The Final Victim

by that's me

  The thing is, it isn't all that dif­fi­cult to ima­gi­ne her co­usin do­ing just that. Es­pe­ci­al­ly sin­ce the two of them ha­ven't exactly be­en on spe­aking terms.

  And…

  Well, Gran­dad­dy had so­me re­ason for wri­ting him out of the will. What if it was be­ca­use he tho­ught Gib was… dan­ge­ro­us?

  It se­ems lu­dic­ro­us.

  It is lu­dic­ro­us, she as­su­res her­self. Wha­te­ver Gran­dad­dy's re­ason for do­ing what he did, Gib be­ing so­me kind of thre­at wasn't it.

  "All right," she tells the de­tec­ti­ves, "then, if I was the re­al tar­get, why didn't he just fi­nish the job? Why not gun down both of us, and sho­ot un­til we we­re de­ad?" 'Who knows? That's easi­er sa­id than do­ne. Es­pe­ci­al­ly from that dis­tan­ce, un­less the sho­oter we­re an ex­pert mar­k­s­man… which by all ac­co­unts, the sus­pect is not."

  "But why not just ke­ep sho­oting un­til he hit so­met­hing?"

  "Maybe the bar­rel jam­med. May­be the­re was no mo­re am­mu­ni­ti­on," Wil­li­am­son says. "May­be he re­ali­zed he mi­sj­ud­ged the dis­tan­ce af­ter he star­ted and that he'd ha­ve to be at a clo­ser van­ta­ge po­int to fi­nish."

  "Right," Do­ra­do puts in, "or may­be he was spo­oked by the first shot, or when he saw Roy­ce fall and re­ali­zed he'd mis­sed, or when it hit him that he was trying to ta­ke a hu­man li­fe. The truth is, Ms. Re­min­g­ton, if you're de­aling with an ama­te­ur, and not a pro­fes­si­onal hit man, things are bo­und to get messy."

  "It's Mrs. Ma­it­land," she says we­arily.

  "I'm sorry."

  Dorado's to­ne is sin­ce­re, and Char­lot­te gets the im­p­res­si­on that he, at le­ast, is sorry abo­ut a lot mo­re than using the wrong na­me.

  It's Wil­li­am­son who rubs her the wrong way; Wil­li­am­son who­se be­mu­sed ex­p­res­si­on ran­k­les.

  "I ho­nestly don't think my own co­usin wo­uld try to hurt me," she says firmly, mostly to him. "I me­an, why wo­uld he?"

  "Charlotte, you sa­id yo­ur­self that he se­emed re­al­ly angry when he fo­und out abo­ut the mo­ney," Aimee po­ints out gently, and Char­lot­te's he­art sinks.

  She sho­uldn't ha­ve sa­id an­y­t­hing to Aimee abo­ut that. But du­ring the long dri­ve back from the hos­pi­tal last night, she fo­und her­self ba­ring her so­ul to her step­da­ug­h­ter abo­ut her loss, her co­usins, the will… even her tro­ub­les with Li­an­na.

  Naturally, both de­tec­ti­ves are all ears now, as­king qu­es­ti­ons.

  "He's angry at you? Why?" That's Wil­li­am­son, prac­ti­cal­ly grow­ling at her. "And why didn't you men­ti­on this un­til now?"

  Dorado, his brown eyes fo­cu­sed un­wa­ve­ringly on Char­lot­te, chi­mes in to ask, "What mo­ney are we tal­king abo­ut?"

  Reluctantly, she tells them abo­ut her gran­d­fat­her's will. She do­es her best to be bri­ef, but they're as­king co­un­t­less qu­es­ti­ons and ta­king no­tes.

  In the end, she's for­ced to ad­mit that she has no idea why her gran­d­fat­her cut out her co­usins and that the will is most li­kely to be con­tes­ted by both of them.

  That clin­c­hes it. Char­lot­te can see the de­ci­si­on in the­ir eyes be­fo­re she's en­ded with a tri­te-so­un­ding, "But no­ne of that has an­y­t­hing to do with Roy­ce be­ing shot."

  The de­tec­ti­ves ha­ve ob­vi­o­usly con­c­lu­ded that it do­es.

  "Where are yo­ur co­usins now, Ms. Re­min­g­ton?"

  "It's Mrs. Ma­it­land," she bi­tes out thro­ugh a clen­c­hed jaw, "and I ha­ve no idea whe­re they are. Pro­bably up­s­ta­irs, still as­le­ep."

  "Really." Wil­li­am­son lo­oks at Do­ra­do. "Let's wa­ke them, shall we?"

  "Lianna? Are you in the­re?"

  She sits up in bed, rub­bing the sle­ep from her eyes, trying to pla­ce the un­fa­mi­li­ar vo­ice on the ot­her si­de of her do­or.

  "Lianna? Can I co­me in?"

  Oh. It's Aimee, Roy­ce's da­ug­h­ter, and, tec­h­ni­cal­ly, her step­sis­ter.

  But as far as Li­an­na is con­cer­ned, she's a to­tal stran­ger. A stran­ger who was with her mot­her all day yes­ter­day, whi­le Li­an­na was stuck he­re all alo­ne.

  I don't li­ke her, Li­an­na de­ci­des. Who ca­res if she tri­ed so hard to be ni­ce to me last night at din­ner?

  Lianna can tell Aimee is a to­tal brow­n­no­ser. But Mom can't see that, so no won­der she's crazy abo­ut Aimee. She se­ems li­ke the per­fect da­ug­h­ter.

  Unlike me.

  "I'm sorry. We­re you sle­eping?"

  "Ye-ah," Li­an­na in­to­nes to show her an­no­yan­ce. "I li­ke to sle­ep la­te in the sum­mer."

  "Actually, it isn't that la­te," Aimee says apo­lo­ge­ti­cal­ly.

  Lianna sne­aks a pe­ek at her bed­si­de clock and is sur­p­ri­sed to see that it isn't. What the heck is Aimee do­ing wa­king her up at eight thirty in the mor­ning?

  "Your mom as­ked me to ta­ke you over to one of yo­ur fri­end's ho­uses."

  Okay, that's even cra­zi­er.

  She opens her mo­uth to in­form Aimee that she's gro­un­ded, but thinks bet­ter of it. May­be Mom for­got abo­ut that, con­si­de­ring ever­y­t­hing that's go­ne on.

  Instead, she asks Aimee, "Which fri­end's ho­use?"

  "She sa­id it was up to you. I'm on my way to the hos­pi­tal in Sa­van­nah, and she told me to tell you to call and ma­ke ar­ran­ge­ments so I can drop you off."

  "Mom isn't go­ing to the hos­pi­tal with you?"

  "No, she's…" Aimee he­si­ta­tes. "She's co­ming la­ter."

  That's odd. No­ne of this adds up. Why wo­uldn't Mom rush off to the hos­pi­tal first thing? That's what she sa­id she was go­ing to do last night, be­fo­re they went to bed.

  She had kis­sed Li­an­na's fo­re­he­ad and sa­id, "I'll pro­bably be go­ne when you wa­ke up in the mor­ning, but I'll call to check in du­ring the day, okay?"

  Oh, well.

  Far be it from Li­an­na to qu­es­ti­on any chan­ge in plans that al­lows her to be sprung from this pri­son.

  She swings her legs aro­und the ed­ge of the bed and tells Aimee, "I just ha­ve to ta­ke a sho­wer, and get dres­sed, and eat bre­ak­fast. Then I'll call my fri­end… De­vin."

  She al­most sa­id Ca­sey, but that wo­uld be pus­hing it. Tem­p­ting as it is to try and sne­ak a chan­ce to set up a me­eting with Ke­vin, she'd bet­ter not risk it.

  Mom might be dis­t­rac­ted, but she'd pro­bably re­mem­ber that Ca­sey and her fa­mily are still away on va­ca­ti­on, which is the ro­ot of Li­an­na's be­ing gro­un­ded in the first pla­ce.

  No, she can't pull that aga­in.

  Kevin will just ha­ve to wa­it.

  Even tho­ugh he whi­ned, when he cal­led Sa­tur­day night, abo­ut not be­ing ab­le to see her any ti­me so­on, which de­fi­ni­tely ma­de her fe­el wan­ted. Na­tu­ral­ly, she pro­mi­sed she'd sne­ak out of the ho­use so­me night af­ter ever­yo­ne is as­le­ep. Just not for a few mo­re days, af­ter her mot­her cal­med down abo­ut last we­ek's in­ci­dent.

  "Wait, Li­an­na." Aimee holds up her hand. "You don't ha­ve that much ti­me."

  "For what?"

  "You know… a sho­wer…J­ust throw on so­me clot­hes and we'll go. I'll ta­ke you so­mep­la­ce for bre­ak­fast on the way, and you can call yo­ur fri­end De­vin from my cell pho­ne in the car if you want."

  Lianna nar­rows her eyes. "What's the big rush?"

  It so­unds li­ke her mot­her's trying to get rid of her.

  "I'm sorry… It's just that I want to get to my Dad," Aimee rep­li­es. "I had a hard ti­me sle­eping last night, I was so wor­ri­ed abo­ut him."

  "Oh."

  Who is Li­an­na to ar­gue with that?

  Especially with im­mi­nent fre­edom han­ging in the ba­
lan­ce?

  "Just let me find so­met­hing to we­ar and brush my te­eth, and I'll be right with you."

  CHAPTER 12

  Standing in the win­dow of the front par­lor, Char­lot­te wat­c­hes Aimee dri­ve away in her ren­tal car with Li­an­na in the pas­sen­ger's se­at.

  Thank go­od­ness.

  It was all she co­uld do to act as tho­ugh ever­y­t­hing was nor­mal when she ga­ve her da­ug­h­ter a hur­ri­ed kiss go­od-bye in the hall just now.

  "Have fun at De­vin's," she sa­id. "I'll call la­ter abo­ut pic­king you up when I'm thro­ugh at the hos­pi­tal." 'Thanks, Mom."

  Lianna, who can be es­pe­ci­al­ly prickly in the mor­nings, was sur­p­ri­singly do­ci­le. Char­lot­te was glad to see her le­ave, and gra­te­ful to Aimee for hus­t­ling her right out of he­re.

  She he­ard her da­ug­h­ter ask Aimee, as they wal­ked down the wi­de front steps, abo­ut the black se­dan par­ked in the sha­de of a to­we­ring oak.

  "I don't know who­se it is," Aimee sa­id con­vin­cingly. Pro­bably the nur­se who co­mes to see yo­ur aunt."

  "She dri­ves a Hon­da."

  "Well, may­be she sent so­me­body el­se to­day." Wit­ho­ut mis­sing a be­at, she sa­id, "Hey, you know what? I saw a Bo­j­an­g­les off the hig­h­way on the way back from Sa­van­nah last night. May­be we co­uld stop the­re for bre­ak­fast on the way. Do you li­ke bis­cu­its?"

  "They're okay," sa­id Li­an­na.

  Just okay? Char­lot­te tho­ught in ir­ri­ta­ti­on. Bo-Ber­ry Bis­cu­its hap­pen to be Li­an­na's all-ti­me fa­vo­ri­te thing to eat.

  Obviously, she isn't go­ing to go out of her way to be ac­com­mo­da­ting to­day. At le­ast, not to Aimee.

  Lianna's re­sen­t­ment of her step­sis­ter was pal­pab­le at din­ner last night. She ba­rely spo­ke two words, and Char­lot­te spot­ted her sne­aking a je­alo­us gla­re at Aimee when Li­an­na tho­ught she wasn't lo­oking.

  Oh, well. She'll co­me aro­und so­oner or la­ter. Char­lot­te ho­pes so-for Aimee's sa­ke, an­y­way.

  What mat­ters most now is that she's out of he­re.

  Charlotte do­esn't ne­ed to ha­ve her te­ena­ged da­ug­h­ter in­vol­ved in what's abo­ut to hap­pen in this ho­use.

  She sighs, pres­sing her fo­re­he­ad aga­inst the scre­en, wis­hing she co­uld go, too.

  Royce will won­der why she isn't the­re. She told Aimee to tell him that she had so­me things to see to at ho­me first and that she'll be along shortly.

  "If he asks what they are, ma­ke up so­met­hing," she ca­uti­oned her step­da­ug­h­ter. 'Tell him I… I had to pay bills, or so­met­hing."

  She ha­tes to lie, or ha­ve Aimee do it on her be­half, but the­re's no re­ason to alarm Roy­ce by let­ting him know what's go­ing on aro­und he­re. Not right now, when all he sho­uld be fo­cu­sed on is re­co­ve­ring from his or­de­al.

  A flo­or­bo­ard cre­aks, and Do­ra­do re­ap­pe­ars in the do­or­way, a qu­es­ti­oning lo­ok on his darkly han­d­so­me fa­ce.

  "My da­ug­h­ter's go­ne," she tells him.

  He nods. "All right."

  She se­es a flic­ker of sympathy in his eyes and wis­hes he wo­uld say so­met­hing, an­y­t­hing, to ma­ke this less dis­tur­bing.

  But he simply turns to le­ave the ro­om, un­do­ub­tedly go­ing to alert Wil­li­am­son that the co­ast is cle­ar.

  The bac­kup of­fi­cers are al­re­ady on the­ir way, she knows. As so­on as they ar­ri­ve, Char­lot­te is cer­ta­in, cha­os will pre­va­il.

  Gib and the ot­hers will be qu­es­ti­oned, and the de­tec­ti­ves will be free to exe­cu­te the se­arch war­rant they ob­ta­ined be­fo­re they ar­ri­ved.

  If Gran­dad­dy re­al­ly is ha­un­ting Oak­ga­te, he's got to be fu­ri­o­us abo­ut this, Char­lot­te thinks, sha­king her he­ad in dre­ad as she he­ars he­avy fo­ot­s­teps go­ing up the sta­irs al­re­ady.

  "I still ha­ve no idea why you left ever­y­t­hing to me and not to my co­usins, but I re­al­ly don't think Gib is gu­ilty, Gran­dad­dy," she whis­pers to his ghost. "I want to help him so­me­how. But the­re's not­hing I can do for him now."

  Then it co­mes to her, as if her gran­d­fat­her's spi­rit re­al­ly do­es exist, and is chan­ne­ling tho­ughts in­to her he­ad.

  There is one thing she can do.

  She hur­ri­es out of the par­lor to ma­ke the ne­ces­sary pho­ne call.

  Perched in her whe­el­c­ha­ir be­fo­re the oval ma­ho­gany che­val mir­ror, Je­an­ne sta­res va­cantly at her ref­lec­ti­on.

  One story be­low, she can he­ar he­avy fo­ot­fal­ls, cre­aking flo­or­bo­ards, do­ors ope­ning and clo­sing, and the rum­b­le of un­fa­mi­li­ar vo­ices.

  "Something is go­ing on down the­re." Me­la­nie's vo­ice is an oc­ta­ve lo­wer than usu­al and she frowns as she runs the brush thro­ugh Je­an­ne's long whi­te ha­ir. "I don't li­ke the so­unds of it, Je­an­ne, do you?"

  "No…"

  The bris­t­les tug at a snarl; Je­an­ne win­ces.

  Melanie's ref­lec­ti­on re­ve­als that she do­esn't even no­ti­ce; her eyes dart ex­pec­tantly to­ward the do­or with every stro­ke.

  "What do you think is hap­pe­ning?" Je­an­ne asks ner­vo­usly.

  "I ha­ve no idea. Do you want me to go down and check?"

  "I don't know. I'm af­ra­id…"

  The dis­tinct crunch of rub­ber ti­res on the crus­hed-shell dri­ve­way flo­ats up thro­ugh the open win­dow at the front of the ho­use.

  "Do you he­ar that? So­me­body el­se is he­re," she in­forms Me­la­nie, who has al­re­ady lo­we­red the brush and r is hur­rying over to pe­er out.

  "It's de­fi­ni­tely a po­li­ce car," she re­ports. 'This ti­me, it's mar­ked. But I knew tho­se ot­hers we­re cop cars, too. f One, two, three… Why are all the­se po­li­ce he­re, Je­an­ne? This isn't go­od. It isn't go­od at all."

  Gnarled hands clen­c­hed in­to fists in her lap, Je­an­ne re­ma­ins si­lent, sta­ring at her­self in the mir­ror-this ti­me, re­al­ly se­e­ing what is the­re.

  A sad, lo­nely old wo­man.

  There was a ti­me, in her yo­uth, when she was qu­ite be­a­uti­ful, al­most as gre­at a be­a­uty as her gran­d­ni­ece Char­lot­te, mi­nus the dis­tin­c­ti­ve Re­min­g­ton cleft chin, of co­ur­se.

  The first ti­me Je­an­ne la­id eyes on Char­lot­te the day Nor­ris and Con­nie June bro­ught her ho­me as a new­born, that chin of hers su­rely put to rest any do­ubt that Char­lot­te was a Re­min­g­ton, thro­ugh and thro­ugh…

  More im­por­tantly, that her fat­her was, be­fo­re her.

  Unlike his ol­der brot­her, Xavy, Nor­ris ne­ver did fa­vor his fat­her's si­de of the fa­mily. He had the sa­me long, le­an bu­ild, but his co­lo­ring was dif­fe­rent, lig­h­ter. He lo­oked so lit­tle li­ke a Re­min­g­ton, in fact, that out­si­ders oc­ca­si­onal­ly te­ased Ele­ano­re abo­ut the ma­il­man.

  She ne­ver la­ug­hed.

  Within the­se tabby and brick walls, the­re was no te­asing abo­ut Nor­ris's lo­oks. Gil­bert ma­na­ged to tre­at his se­cond son the sa­me as he did his na­me­sa­ke. But Je­an­ne knew her brot­her had his do­ubts abo­ut his pa­ter­nity.

  More im­por­tantly, Ele­ano­re knew as well. Not­hing wo­uld con­vin­ce her stub­bornly sus­pi­ci­o­us hus­band of her fa­it­h­ful­ness.

  Nothing du­ring her li­fe­ti­me, an­y­way. Ele­ano­re didn't li­ve to see the gran­d­da­ug­h­ter who­se birth put the qu­es­ti­on to rest.

  Before Char­lot­te ca­me along, Je­an­ne her­self used to sta­re at Nor­ris, lo­oking for any re­sem­b­lan­ce to Jonat­han Bar­row, the han­d­so­me fi­nan­ci­er Ele­ano­re met at one of her own din­ner par­ti­es not long af­ter Xavy was born.

  In the wa­ke of Gil­bert's ac�
�cu­sa­ti­ons, Mr. Bar­row was ban­ned from Oak­ga­te fo­re­ver.

  Jeanne lon­ged to co­me right out and ask her sis­ter-in-law, po­int-blank, if it was true she'd had an af­fa­ir. Je­an­ne wo­uld ha­ve un­der­s­to­od-in fact, wo­uldn't ha­ve bla­med her sis­ter-in-law if she had pac­ked up the ba­bi­es and left Gil­bert al­to­get­her.

  Nor wo­uld she ha­ve be­en sur­p­ri­sed if Ele­ano­re had thre­ate­ned to ta­ke Gil­bert's li­fe-and her own-just as Je­an­ne's mot­her, Ma­rie, had thre­ate­ned, de­ca­des ear­li­er bran­dis­hing a mot­her-of-pe­arl-han­d­led pis­tol.