The Final Victim

by that's me

  "I ne­ed to get a ho­tel. Is the­re one ne­ar the hos­pi­tal?" Aimee asks, cu­ring in­to Char­lot­te's tho­ughts.

  "Not right he­re, no… But the­re's a be­a­uti­ful Mar­ri­ott right down on the Ri­ver Walk, tho­ugh. Yo­ur dad and I…"

  Stayed the­re on our wed­ding night, be­fo­re we left for Ni­aga­ra Falls.

  No, she sho­uldn't say that to Roy­ce's da­ug­h­ter; it might be in­sen­si­ti­ve, con­si­de­ring the ro­man­tic, in­ti­ma­te ho­ney­mo­on ima­ges it evo­kes.

  "Is it ex­pen­si­ve?" Aimee asks a bit ap­pre­hen­si­vely, se­eming not to no­ti­ce Char­lot­te's un­fi­nis­hed sen­ten­ce.

  "Not very," she rep­li­es, and, se­e­ing the lo­ok on the girl's fa­ce, qu­ickly thinks bet­ter of it. Her idea of what's ex­pen­si­ve is pro­bably very dif­fe­rent from that of a girl who just gra­du­ated nur­sing scho­ol and do­esn't ha­ve a job yet. "But of co­ur­se, we'll pay for yo­ur ro­om, Aimee. And we'll re­im­bur­se you for yo­ur pla­ne tic­ket."

  "Oh, no, Char­lot­te, I wasn't hin­ting for y'all to-"

  "I know you we­ren't hin­ting. But of co­ur­se we'll pay for it In fact, I can gi­ve you the mo­ney for the tic­ket right now," she of­fers so­mew­hat aw­k­wardly, re­ac­hing for her pur­se. For all she knows, Aimee spent her last dol­lar on the flight. "How much was it?' "It wasn't much at all, and I can't let y'all do that. Re­al­ly. I can af­ford it."

  "It must ha­ve be­en a for­tu­ne at the last mi­nu­te li­ke that."

  "It wasn't bad. Re­al­ly. And I'm a big girl. Y'all don't ha­ve to pay for my ro­om. Just… May­be the­re's a Su­per 8 aro­und, or so­met­hing?"

  "I'm… not su­re. But we'll check."

  I sho­uld just ask her to co­me back to Oak­ga­te with me, Char­lot­te thinks. But with her co­usins oc­cup­ying the ot­her gu­es­t­ro­oms, whe­re wo­uld Aimee even stay?

  There's Gran­dad­dy's ro­om…

  Charlotte hasn't ven­tu­red the­re sin­ce he di­ed, but Nydia has be­en cle­aning it re­gu­larly. And it isn't as tho­ugh he was the type of man who col­lec­ted clut­ter and had per­so­nal ef­fects scat­te­red abo­ut.

  In fact, it's one of the few ro­oms in the ho­use that re­ma­ins free of fra­med pho­tog­raphs and ot­her rem­nants of the past An­yo­ne glan­cing thro­ugh the do­or­way might mis­ta­ke it for a gu­est ro­om: all it con­ta­ins are a bed, a cha­ir, and se­ve­ral bu­re­a­us and a nig­h­t­s­tand who­se tops con­ta­in only tab­le lamps. Plus, the­re's a pri­va­te bat­h­ro­om.

  But that's whe­re Gran­dad­dy di­ed. Do­es it re­al­ly fe­el right to turn it over to a stran­ger?

  Not a stran­ger. My hus­band's da­ug­h­ter. My step­da­ug­h­ter.

  Unaware of Char­lot­te's in­ner tur­mo­il, Aimee says, Thank you so much aga­in for cal­ling me last night."

  "Of co­ur­se! Of co­ur­se I wo­uld call you."

  "I don't know… You didn't ha­ve to."

  Before Char­lot­te can in­te­rj­ect a pro­test, Aimee go­es on, "But you did call. And I ap­pre­ci­ate yo­ur thin­king of me right away."

  Charlotte he­si­ta­tes, then, be­ca­use she has to say so­mething, tells Aimee, "You must know that I to­tal­ly res­pect yo­ur re­la­ti­on­s­hip with yo­ur dad…"

  She tra­ils off, awa­re that this isn't the ti­me or pla­ce for this con­ver­sa­ti­on.

  Never in her wil­dest dre­ams did she ima­gi­ne that her first me­eting with Aimee wo­uld be in a hos­pi­tal wa­iting ro­om, with Roy­ce lying un­con­s­ci­o­us.

  She al­ways pic­tu­red flying with him to New Or­le­ans; sha­king hands with Aimee in the air­port, or may­be even gi­ving her a mot­herly, po­li­te em­b­ra­ce. Then they wo­uld all go so­mep­la­ce for a ni­ce din­ner…

  But it wasn't me­ant to hap­pen that way.

  Life is a se­ri­es of ac­ci­dents… so­me go­od, so­me bad…

  And so­me, Char­lot­te can't help but think with tre­pi­da­ti­on, per­haps not ac­ci­dents at all.

  Lianna is sit­ting on the bot­tom step on the sta­irs in the front hall at Oak­ga­te, wil­ling the do­or­bell to ring, when a vo­ice from abo­ve star­t­les her.

  "What on earth are you do­ing down the­re?"

  She lo­oks up to find Nydia pe­ering down at her. "Ge­ez, do you ha­ve to sne­ak up on pe­op­le li­ke that?"

  The ho­use­ke­eper nar­rows her eyes as she walks down the sta­irs, a can of fur­ni­tu­re po­lish and a rag in her hand. "I wo­uldn't go aro­und ac­cu­sing ot­her pe­op­le of sne­aking aro­und, if I we­re you."

  Lianna scowls. Ob­vi­o­usly, no­body's bu­si­ness is pri­va­te aro­und he­re.

  "Hey, isn't this yo­ur day off?" Li­an­na asks. When she got up at twel­ve thirty, she fi­gu­red the ho­use­ke­eper must ha­ve be­en long go­ne.

  'Your mot­her as­ked me to stay. All this com­pany in the ho­use ma­kes ex­t­ra work."

  Judging by the dis­da­in­ful lo­ok on her fa­ce, Nydia do­esn't ap­pre­ci­ate that.

  "Do you know whe­re my mot­her and Roy­ce went this mor­ning?" Li­an­na asks, chan­ging the su­bj­ect.

  Nydia stops to wi­pe so­met­hing, pro­bably a mic­ros­co­pic fleck of dust, on the wo­oden sta­ir tre­ad as she an­s­wers, "I ha­ven't se­en them. Why?"

  "I just won­de­red, that's all. When I got up, they we­re al­re­ady go­ne so­mew­he­re."

  She wa­it for the ine­vi­tab­le com­ment abo­ut sle­eping la­te. Not that Nydia has sa­id an­y­t­hing abo­ut it in the past, but Li­an­na can tell by her usu­al at­ti­tu­de that she di­sap­pro­ves of an­yo­ne lying aro­und in bed past no­on.

  "You still ha­ven't told me why you're sit­ting he­re all dres­sed up," is all Nydia says.

  Lianna is we­aring the sun­d­ress Mom bo­ught for her at the be­gin­ning of the sum­mer, the one Li­an­na sa­id was too fancy to we­ar.

  She chan­ged her mind when she tri­ed it on. It ma­de her lo­ok lon­ger, le­aner, mo­re grown up.

  More li­ke Mom, in fact.

  "My fat­her's co­ming to see me," she in­forms Nydia.

  "How do you know that?"

  "He told me yes­ter­day. He was sup­po­sed to try and co­me last night but he got hung up at the res­ta­urant with so­me bu­si­ness cli­ents."

  What he sa­id when he cal­led her at Oak­ga­te was that he had in­vi­ted a co­up­le of pe­op­le to co­me to din­ner with him sin­ce he didn't want to eat alo­ne.

  Of co­ur­se he didn't. Who wo­uld bla­me him? If it we­ren't for Mom, he wo­uldn't ha­ve to, be­ca­use Li­an­na wo­uld ha­ve be­en with him, in­s­te­ad of his ha­ving to eat with so­me stu­pid pe­op­le who to­ok the­ir ti­me over din­ner, then wan­ted to go so­mew­he­re el­se af­ter, for drinks.

  "I just got back now, and it's get­ting la­te," he told Li­an­na, "and I fi­gu­re it won't ma­ke much sen­se now for me to dri­ve all the way to the op­po­si­te end of the is­land just for a qu­ick vi­sit. So I'll co­me to­mor­row, ho­ney. At no­on. Ill bring lunch. Okay?"

  She sne­aks a glan­ce at her watch and no­tes that Dad is now al­most two ho­urs la­te.

  "I ho­pe you don't think you're go­ing out with him," Nydia tells her, "be­ca­use yo­ur mot­her sa­id-"

  "Don't get all wor­ked up. I'm not go­ing out with him. He's just co­ming to see me and bring me so­me lunch." And I wish he'd hurry up, be­ca­use I'm star­ved.

  'That's ni­ce," Nydia says, and lo­oks li­ke she wants to add so­met­hing el­se.

  But she do­esn't, just steps aro­und Li­an­na as she re­ac­hes the fo­ot of the sta­ir­way.

  Lianna sticks out her ton­gue at the ho­use­ke­eper's back as she di­sap­pe­ars to­ward the re­ar of the ho­use, then im­me­di­ately fe­els gu­ilty. Nydia isn't that bad. She usu­al­ly has very lit­tle to say, and ke­eps to
her­self. She can't help it if Mom ma­kes her en­for­ce the pri­son norms -and, most li­kely, re­ga­les her with ta­les of her da­ug­h­ter sne­aking aro­und with the lo­cal rif­fraff.

  Resting her chin in her hand, Li­an­na sta­res at the do­or, won­de­ring whe­re her fat­her is. Not that this is the first ti­me he's ever be­en la­te. Not by a long shot.

  But he usu­al­ly calls to let her know he's on his way, at le­ast.

  Come on, Dad, Li­an­na sends a si­lent mes­sa­ge. I'm wa­iting. Whe­re the heck are you?

  "Are you okay? You don't se­em it"

  "I'm fi­ne, re­al­ly." As Char­lot­te brus­hes away the de­so­la­te te­ars that tric­k­le from her eyes, it's Aimee who re­ac­hes out with an al­most ma­ter­nal hand, pat­ting Char­lot­te's sho­ul­der.

  "You know, I'm kind of sur­p­ri­sed you're he­re all by yo­ur­self, Mrs. Ma­it­land."

  "Oh, you can call me Char­lot­te."

  "I will. I tho­ught you had a lot of fa­mily he­re."

  "My gran­d­fat­her pas­sed away a few we­eks ago."

  "I know, and I'm so sor­ry-I sho­uld ha­ve sa­id so so­oner. I know how hard it is to lo­se so­me­body you lo­ve."

  "Thank you. It is." Char­lot­te wat­c­hes a clo­ud of sor­row cross Aimee's fa­ce. She's thin­king abo­ut her kid brot­her, Theo.

  "I ha­ve a da­ug­h­ter," she says qu­ickly, to ke­ep the con­ver­sa­ti­on from ven­tu­ring to a pla­ce she can't be­ar to go. Not right now. Not with all her emo­ti­ons on ed­ge.

  "Her na­me is Li­an­na, right?"

  "Yes. Li­an­na."

  I on­ce had a son, too-Adam.

  "Where is she?"

  "Back at ho­me, pro­bably still as­le­ep."

  "You didn't tell her abo­ut my fat­her?"

  "No, I don't want to wa­ke her up with news li­ke this, es­pe­ci­al­ly when I can't de­li­ver it in per­son."

  "Of co­ur­se not," Aimee mur­murs. "Po­or thing. She's go­ing to be up­set when she finds out. I know Daddy is clo­se to her. He talks abo­ut her a lot."

  Charlotte mar­vels at Aimee's ut­ter lack of re­sen­t­ment. It wo­uldn't be un­na­tu­ral for Aimee to be je­alo­us of Li­an­na, gi­ven the cir­cum­s­tan­ces.

  But she isn't.

  She's a swe­et­he­art, Char­lot­te con­c­lu­des, gi­ving her step­da­ug­h­ter's hand a squ­e­eze. Thank go­od­ness.

  "So you've be­en he­re all alo­ne all night, just wa­iting, Mrs. Ma­it­land?" Aimee asks sympat­he­ti­cal­ly.

  "It's Char­lot­te-ple­ase just call me Char­lot­te."

  "Oh, I'm sor­ry-old ha­bits ne­ver the. I was ra­ised with old-fas­hi­oned So­ut­hern man­ners, I gu­ess."

  Charlotte smi­les. "Me, too."

  "So… You've be­en all alo­ne he­re?" Aimee asks aga­in.

  All alo­ne. God, yes.

  "My co­usins ca­me ear­li­er, but… They co­uldn't stay."

  To the­ir cre­dit, both Phylli­da and Gib we­re pro­perly alar­med and con­cer­ned-and re­li­eved to le­arn that Roy­ce was out of im­me­di­ate dan­ger. They both as­ked a lot of qu­es­ti­ons and ga­ve Char­lot­te an ob­li­ga­tory hug be­fo­re de­par­ting, as­king to be kept ap­pri­sed of Roy­ce's con­di­ti­on.

  And they both wan­ted to know who co­uld ha­ve do­ne such a thing.

  It's the sa­me qu­es­ti­on Char­lot­te was re­pe­atedly as­ked by Wil­li­am­son and Do­ra­do. She sup­po­ses a go­od de­tec­ti­ve has to be per­sis­tent…

  But what if they we­re ho­ping she'd trip over her own words and im­p­li­ca­te her­self?

  She re­mem­bers re­ading so­mew­he­re, long ago, that the pri­mary sus­pect in any mur­der is the per­son's spo­use. Roy­ce is still ali­ve, thank God, but the po­li­ce wo­uld ha­ve to con­si­der her a pos­sib­le can­di­da­te-as a mat­ter of ro­uti­ne, if not­hing el­se.

  The me­re idea that she co­uld sho­ot Roy­ce is ri­di­cu­lo­us… But then, the de­tec­ti­ves don't know her. They aren't awa­re that she lo­ves her hus­band mo­re than an­y­t­hing in the world. They don't know that she wo­uld ne­ver, ever, harm him-that she has no re­ason what­so­ever to do so.

  But what if so­me­body did?

  What if it wasn't a ran­dom sho­oting af­ter all?

  Try as she might, Char­lot­te can't sha­ke the me­mory of who­ever was hi­ding be­hind the crypt in Co­lo­ni­al Park Ce­me­tery. If the gun­man re­al­ly was a sni­per with no spe­ci­fic vic­tim in mind, wo­uldn't he ha­ve cho­sen a mo­re po­pu­la­ted pla­ce to com­mit his act?

  That stretch of Og­let­hor­pe Ave­nue is ma­inly re­si­den­ti­al. At the ho­ur of the night when Roy­ce was shot, pe­des­t­ri­ans we­re few and far bet­we­en.

  So why the­re?

  Why then?

  Why Roy­ce?

  Charlotte is al­most lo­oking for­ward to her next me­eting with the de­tec­ti­ves, tho­ugh it won't be fun to sit thro­ugh anot­her ses­si­on li­ke the one she en­du­red ear­li­er.

  Maybe Aimee will be he­re with me, she thinks ho­pe­ful­ly.

  Of co­ur­se she will. Whe­re el­se do­es she ha­ve to go? Un­li­ke Gib and Phylli­da, her ma­in con­cern is for her fat­her's well-be­ing.

  Relieved to be in the com­pany of a kin­d­red spi­rit, Char­lot­te lets out a de­ep, qu­ave­ring bre­ath.

  "You know, ever­y­t­hing is go­ing to be okay," Aimee says. "I just re­al­ly fe­el li­ke he's go­ing to be fi­ne."

  "I know he is… But why Roy­ce? Why did this hap­pen to him?"

  "The po­li­ce re­al­ly don't know who did it?" Aimee asks aga­in.

  "No."

  "Well, they're right abo­ut it pro­bably be­ing ran­dom… I know that for su­re."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because Daddy didn't ha­ve an enemy in the world."

  I wo­uldn't say that, Char­lot­te can't help thin­king.

  And I don't think Roy­ce wo­uld, eit­her.

  It's no sec­ret that Vin­ce holds a grud­ge aga­inst his da­ug­h­ter's step­fat­her.

  Still, for ever­y­t­hing Vin­ce is, Char­lot­te is fa­irly cer­ta­in of what he isn't, a cold-blo­oded kil­ler.

  But Vin­ce isn't the only one who isn't fond of Roy­ce.

  He has fre­qu­ently men­ti­oned how much his ex-wi­fe ha­tes him. He sa­id it just the ot­her night, when Char­lot­te told him she'd ne­ver en­co­un­te­red an­yo­ne who didn't li­ke him.

  That's be­ca­use you ha­ven't met Ka­ren.

  Could his ex pos­sibly ha­te him eno­ugh to co­me he­re and gun him down?

  Again, Char­lot­te thinks of the per­son she saw in the ce­me­tery. She ga­ve as tho­ro­ugh a des­c­rip­ti­on as she co­uld to the in­ves­ti­ga­tors, which was a chal­len­ge, con­si­de­ring that she didn't see much.

  As she told the de­tec­ti­ves, all she knew for su­re was that he was we­aring dark clot­hes, and agi­le eno­ugh to be mis­ta­ken for a te­ena­ger.

  In ot­her words, it was no hul­king, six-fo­ot tall hit man…

  Or wo­man.

  After all, the sho­oter co­uld ha­ve be­en a fe­ma­le.

  Oh, co­me on, Char­lot­te. You're not re­al­ly thin­king Roy­ce's ex-wi­fe ha­tes him eno­ugh to try to kill him, are you?

  No. Of co­ur­se not. It's just…

  Well, as she le­ar­ned in the be­re­ave­ment gro­up that li­te­ral­ly sa­ved her li­fe, gri­ef can do stran­ge things to pe­op­le. It can put ide­as in­to the­ir he­ads they might ot­her­wi­se ne­ver ha­ve con­ce­ived-or se­ri­o­usly con­si­de­red.

  Why el­se wo­uld Char­lot­te ha­ve fan­ta­si­zed abo­ut ta­king her own li­fe af­ter her only son lost his? If it wasn't for Li­an­na, she wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve go­ne on.

  Karen do­esn't ha­ve a small child at ho­me who ne­eds her. Aimee just gra­du­ate
d from nur­sing scho­ol; she'll be out on her own from now on. And, mo­re im­por­tantly, she's for­gi­ven her fat­her, for­ged a new bond with him.

  How do­es Ka­ren fe­el abo­ut that?

  On Char­lot­te's best days, des­pi­te her best in­ten­ti­ons to be adult abo­ut the si­tu­ati­on, she can't help but re­sent Vin­ce's re­la­ti­on­s­hip with Li­an­na.