The Final Victim

by that's me

  Then aga­in, Si­las's will was stra­ig­h­t­for­ward; no sur­p­ri­ses the­re. He left ever­y­t­hing to Betsy, his fo­urth wi­fe, who spent mo­re ti­me flut­te­ring aro­und Sa­van­nah than she did at Si­las's bed­si­de du­ring his last months on earth, af­ter the stro­ke that pa­ral­y­zed just abo­ut every fun­c­ti­on but his spe­ech. As Betsy so elo­qu­ently phra­sed it, "I've al­ways be­en a lit­tle squ­e­amish. Tho­se hos­pi­ce nur­ses are much bet­ter at this kind of thing than I am."

  If Tyler had any an­xi­eti­es abo­ut the pros­pect of re­ading Si­las's will, they we­re ba­sed on the fe­ar that Betsy might put her hand on his thigh be­ne­ath the tab­le, as she was re­pu­tedly in­c­li­ned to do even when her hus­band was ali­ve.

  It didn't hap­pen. The will was re­ad wit­ho­ut a hitch- and Betsy went on to get re­hit­c­hed just six months la­ter, to a man her own age-or per­haps a de­ca­de yo­un­ger. As Gil­bert dryly sta­ted at the ti­me, he pro­bably ne­eded so­me­one to pay his col­le­ge tu­iti­on.

  I miss you al­re­ady, Gil­bert.

  And you, too, Si­las.

  This world se­ems to get lo­ne­li­er with every pas­sing we­ek.

  Tyler is acu­tely awa­re of his sta­tus as a wi­do­wer him­self, and as so­le sur­vi­vor of a li­fe­long thre­eso­me re­fer­red to back in the­ir bo­ar­ding scho­ol days as the Tel­fa­ir Trio. He sinks in­to his le­at­her swi­vel cha­ir be­hind the ma­ho­gany desk at which two pre­vi­o­us ge­ne­ra­ti­ons of Haw­t­hor­nes prac­ti­ced law.

  The days of stan­ding we­ekly golf ga­mes and lun­c­hes at the club with Si­las and Gil­bert we­re long go­ne well be­fo­re his fri­ends di­ed. But des­pi­te ha­ving drif­ted with old age from the­ir so­ci­al and rec­re­ati­onal ri­tu­als, the bond for­ged fo­ur sco­re-gi­ve or ta­ke a ye­ar or two- ago, re­ma­ined.

  The trio sta­ged so­me risky scho­ol­boy pranks and es­ca­pa­des in the­ir days at Tel­fa­ir Aca­demy-al­ways kno­wing they had each ot­her's backs.

  That lo­yal­ty-that wil­lin­g­ness to co­ver for each ot­her, even if it me­ant lying to an aut­ho­rity fi­gu­re, or a spo­use- lin­ge­red in­to adul­t­ho­od. They knew each ot­her's de­epest and, in so­me ca­ses, dar­kest sec­rets.

  Thanks to Si­las and Gil­bert, Tyler's be­lo­ved Ma­rj­orie went to her de­at­h­bed ne­ver kno­wing of his fo­olish, yo­ut­h­ful in­dis­c­re­ti­ons.

  And thanks to Si­las and Tyler put­ting the­ir own ca­re­ers as doc­tor and law­yer on the li­ne, Gil­bert's fa­mily for­tu­ne re­ma­ins in­tact-and, per­haps even mo­re im­por­tantly, the Re­min­g­ton na­me un­tar­nis­hed.

  Perhaps it was the Tel­fa­ir Trio's fi­nal es­ca­pa­de, that ul­ti­ma­te test of the­ir al­le­gi­an­ce, that pus­hed them all too far. Af­ter that, things we­re ne­ver qu­ite the sa­me. On the sur­fa­ce, yes. But de­ep down, Tyler sus­pects, gu­ilt had fi­nal­ly ca­ught up with all three of them.

  Perhaps Gil­bert most of all.

  But it all hap­pe­ned ye­ars ago. Anot­her li­fe­ti­me, it se­ems.

  Tyler drums his fin­ger­tips on the gre­en blot­ter and turns a ner­vo­us eye to­ward the swin­ging pen­du­lum of the wall clock op­po­si­te.

  In abo­ut fi­ve mi­nu­tes, Gil­bert Re­min­g­ton II's des­cen­dants are go­ing to walk thro­ugh that do­or, fully an­ti­ci­pa­ting that they will walk back out set for li­fe, mil­li­ona­ires many ti­mes over.

  One won't be di­sap­po­in­ted.

  * * *

  "Remember, you ne­ed to be re­ady when I co­me back he­re to get you." Par­ked at the curb in front of Ca­sey's ho­use on Bull Stre­et in Sa­van­nah's his­to­ric dis­t­rict, Mom taps the ste­ering whe­el of her whi­te Le­xus SUV with both hands for em­p­ha­sis.

  Lianna al­most wis­hes old Step­hen had dri­ven her in­to town in­s­te­ad of her mot­her. But the cha­uf­fe­ur has go­ne to vi­sit his da­ug­h­ter in At­lan­ta for a few we­eks, and Gre­at-Gran­dad­dy's shiny black car sits unu­sed in the car­ri­age ho­use un­til he gets back.

  "I'm go­ing to call yo­ur cell pho­ne when I'm on my way," Mom go­es on, "so you'll ha­ve plenty of war­ning, and I swe­ar, if you're not re­ady "

  "I will be," Li­an­na says, wis­hing her mot­her wo­uld stop tal­king to her, and frow­ning over at her in the pas­sen­ger's se­at, as if she's a na­ughty lit­tle girl. It's eno­ugh to ma­ke her add, snip­pily, "Just don't call and say you're co­ming back a half ho­ur from now and ex­pect me to be happy to see you."

  "Don't use that to­ne with me." Mom's vi­olet eyes dar­ken omi­no­usly.

  Lianna can't help but no­ti­ce, je­alo­usly, that her mot­her is stri­kingly pretty even when she's angry. It isn't fa­ir. Why can't Mom lo­ok li­ke a re­gu­lar per­son, the way her fri­ends' mot­hers do? Or, if she has to be so be­a­uti­ful, at le­ast Li­an­na co­uld ha­ve in­he­ri­ted her lo­oks.

  Lianna ap­pa­rently re­sem­b­les not her fat­her, with his dark go­od lo­oks, but his si­de of the fa­mily, tho­ugh she do­esn't know fir­s­t­hand. Her pa­ter­nal gran­d­pa­rents di­ed long be­fo­re she was born, and she hasn't se­en her fat­her's only sis­ter in ye­ars. For that mat­ter, she do­esn't see a who­le lot of Dad him­self-but only be­ca­use Mom won't let her. That's what he says, and Li­an­na be­li­eves it who­le­he­ar­tedly.

  Mom wasn't even ni­ce to Daddy at the fu­ne­ral, af­ter he dro­ve all that way to of­fer his con­do­len­ces.

  Too bad that he co­uldn't stay lon­ger or that Li­an­na co­uldn't go ho­me with him. He sa­id his apar­t­ment is too small, but he's wor­king on get­ting a big­ger one, so she can start spen­ding every ot­her we­ekend with him, the way she's sup­po­sed to-and ne­ver has.

  "You he­ard what I sa­id, Li­an­na." Mom is still gla­ring at her. "When I get back, you'll be re­ady to co­me ho­me with me."

  "Yeah, well… Oak­ga­te isn't ho­me. Just so you know. In ca­se you for­got."

  Shut up, Li­an­na tells her­self. Why are you ma­king things dif­fi­cult? Why don't you just get out of the stu­pid car be­fo­re she de­ci­des to ta­ke you with her to the stu­pid law­yer's of­fi­ce?

  Why?

  Who the heck knows?

  She just can't se­em to help her­self. La­tely, whe­ne­ver she's tal­king to her mot­her, she opens her mo­uth and harsh, spi­te­ful things fall out of it To her sur­p­ri­se, her mot­her do­esn't ha­ve an angry re­tort. This ti­me, an­y­way.

  "I know Oak­ga­te isn't ho­me, Li­an­na," Mom says, so­un­ding al­most sympat­he­tic. "It re­al­ly won't be much lon­ger till we co­me back to Sa­van­nah. I pro­mi­se."

  Lianna is tem­p­ted to po­int out that the new ho­use in Sa­van­nah isn't ho­me, eit­her. Not to her. No pla­ce fe­els li­ke ho­me to her an­y­mo­re.

  Poor, po­or child of di­vor­ce, she tells her­self-moc­kingly, yet the words sting.

  Struck by a sud­den, fi­er­ce lon­ging for her fat­her, she wis­hes she had told Mom ear­li­er that be­fo­re he left the fu­ne­ral re­cep­ti­on last we­ek, he pro­mi­sed to vi­sit next we­ekend… and that Li­an­na wants to stay with him whi­le he's he­re. He al­ways stays at the sa­me pla­ce: the Shark's To­oth Inn on the so­ut­her­n­most tip of the is­land.

  She fi­gu­res he won't mind ha­ving her stay the­re, too. Es­pe­ci­al­ly sin­ce that will me­an he won't ha­ve to ke­ep de­aling with Mom and her ru­les.

  Now isn't the ti­me for Li­an­na to bring it up to her mot­her, but she will, first chan­ce she gets.

  Right, and Mom will ha­ve that tig­ht-lip­ped ex­p­res­si­on she gets every ti­me Li­an­na brings up her dad.

  Why do­es Mom ha­te him so much? Why can't she see that her nasty at­ti­tu­de ke­eps her ex-hus­band away, not just from her-which is how she wants it-but from his da­ug­h­ter as well?
r />   It isn't fa­ir.

  I ne­ed him. He's my dad.

  Lianna turns to lo­ok out the car win­dow at the den­se, gra­ying sky be­yond the ro­of­tops. Ra­in­d­rops thre­aten to fall any se­cond now, as do her own te­ars.

  "Listen, go ha­ve fun with yo­ur fri­end," her mot­her tells her unex­pec­tedly, and le­ans over to peck her on the che­ek.

  Lianna do­esn't me­an to brush away the kiss as if it was a pesky fly.

  But she do­es. She can't help her­self.

  The in­s­tant hurt in Mom's ex­p­res­si­on sends Li­an­na scram­b­ling for the do­or han­d­le.

  As luck wo­uld ha­ve it, Tyler hap­pe­ned to be re­cu­pe­ra­ting in the hos­pi­tal from a car ac­ci­dent when Gil­bert Re­min­g­ton chan­ged his will last win­ter. His grand-nep­hew, Jame­son, a new par­t­ner in the firm, han­d­led it in his ab­sen­ce.

  By the ti­me Tyler re­ali­zed what had hap­pe­ned, the new will was com­p­le­ted and sig­ned.

  At that po­int, it wasn't ne­ces­sa­rily Tyler's pla­ce to qu­es­ti­on a cli­ent's de­ci­si­on to all but di­sin­he­rit two of his three he­irs. He did so an­y­way, in part be­ca­use Gil­bert was a clo­se fri­end; but mostly be­ca­use Gil­bert was al­ways ada­mant that his es­ta­te be di­vi­ded equ­al­ly among the re­ma­ining Re­min­g­tons, re­gar­d­less of his fe­elings for them.

  Something dras­tic must ha­ve hap­pe­ned to chan­ge his mind. Tyler co­uldn't deny be­ing cu­ri­o­us abo­ut a pos­sib­le rift in Sa­van­nah's most pro­mi­nent fa­mily.

  So he pic­ked up the pho­ne and cal­led.

  He fully ex­pec­ted Gil­bert to brush him off in his usu­al brus­que man­ner, but his fri­end se­emed oddly sub­du­ed as they ex­c­han­ged ini­ti­al ni­ce­ti­es that day.

  When Tyler bro­ught up the will, he draw­led, "I knew I'd be he­aring from you abo­ut it, Tyler. If you didn't cro­ak, that is."

  Ah, that zin­ger was mo­re li­ke the can­tan­ke­ro­us old SOB.

  "No, I'm ali­ve and well-for the ti­me be­ing, an­y­way, ac­cor­ding to my doc­tor. And thank you for the fru­it bas­ket." A per­so­nal no­te, let alo­ne a vi­sit, wo­uld ha­ve be­en ni­cer, but Gil­bert ne­ver was the warm-fuz­zy type. 1 don't plan on go­ing an­y­w­he­re an­y­ti­me so­on," Tyler went on, "and I'm su­re you don't eit­her, Gil­bert."

  No reply.

  "But when you do… I see that you're es­sen­ti­al­ly le­aving ever­y­t­hing to-"

  "Don't qu­es­ti­on me, Tyler. You didn't gi­ve me gri­ef when I eli­mi­na­ted Xavy's wi­fe af­ter he pas­sed away."

  "No," Tyler told him, "but that was dif­fe­rent, Gil­bert."

  "How?"

  "This in­vol­ves yo­ur own flesh and blo­od."

  It was no sec­ret that Gil­bert wasn't par­ti­cu­larly fond of his da­ug­h­ter-in-law Su­san. He ne­ver did ta­ke kindly to 'Yan­ke­es," and he me­rely to­le­ra­ted her from the mo­ment his son bro­ught her ho­me.

  Not that he ever had much use for his ot­her da­ug­h­ter- I in-law, a fra­gi­le, pe­tu­lant So­ut­hern bel­le who grew up on Ac­ho­co Is­land. He'd pro­bably ha­ve go­ne to the tro­ub­le to wri­te out Con­nie June as well, if she hadn't al­re­ady be­en ter­mi­nal­ly ill at that po­int.

  In fact, Tyler re­cal­ls that at the ti­me he was to­uc­hed I by Gil­bert's con­cern over her he­alth, par­ti­cu­larly to­ward the end. Gil­bert flew in spe­ci­alists to tre­at her and when that fa­iled, hi­red the best pri­va­te hos­pi­ce nur­ses his mo­ney co­uld buy. He ar­ran­ged for fresh flo­wer ar­ran­ge­ments to be de­li­ve­red da­ily to her bed­si­de, and or­de­red in bulk any fo­ods she co­uld ma­na­ge to ke­ep down.

  As Tyler saw it then, the overly so­li­ci­to­us be­ha­vi­or was most li­kely in de­fe­ren­ce to Con­nie June's da­ug­h­ter.

  Either that, or in his twi­light ye­ars the old man was star­ting to sof­ten… a sug­ges­ti­on he'd ha­ve ta­ken as an ac­cu­sa­ti­on, not a com­p­li­ment, sho­uld Tyler ever ha­ve bro­ught it up.

  Which he wo­uldn't.

  Even if he hadn't even­tu­al­ly le­ar­ned the re­al, and shoc­king, re­ason for Gil­bert's so­li­ci­to­us be­ha­vi­or to­ward Con­nie June, the fi­nal chan­ge Gil­bert ma­de to his will wo­uld cer­ta­inly ha­ve ul­ti­ma­tely pro­ven he wasn't sof­te­ning with age.

  Rather, it wo­uld se­em to in­di­ca­te the op­po­si­te. "You know it's my job as yo­ur at­tor­ney to en­su­re that you we­re of so­und mind and body when you ma­de the­se la­test chan­ges," Tyler told Gil­bert.

  "Your nep­hew must ha­ve de­ci­ded that I was, be­ca­use he didn't ha­ve a prob­lem with the new will when he drew it up."

  "He do­esn't know you the way I do."

  Gilbert snor­ted at that.

  As if to say, You don't know me at all, Tyler.

  Still…

  "Why didn't you wa­it for me to co­me back be­fo­re you ma­de the chan­ges?"

  "At our age, Tyler, who has ti­me to wa­it?"

  "You co­uld at le­ast ha­ve con­sul­ted me."

  "You we­re lying in a hos­pi­tal bed." Gil­bert's to­ne was sur­p­ri­singly sub­du­ed. "How co­uld I do that to you?"

  "What did yo­ur fa­mily do to piss you off, might I ask?"

  "You might," Gil­bert shot back, his lap­se in­to kindly con­si­de­ra­ti­on un­sur­p­ri­singly tem­po­rary, "but I don't ha­ve to an­s­wer, you nosy son of a bitch."

  It was hardly the first ti­me in Tyler's li­fe that Gil­bert had cal­led him that-usu­al­ly with ut­most af­fec­ti­on. But this ti­me, it was hardly a term of en­de­ar­ment.

  What on earth co­uld ha­ve hap­pe­ned? Ob­vi­o­usly, so­met­hing ear­th-shat­te­ring eno­ugh to ca­use Gil­bert to set asi­de his typi­cal­ly prag­ma­tic ap­pro­ach to fa­mily fi­nan­ce.

  "You ha­ve to know all hell is go­ing to bre­ak lo­ose when yo­ur fa­mily finds out what you've do­ne."

  "I won't be the­re to see it," was Gil­bert's suc­cinct res­pon­se.

  "No, but I will."

  "Look on the bright si­de, Tyler. May­be you'll get lucky and check out af­ter I do."

  "I do­ubt that. I've al­ways tho­ught you we­re go­ing to li­ve fo­re­ver," he rep­li­ed, only half-kid­ding.

  "Then ne­it­her of us has an­y­t­hing to worry abo­ut, do we?"

  Maybe you don't, Tyler thinks now, ga­zing at the le­gal do­cu­ment wa­iting on his desk. But I most cer­ta­inly do.

  The will is bo­und to be mes­sily con­tes­ted.

  What the hell was Gil­bert thin­king?

  * * *

  The Mag­no­lia Cli­nic is con­ve­ni­ently lo­ca­ted in the sha­dows of Hig­h­way 16, just off the exit ramp. Mi­mi has no prob­lem fin­ding it, just as Dr. Red­mond's nur­se pro­mi­sed when she cal­led this mor­ning to sum­mon them.

  Everything abo­ut this pla­ce is dep­res­sing, from the una­dor­ned, yel­low-brick fa­ca­de to the rusty cha­in-link and bar­bed wi­re fen­ce that rings the par­king lot. The­re is nary a mag­no­lia in sight. Most of the cars he­re, in­c­lu­ding tho­se with MD li­cen­se pla­tes, are ol­der do­mes­tic mo­dels, many in so­me form of dis­re­pa­ir, mu­te tes­ti­mony to the eco­no­mic le­vel of cli­en­te­le and staff.

  But this is whe­re the Joh­n­s­tons ha­ve lan­ded, co­ur­tesy of a no­ne­xis­tent in­su­ran­ce plan and a vir­tu­al­ly empty bank ac­co­unt.

  "I'm go­ing to ha­ve to park pretty far away from the do­or. Do you want me to go get a whe­el­c­ha­ir?" she asks Jed, when they find them­sel­ves cir­c­ling the lot a se­cond ti­me.

  "No. I'll walk."

  She opens her mo­uth to pro­test, but thinks bet­ter of it. He ha­tes be­ing tre­ated li­ke an in­va­lid. He's be­en thro­ugh eno­ugh of that la­tely, and who knows what li­es ahe­ad?

  After
col­lap­sing at work and be­ing rus­hed to Can­d­ler Ge­ne­ral's ER with un­be­arab­le sto­mach pa­in, po­or Jed spent a mi­se­rab­le we­ek in a hos­pi­tal bed. He was ho­oked up to an IV, inj­ec­ted and scan­ned and dra­ined of va­ri­o­us flu­ids as gas­t­ro­en­te­ro­logy spe­ci­alists at­tem­p­ted to de­ter­mi­ne the ca­use of his il­lness.

  Now, pre­su­mably, they know.

  And it's news that ne­eds to be de­li­ve­red in per­son.

  Which me­ans it can't be go­od.

  This is just li­ke what hap­pe­ned with Daddy…