The Final Victim

by that's me

  She sho­uld be glad, per­haps, that her da­ug­h­ter do­esn't see him for what he re­al­ly is, but she isn't al­ways. Not when she her­self gets the brunt of Li­an­na's mo­odi­ness and has the so­le res­pon­si­bi­lity for dis­cip­li­ning her, whi­le Vin­ce is the lo­ne re­ci­pi­ent of wha­te­ver shred of res­pect a tro­ub­led ado­les­cent is ca­pab­le of sho­wing an­yo­ne.

  Surely Ka­ren has mi­xed fe­elings, at the very le­ast, abo­ut Aimee wel­co­ming Roy­ce back in­to her li­fe?

  The do­or to the wa­iting ro­om opens, and a nur­se in gre­en scrubs pe­ers in. "Mrs. Ma­it­land?"

  "Yes?" Char­lot­te gets im­me­di­ately to her fe­et, pul­se ra­cing.

  "You can see yo­ur hus­band now. He's awa­ke."

  "Thank you." She prac­ti­cal­ly fli­es ac­ross the ro­om, and is hal­f­way to the do­or be­fo­re she re­mem­bers.

  Aimee.

  "This is his da­ug­h­ter," she tells the nur­se, tur­ning back. "Can she co­me, too?"

  "Of co­ur­se. But only one of y'all in the ro­om at a ti­me. The ot­her can wa­it out­si­de the do­or."

  Aimee smi­les gra­te­ful­ly at Char­lot­te, who grasps her hand tightly as the two of them hurry down the cor­ri­dor af­ter the nur­se.

  "You don't think she did it her­self?" Phylli­da asks her brot­her in dis­be­li­ef, sta­ring at him over the rim of her cof­fee cup.

  "Shhh" Gib lo­oks aro­und as if to ma­ke su­re the ot­her pat­rons of the Bull Stre­et Ca­fe ha­ven't over­he­ard. "I didn't say she did it…"

  Phyllida lo­wers her vo­ice to a whis­per. "You just sa­id-"

  "What I me­ant was that she co­uld ha­ve hi­red so­me­body to do it."

  "I can't think of an­y­t­hing mo­re out of cha­rac­ter than prim-and-pro­per Char­lot­te sne­aking aro­und in­ter­vi­ewing hit men. So­me­ti­mes I think you're lo­sing it, Gib."

  "And so­me­ti­mes I think that prim-and-pro­per thing she do­es is an act."

  "I don't know… I think she was re­al­ly sha­ken up by this," she tells Gib. "I felt sorry for her at the hos­pi­tal."

  "So did I," he ad­mits. "Do you think one of us sho­uld ha­ve sta­yed with her for a whi­le?"

  So Gib sud­denly has a con­s­ci­en­ce? Talk abo­ut out of cha­rac­ter…

  Phyllida wat­c­hes him do­use his scram­b­led eggs with anot­her hefty do­se of Lo­u­isi­ana hot sa­uce, then ta­ke a hu­ge bi­te wit­ho­ut win­cing or was­hing it down with wa­ter.

  She sha­kes her he­ad and nib­bles a gre­en gra­pe from her fru­it pla­te, re­mem­be­ring that he al­ways did li­ke things hot­ter and spi­ci­er than an­yo­ne el­se co­uld sto­mach. The­ir mot­her al­ways sa­id his tas­te buds just aren't wi­red to be as sen­si­ti­ve as most pe­op­le's.

  Phyllida so­me­ti­mes won­de­red if the rest of him might not be wi­red that way as well. In that way, her brot­her re­minds her of the­ir gran­d­fat­her. Not­hing bot­hers him, re­al­ly. Physi­cal­ly, emo­ti­onal­ly…

  Financially, yes, she ac­k­now­led­ges. Mo­ney, he ca­res abo­ut "Do you, think we sho­uld ha­ve sta­yed at the hos­pi­tal?" she asks him.

  "I gu­ess not. I don't think she re­al­ly wan­ted us the­re."

  "No, pro­bably not" She spe­ars a fat red straw­ber­ry with her fork be­fo­re as­king ca­su­al­ly, "So whe­re we­re you last night, an­y­way?"

  His he­ad jerks up. "How did I know you we­ren't go­ing to let that-drop?"

  "Come on, Gib. You we­re out all night? Whe­re did you go?"

  "To an art gal­lery ope­ning."

  "Where?"

  "In Sa­van­nah. On Ri­ver Stre­et You want the ad­dress and a bunch of wit­nes­ses? Be­ca­use I pro­mi­se I can gi­ve you both."

  Ignoring that she asks, "You we­re the­re all night?"

  "No. I hit a co­up­le of bars af­ter."

  "Who we­re you with?"

  "Nobody you know."

  "So do the bars still clo­se at three AM aro­und he­re?" she asks.

  He shrugs. "I wo­uldn't know. May­be you sho­uld call City Hall and see if they do."

  "I'm just won­de­ring," she says suc­cinctly, "whe­re you we­re bet­we­en three in the mor­ning and when you ca­me ho­me to pick me up."

  She bi­tes in­to the straw­ber­ry, con­s­ci­o­us of her brot­her's ga­ze on her.

  "You ac­tu­al­ly think I had so­met­hing to do with trying to bump off Char­lot­te's hus­band, don't you?" he asks flatly.

  "Or co­ur­se I don't dunk so, Gib. But I ho­pe you ha­ve a go­od ali­bi. Be­ca­use you know they're go­ing to ask."

  "The po­li­ce?"

  She nods.

  "What abo­ut you?" he asks in re­turn. "Whe­re we­re you?"

  "Where el­se? Stuck at Oak­ga­te."

  "Doing what?"

  "Mostly wat­c­hing TV in my ro­om. And sle­eping."

  "You we­re the­re all night? You ne­ver left?"

  "How co­uld I le­ave? I don't even ha­ve a car. I had to wa­it for you to get ho­me be­fo­re I co­uld even go to the hos­pi­tal, re­mem­ber?"

  "You co­uld ha­ve ta­ken Gran­dad­dy's Town Car out of the car­ri­age ho­use."

  Phyllida sets down her fork, ha­ving lost her ap­pe­ti­te. She for­got all abo­ut that.

  "How wo­uld I even know whe­re the keys we­re?" she asks Gib de­fen­si­vely.

  "Nydia wo­uld ha­ve known."

  "Oh, ple­ase. She go­es to bed at eight o'clock."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because I tri­ed to find her to see if she knows if the­re's an In­ter­net con­nec­ti­on on the com­pu­ter in Gran­dad­dy's study, and her do­or was clo­sed. The­re was no light on in the­re. I co­uld tell by the crack un­der the do­or."

  "Why the com­pu­ter? Trying to hack in­to the fi­nan­ci­al fi­les?" Gib asks, lo­oking mo­men­ta­rily amu­sed.

  "No, Bri­an to­ok the lap­top back with him and I wan­ted to re­ad Va­ri­ety on­li­ne. I'll le­ave the fi­nan­ci­al hac­king to you," she adds with a smirk.

  "Don't kid abo­ut that. We might ha­ve to re­sort to it. So did an­y­body at Oak­ga­te see you last night so they can vo­uch for you? Nydia? The kid?"

  "No." This isn't go­od. The po­li­ce might do so­me sno­oping aro­und, find out abo­ut the will, and re­ali­ze she or Gib wo­uld ha­ve had a pretty go­od mo­ti­ve to get rid of the Ma­it­lands.

  "I won­der if I can pos­sibly get Nydia to say she saw me aro­und the ho­use," she mu­ses alo­ud, then dis­mis­ses the idea with a flat, "Nah, I can't see her hel­ping out of the go­od­ness of her he­art. She ne­ver li­ked me-or you, eit­her. She tho­ught we we­re the wild kids com­pa­red to Miss Per­fect."

  Gib do­esn't ar­gue with that.

  "Maybe she won't help out of the go­od­ness of her he­art, Phyll," he says, "but she might if you gi­ve her so­me in­cen­ti­ve."

  "Like what?"

  "What el­se? Cash."

  "She ne­ver struck me as be­ing the le­ast bit ma­te­ri­alis­tic," Phylli­da po­ints out "Ye­ah, well, may­be she's sec­retly lon­ging for a mink co­at."

  "How much mo­ney are we tal­king abo­ut, he­re?" Phylli­da asks.

  "A lot This is se­ri­o­us, Phyll. You ne­ed an air­tight ali­bi as much as I do."

  "Well, I can't ima­gi­ne Nydia ag­re­e­ing to he to the po­li­ce for an­yo­ne, at any pri­ce."

  "You're pro­bably right" Gib po­lis­hes off the rest of his eggs in a sin­g­le gulp, then eyes the re­ma­ins of her fru­it pla­te. "Are you go­ing to eat that?"

  Wordlessly, she sli­des her pla­te ac­ross the tab­le and won­ders how he can pos­sibly eat at a ti­me li­ke this. Her own sto­mach is in knots.

  But then, that's Gib. She do­ubts he's ever mis­sed a me­al, or lost a mo­ment's sle­ep, be­ca­use of stress.

  It must be ni�
�ce to go thro­ugh li­fe that cer­ta­in you're go­ing to land on yo­ur fe­et. So­me­how, Gib al­ways do­es.

  But the odds are that so­oner or la­ter, he's go­ing to fall flat on his fa­ce.

  Phyllida just ho­pes-for his sa­ke, and her own-that ti­me isn't upon him now.

  "Royce? Roy­ce… Are you awa­ke?"

  Drifting along thro­ugh he­avy fog on a de­lig­h­t­ful cus­hi­on of tran­qu­ility, he won­ders, Roy­ce? Who's Roy­ce?

  Then so­me­body sha­kes his arm, ever so gently, and the clo­ud of me­di­ca­ti­on lifts eno­ugh for him to re­mem­ber.

  Me! I'm Roy­ce.

  And that's Char­lot­te's vo­ice, cal­ling me.

  He opens his eyes to see his wi­fe le­aning over him, smi­ling te­ar­ful­ly. The light is so bright Why is it so bright?

  "Where… Whe­re am I?" he mur­murs, and tri­es to roll over, his ef­fort hal­ted by a fi­er­ce stab of pa­in in his leg. He go­es still, trying to find his way back to the cal­ming fog…

  "You're in the hos­pi­tal."

  The hos­pi­tal?

  Why-? Oh!

  A fle­eting me­mory slams in­to him li­ke a bul­let, and his eye­lids fly open aga­in.

  "Shot" he ma­na­ges to say, and Char­lot­te nods.

  She's be­en crying, he re­ali­zes. Her eyes are black with mas­ca­ra smud­ges that track fa­intly to­ward her jaw.

  'You're go­ing to be fi­ne, Roy­ce… Are you in pa­in?"

  "My… leg." He tri­es to mo­ve it aga­in and win­ces.

  "Does it hurt?"

  Like hell.

  She must ha­ve re­ad his mind, be­ca­use she says, "They've got you on so­me he­avy stuff to re­li­eve it. The nur­se sa­id it might ma­ke you con­fu­sed and that you might not re­mem­ber things at first."

  He's si­lent, se­ar­c­hing his mud­dled bra­in for de­ta­ils.

  "Do you re­mem­ber what hap­pe­ned, Roy­ce?" Char­lot­te asks gently.

  "I don't know… not… ever­y­t­hing."

  "They just up­ped the do­se. It'll pro­bably knock you out aga­in. But that's go­od. You sho­uld just sle­ep."

  He nods, se­ar­c­hing his mud­dled me­mory for de­ta­ils, co­ming up with the right qu­es­ti­on. "Who… shot me?"

  "They don't know. Who­ever it was got away." She le­ans over to kiss his fo­re­he­ad. "I'm just glad you're okay, Roy­ce. And the­re's so­me­body el­se he­re to see you. Aimee flew in from New Or­le­ans this mor­ning."

  Aimee? New Or­le­ans?

  "Aimee!" he ex­c­la­ims, as the light dawns. "Yes. Whe­re is she?" “I’ll send her in." Char­lot­te brus­hes his che­ek with the back of her fin­gers. "I'm so than­k­ful you're okay, Roy­ce."

  "Yeah." He tri­es to shift po­si­ti­on slightly, and grunts in pa­in. "My leg."

  "I know. But the da­ma­ge was re­pa­ired in sur­gery, and you're go­ing to ha­ve full use of it aga­in af­ter you re­co­ver. You'll be pla­ying ten­nis aga­in in no ti­me."

  Tennis. Go­od. That's re­al­ly go­od. He li­kes ten­nis, do­esn't he? It's all so fuzzy…

  "I'll go tell Aimee it's her turn," Char­lot­te says.

  "Yes. Aimee."

  "She's won­der­ful, Roy­ce."

  He smi­les, re­li­eved that the two wo­men in his li­fe ha­ve met and ever­y­t­hing is ap­pa­rently fi­ne bet­we­en them.

  "Wish I co­uld ha­ve be­en the­re to in­t­ro­du­ce y'all," he tells Char­lot­te.

  "We did just fi­ne on our own. And I'm go­ing to ask her to stay with me at Oak­ga­te. She had sa­id she'd get a ho­tel, but… She's fa­mily."

  This is mo­re than he ever co­uld ha­ve ho­ped for.

  Feeling the ti­de of we­ari­ness swe­eping to­ward him, he clo­ses his eyes con­ten­tedly to wa­it for Aimee.

  CHAPTER 10

  "Nydia!" Li­an­na sho­uts, plun­king the te­lep­ho­ne re­ce­iver back in­to its crad­le in her gran­d­fat­her's study. "Nydia! Whe­re are you?"

  She he­ars fo­ot­s­teps po­un­ding up the sta­irs and de­ci­des the ho­use­ke­eper su­re can mo­ve pretty fast for an old per­son.

  "What? What is it?" Nydia asks bre­at­h­les­sly, bur­s­ting in­to the ro­om.

  "Did you ta­ke this te­lep­ho­ne off the ho­ok? I ca­me in he­re to ma­ke a call and I fo­und the re­ce­iver dan­g­ling on the flo­or."

  The wo­man averts her ga­ze, tel­ling Li­an­na that she cor­rectly gu­es­sed the cul­p­rit.

  "Why did you do this? My fat­her has pro­bably be­en trying to re­ach me!"

  Silence, al­t­ho­ugh Nydia lo­oks di­rectly at her now, and se­ems to be we­ig­hing so­me kind of de­ci­si­on.

  "How long has it be­en off the ho­ok?" Li­an­na de­mands.

  "Since this mor­ning," the wo­man con­fes­ses, wit­ho­ut the de­cency to lo­ok the le­ast bit apo­lo­ge­tic. "And I did it be­ca­use yo­ur mot­her as­ked me to."

  Fury churns in Li­an­na's gut How da­re her mot­her go to such de­li­be­ra­te lengths to ma­ke it im­pos­sib­le for Dad to re­ach her?

  That do­es it.

  This is the last straw.

  Lianna turns her back on the ho­use­ke­eper and re­ac­hes for the pho­ne aga­in. She has to get ahold of her fat­her. He must ha­ve be­en trying to call her all day to tell her why he hasn't shown up. Wa­it till he he­ars what Mom did. He's go­ing to be li­vid.

  Before she can pick up the re­ce­iver, the pho­ne rings.

  "Don't an­s­wer that!" Nydia says sharply.

  'The hell I won't!" Li­an­na snat­c­hes it up with a bre­at­h­less hel­lo.

  "Who is this?" an un­fa­mi­li­ar vo­ice asks.

  Disappointment co­ur­ses thro­ugh her as she an­s­wers, "It's Li­an­na."

  "Lianna? Char­lot­te Ma­it­land's da­ug­h­ter?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm cal­ling from the Chat­ham Ga­zet­te for a com­ment on the sho­oting of yo­ur fat­her last night, Miss Ma­it­land."

  A ri­ver of icy pa­nic flo­ods Li­an­na's ve­ins. "What?''she shri­eks. "So­me­body shot Daddy? Oh, my God, is he-"

  A pa­ir of firm hands ta­ke hold of her sho­ul­ders from be­hind, and Nydia's stern vo­ice com­mands her to hang up the pho­ne. When Li­an­na is too fro­zen in pa­nic to mo­ve, she grabs the re­ce­iver and do­es it her­self.

  Then she turns the whim­pe­ring Li­an­na aro­und to fa­ce her.

  "Look at me. It wasn't yo­ur fat­her, Li­an­na… Do you un­der­s­tand me?"

  It wasn't yo­ur fat­her…

  I'm cal­ling from the Chat­ham Ga­zet­te for a com­ment on the sho­oting of yo­ur fat­her…

  Lianna sta­res up at Nydia, sha­king her he­ad in mu­te con­fu­si­on.

  It was Mr. Ma­it­land who was shot," Nydia tells her, and it falls in­to pla­ce.

  Royce.

  Royce was shot.

  Royce…

  "Did he die?" she ma­na­ges to ask, for­cing the words past the lump of dre­ad ri­sing in her thro­at.

  "No, he was shot in the leg, and he's go­ing to be just fi­ne."

  "Where's my mot­her?" Li­an­na asks shrilly, sud­denly ne­eding to fe­el her mot­her's arms aro­und her, he­ar her re­as­su­ring vo­ice. 'What hap­pe­ned to my mot­her?"

  "She's fi­ne."

  "Where is she!"

  "Shhh, you'll frig­h­ten yo­ur aunt Je­an­ne. Yo­ur mot­her is still at the hos­pi­tal with yo­ur-with Mr. Ma­it­land."

  Your fat­her.

  That's what she was abo­ut to say.

  Even Nydia, who knows the­ir do­mes­tic si­tu­ati­on bet­ter than an­yo­ne, al­most cal­led Roy­ce Li­an­na's fat­her.

  Why do pe­op­le al­ways do that?

  Why don't they re­mem­ber that she al­re­ady has a fat­her?

  Bitter lon­ging co­ur­ses thro­ugh her; lon­ging for her dad, her mom… an
d Adam.

  We we­re a fa­mily. A re­al fa­mily, all of us with the sa­me last na­me, all of us li­ving un­der one ro­of.