ast A chal­len­ging boy, too, from what Je­an­ne can re­mem­ber-when she cho­oses to re­mem­ber an­y­t­hing at all abo­ut her chil­d­ho­od.

  She was a few ye­ars yo­un­ger than her brot­her, and fre­qu­ently exas­pe­ra­ted by his da­ring an­tics… when she wasn't fe­eling sorry for him as he en­du­red his fat­her's harsh pu­nis­h­ment for sins re­al and ima­gi­ned.

  She pro­bably sho­uld ha­ve be­en gra­te­ful that she ne­ver had to en­du­re be­ing loc­ked in her ro­om, or ha­ving her mo­uth was­hed out with so­ap, or, far wor­se, be­ing be­aten with a le­at­her belt.

  Oddly, tho­ugh, along with pity, she felt a stran­ge re­sen­t­ment whe­ne­ver her brot­her suf­fe­red at the­ir fat­her's hands. Not just re­sen­t­ment to­ward the man who de­alt the harsh pu­nis­h­ment, but re­sen­t­ment to­ward her brot­her.

  Sometimes she co­uld al­most con­vin­ce her­self that any at­ten­ti­on from the man she cal­led Fat­her wo­uld be bet­ter than no­ne at all.

  But he ig­no­red her. To­tal­ly. For as long as she co­uld re­mem­ber. He didn't dis­cip­li­ne her, ba­rely spo­ke to her, ne­ver even pre­ten­ded to lo­ve her.

  She didn't com­p­re­hend the re­ason un­til her eighth bir­t­h­day, when she fo­und her­self in te­ars, on­ce aga­in, be­ca­use of so­met­hing Fat­her sa­id-or, mo­re li­kely, fa­iled to say. That was when her big brot­her told her the truth: Gil­bert Re­min­g­ton wasn't her re­al fat­her, and he knew it. In fact, ever­yo­ne in the ho­use­hold knew it. Ever­yo­ne but Je­an­ne.

  In ret­ros­pect, she and Mot­her we­re pro­bably for­tu­na­te that Fat­her didn't throw them both out of the ho­use. His old-fas­hi­oned pri­de kept the fa­mily in­tact, if only for ap­pe­aran­ces' sa­ke.

  If Sa­van­nah was the most gen­te­el of So­ut­hern ci­ti­es, Fat­her, with his im­pec­cab­le man­ners, was the most gen­te­el of its re­si­dents.

  The first Gil­bert Xa­vi­er Re­min­g­ton was an ex­pert at ke­eping up the pub­lic cha­ra­de. But in pri­va­te, he had no use for Je­an­ne or her mot­her, Ma­rie. He saw to it that ne­it­her of them wo­uld in­he­rit a penny of the fa­mily for­tu­ne, and sti­pu­la­ted that if his son di­ed wit­ho­ut he­irs, he was to le­ave his es­ta­te to a pub­lic trust-not to his sis­ter.

  That didn't hap­pen. Gil­bert II lost his wi­fe and both of his sons ye­ars ago, but he has he­irs: three gran­d­c­hil­d­ren.

  You can't re­sent them, or Gil­bert, for that mat­ter, Je­an­ne re­minds her­self. Yo­ur brot­her did mo­re for you than you ever co­uld ha­ve ho­ped or ex­pec­ted.

  Unlike his fat­her, Gil­bert II had a he­art. He must ha­ve. Be­ca­use he cle­arly felt sorry for Je­an­ne. Es­pe­ci­al­ly when her mind star­ted to go, just as Mot­her's did so many ye­ars ago.

  Or so ever­yo­ne be­li­eves.

  Father isn't the only Re­min­g­ton who's an ex­pert at cha­ra­des.

  * * *

  "Let's go in­to town and ha­ve din­ner," Roy­ce sug­ges­ts,gi­ving Char­lot­te's hand a squ­e­eze.

  "Town," she knows, is not the Ac­ho­co Is­land's com­mer­ci­al strip but rat­her Sa­van­nah, abo­ut for­ty-fi­ve mi­nu­tes' dri­ve north of he­re.

  "Here" is Gran­dad­dy's vin­ta­ge red brick, black-shut­te­red, whi­te-pil­la­red man­si­on.

  Once a thri­ving plan­ta­ti­on pro­du­cing ri­ce and in­di­go, Oak­ga­te li­es on the top third of the is­land, amidst the co­as­tal marsh not far from the nor­t­her­n­most ca­use­way. Its bo­un­da­ri­es on­ce en­com­pas­sed se­ve­ral tho­usand I ac­res of the is­land's nar­ro­wer up­per end, in­c­lu­ding a ri­ce mill and brick sla­ve ca­bins that now lie in ru­ins de­ep in the marsh. When the ri­ce in­dustry wa­ned fol­lo­wing the Ci­vil War, the Re­min­g­tons sold off the so­ut­her­n­most par­cels of land, tra­ded for a pros­pe­ro­us pa­per mill.

  Years be­fo­re Char­lot­te was born, Re­min­g­ton Pa­per was swal­lo­wed up by an in­ter­na­ti­onal­ly re­now­ned con­g­lo­me­ra­te, Glo­bal Pa­per Cor­po­ra­ti­on; its ope­ra­ti­on mo­ved to the Mid­west, the pa­per mill was ra­zed and a low-in­co­me ho­using de­ve­lop­ment bu­ilt on its si­te.

  Grandaddy re­in­for­ced his po­si­ti­on as one of the we­al­t­hi­est men-and the fa­mily na­me among the most pro­mi­nent-in co­as­tal Ge­or­gia. As the lo­cal new­s­pa­per's so­ci­al co­lum­nist on­ce wro­te: Bos­ton has the Ken­nedys, New I York the Roc­ke­fel­lers, De­la­wa­re the Du­ponts, and Sa­van­nah the Re­min­g­tons.

  What the press fa­iled to no­te is that un­li­ke his Nor­t­hern co­un­ter­parts, Gran­dad­dy wasn't exactly a phi­lan­t­h­ro­pist The world ne­ver knew-or at le­ast the press ref­ra­ined from men­ti­oning-his fru­ga­lity. His chil­d­ren and gran­d­c­hil­d­ren we­re pro­vi­ded with per­fun­c­tory trust funds, but he was de­ter­mi­ned to con­t­rol the fa­mily pur­se strings un­til he di­ed. His sons, who had be­en con­tent with the­ir fi­gu­re­he­ad po­si­ti­ons in the mill, we­re equ­al­ly con­tent to li­ve off the pro­fits as long as they co­uld af­ford the­ir bon vi­vant li­fes­t­y­les.

  "What do you say?" Roy­ce is as­king. "So­me se­afo­od, a ni­ce glass of Pi­not Gri­gio…"

  "The Pi­not Gri­gio is de­fi­ni­tely tem­p­ting. I wish the­re we­re a bot­tle in the ho­use, tho­ugh… That way we wo­uldn't ha­ve to go out." But the­re's no li­qu­or he­re at Oak­ga­te. Gran­dad­dy didn't im­bi­be, or con­do­ne it in outers, or al­low the stuff to cross his thres­hold.

  "Oh, let's go. May­be we can even catch a mo­vie af­ter we eat. It'll get yo­ur mind off things."

  "I sho­uldn't re­al­ly be out so­ci­ali­zing in pub­lic to­night,"

  Charlotte re­minds her hus­band. "It do­esn't lo­ok right."

  His brown eyes over­cast with un­der­s­tan­ding, Roy­ce no­net­he­less sha­kes his he­ad and ur­ges, "Co­me on,C­har­lot­te. We're not sta­ying on the is­land."

  "Grandaddy wasn't exactly anon­y­mo­us in Sa­van­nah, and ne­it­her am I. Pe­op­le will say, 'Lo­ok at her, out ce­leb­ra­ting all tho­se mil­li­ons she just in­he­ri­ted.'"

  That di­sap­pro­
ving com­ment was ut­te­red by Gran­dad­dy him­self abo­ut the wi­dow of Dr. Si­las Ne­vil­le, his li­fe­long fri­end, when she sho­wed up at the hos­pi­tal ball in a red gown just we­eks af­ter the fu­ne­ral.

  "Who ca­res what pe­op­le think?" Roy­ce asks.

  "Not me, but…"

  Oh, who are you kid­ding, Char­lot­te?

  The mag­no­lia blos­som do­esn't fall far from the tree, or so Gran­dad­dy li­ked to say. The Re­min­g­tons ha­ve al­ways pla­yed by the ru­les of po­li­te So­ut­hern so­ci­ety. Char­lot­te was ra­ised to be a lady at all ti­mes.

  That, in part, is why it to­ok her so long to get out of her mar­ri­age to a man who was an­y­t­hing but a gen­t­le­man. If Vin­cent hadn't ta­ken it upon him­self to end it, she might still be with him.

  What an ab­hor­rent tho­ught.

  "I'm just not in the mo­od to go out," she tells Roy­ce. "But you go, ta­ke Li­an­na. And may­be you sho­uld see if an­yo­ne el­se wants to jo­in y'all," she adds as an af­ter­t­ho­ught, re­mem­be­ring the Re­min­g­ton re­la­ti­ves cur­rently sta­ying with them at Oak­ga­te.

  "I ba­rely know yo­ur co­usins."

  "That ma­kes two of us. They we­re much yo­un­ger, and I only saw them when they vi­si­ted down he­re in the sum­mers, re­mem­ber?"

  "Well, for­gi­ve me for sa­ying this, but from what I do know, I'm not exactly an­xi­o­us to spend the eve­ning with them."

  She smi­les bri­efly. "It's all right. I don't bla­me you. But Li­an­na-"

  "She won't co­me out of her ro­om."

  "Why not?"

  "Who knows? She's re­fu­sing to talk." Char­lot­te sighs. "Aga­in?"

  "She's pro­bably just up­set abo­ut yo­ur Gran­dad­dy."

  Char­lot­te sha­kes her he­ad grimly. Her tem­pe­ra­men­tal da­ug­h­ter to­ok to bar­ri­ca­ding her­self in her bed­ro­om in stony si­len­ce well be­fo­re her gre­at-gran­d­fat­her's fa­tal he­art at­tack.

  If the do­ors in this old ho­use had be­en up­da­ted in the last sixty ye­ars, Char­lot­te wo­uldn't he­si­ta­te to un­lock her da­ug­h­ter's and bar­ge in whe­ne­ver she pulls this. But Gran­dad­dy, who­se pa­rents re­por­tedly used to lock him in his ro­om for days as pu­nis­h­ment, had all the two-way locks re­mo­ved when he be­ca­me he­ad of the ho­use­hold.

  Now the­re are no keys; all bed­ro­om do­ors lock only with lat­c­hes on the in­si­de. And Char­lot­te re­fu­ses to stand in the hall beg­ging Li­an­na to open up, ha­ving en­du­red that fu­ti­le po­wer strug­gle on mo­re than one oc­ca­si­on.

  Although han­d­ling Li­an­na's re­cent tran­s­for­ma­ti­on from do­ci­le child to tan­t­rum qu­e­en pa­les in com­pa­ri­son to ot­her, far mo­re tra­uma­tic ma­ter­nal ex­pe­ri­en­ces Char­lot­te had fa­ced in the past, it's dis­t­res­sing no­net­he­less.

  With a rus­t­le of her black-silk fu­ne­ral dress, she stands and he­ads for the do­or­way.

  "I al­re­ady tri­ed to talk to her," Roy­ce warns. "She won't even an­s­wer. I think she's loc­ked in for the rest of the night."

  "I'm not go­ing to try to talk to her. I'm go­ing to chan­ge out of this dress so you can ta­ke me to din­ner, just the two of us."

  "Really?"

  "Really." Sud­denly, the last thing she wants is to spend a long eve­ning in this ho­use with a sul­len te­ena­ger, a batty old aunt, and as­sor­ted re­la­ti­ves who ca­me for the me­mo­ri­al ser­vi­ce and ob­vi­o­usly fe­el en­tit­led to lin­ger.

  It's be­en a co­up­le of ye­ars sin­ce Char­lot­te has se­en Gib and Phylli­da. Gib is pre­su­mably an at­tor­ney in Bos­ton by now, and his sis­ter mo­ved to the West Co­ast ye­ars ago to pur­sue ac­ting, be­fo­re she was mar­ri­ed. Char­lot­te hasn't se­en Phylli­da's hus­band, Bri­an, sin­ce the­ir wed­ding, or glim­p­sed so much as a pho­to of the­ir son, Wills.

  But they all sho­wed up for the fu­ne­ral, and this is the­ir ho­use as much as an­yo­ne's-or so they se­em to be­li­eve.

  As the Re­min­g­ton ho­mes­te­ad, Oak­ga­te at ti­mes ac­com­mo­da­ted se­ve­ral ge­ne­ra­ti­ons of ex­ten­ded fa­mily. But for the bet­ter part of the last de­ca­de, only Gran­dad­dy and his yo­un­ger half sis­ter, Je­an­ne, ha­ve re­ma­ined in re­si­den­ce.

  They we­re jo­ined se­ve­ral months ago by Char­lot­te, Roy­ce, and Li­an­na.

  The Mait­lands co­uld ha­ve ren­ted a pla­ce whi­le the­ir new ho­me in Sa­van­nah was be­ing re­mo­de­led. But Gran­dad­dy in­vi­ted them to stay he­re, Roy­ce tho­ught it was a go­od idea to sa­ve mo­ney, and Char­lot­te re­luc­tantly ag­re­ed.

  Now Gran­dad­dy's go­ne, and mo­ving on won't be as; sim­p­le as Char­lot­te had an­ti­ci­pa­ted.

  As she cros­ses the se­cond par­lor to­ward the lar­ge hall that runs thro­ugh the cen­ter of the ho­use, she can't help but no­ti­ce that every ti­me she thinks she's mo­ved out of Oak­ga­te, the old pla­ce sucks her back in.

  Almost li­ke the re­len­t­less grasp of a rip cur­rent at sea.

  No, she ad­mo­nis­hes her­self, star­t­led by the bi­zar­re com­pa­ri­son.

  Not li­ke that at all.

  Oakgate is just a ho­use.

  Just an ina­ni­ma­te pi­le of bricks and tabby and wo­od. It holds no po­wer; it isn't dan­ge­ro­us.

  Nor is it de­adly.

  Yet an odd chill of fo­re­bo­ding se­ems to fol­low Char­lot­te as she mo­ves thro­ugh its eerily still entry hall to­day, along with the flinty ga­zes of Re­min­g­ton an­ces­tors fo­re­ver ca­ged in gilt-fra­med por­t­ra­its.

  Hearing fo­ot­s­teps ap­pro­ac­hing the se­cond flo­or, Phylli­da Re­min­g­ton Har­per bra­ces her­self for yet anot­her in­t­ru­si­on.

  First ca­me her hus­band, Bri­an, chan­ging from his dark su­it to a pink po­lo and mad­ras slacks, and gat­he­ring the golf clubs he in­sen­si­ti­vely re­mem­be­red to pack for this fu­ne­ral trip back East.

  "You won't mind if I hit the links, will you, Phyll?" he as­ked, and didn't wa­it for the reply.

  Shortly af­ter his de­par­tu­re ca­me the ho­use­ke­eper's knock and the in­qu­iry abo­ut whet­her Phylli­da and her son plan­ned to eat din­ner this eve­ning he­re at Oak­ga­te or el­sew­he­re.

  El­sew­he­re?

  As if the­re are do­zens of res­ta­urants in this god­for­sa­ken pla­ce. One wo­uld ha­ve to go down to the so­ut­hern end of the is­land to find a de­cent me­al, or even the clo­sest gro­cery sto­re, as Phylli­da po­in­ted out to Nydia. With a sle­epy, out-of-sorts tod­dler to ca­re for and nary a nanny in the ho­use, that's out of the qu­es­ti­on.

  Nydia con­s­pi­cu­o­usly avo­ided the un­s­po­ken in­vi­ta­ti­on to bab­y­sit Wills for the eve­ning-not sur­p­ri­sing, sin­ce she ne­ver did se­em to ha­ve a way with chil­d­ren. Phylli­da dis­tinctly re­mem­bers be­ing in­ti­mi­da­ted by the wo­man's un­yi­el­ding aus­te­rity whe­ne­ver she and her brot­her vi­si­ted, and finds it hard to be­li­eve that Nydia ac­tu­al­ly had a hand in hel­ping to ra­ise Daddy and Un­c­le Nor­ris af­ter Gran­d­mot­her Ele­ano­re di­ed.

  Soon af­ter Nydia left the ro­om, Phylli­da's brot­her bar­ged in to "catch up." Ah, Gib, with his swag­ge­ring com­ments, nosy qu­es­ti­ons, and ba­rely gra­tu­ito­us at­ten­ti­on to his only nep­hew, who now li­es sle­eping in the an­ci­ent wo­oden crib ac­ross the ro­om.

  All right, not an­ci­ent. Char­lot­te cla­imed to ha­ve used it whe­ne­ver she vi­si­ted Oak­ga­te when her own chil­d­ren we­re yo­ung. But sa­fety stan­dards ha­ve chan­ged. For all Phylli­da knows, the ra­ils are far apart eno­ugh for lit­tle Wills to get his blond he­ad stuck.

  Being a res­pon­sib­le pa­rent, un­li­ke Bri­an, she do­esn't da­re le­ave the ro­om. Not even for a mo­ment.


  Yes, she's a pri­so­ner he­re; pri­so­ner in an over-fur­nis­hed, overly fussy cell awash in cherry an­ti­qu­es, Wa­verly wal­lpa­per, and La­ura As­h­ley li­nens. The ro­om was on­ce part of the much lar­ger one next do­or, now oc­cu­pi­ed by Char­lot­te's da­ug­h­ter, and the di­vi­ding wall is thin. She can he­ar every word that's sa­id in the­re, and no do­ubt vi­ce ver­sa.

  Which me­ans she can find her­self se­re­na­ded, and not just by mu­sic, at all ho­urs. Cur­rently, Li­an­na's te­le­vi­si­on is blas­ting so­me MTV show with a rap so­un­d­t­rack. The throb­bing bass grew so lo­ud ear­li­er that Phylli­da tap­ped on the wall.

  Lianna did turn it down that ti­me. But not much, and sub­se­qu­ent knocks ha­ve yi­el­ded no res­pon­se.

  Yes, this is far from her fa­vo­ri­te gu­est ro­om in the' ho­use.