by that's me
"I realize that." Gib's tone is sullen.
Standing over him, Tyler slaps his hands, hard, on the table and lowers his face to Gib's level. "If I'm going to even consider being remotely involved in your defense from here on in-and I'll say right now that it isn't looking likely that I am-you're going to tell me everything you know about your grandfather's death. Got it?"
"I'm not going to say anything to you that I didn't already say in front of them," is the wrathful response, as Gib jerks his head in the direction of the door through which the two detectives had just departed. 'This whole thing is bullshit."
"Watch your tongue," Tyler says sharply.
To his credit, Gib apologizes.
"I hope you know that I'm this close to walking out of here." Tyler presses his thumb and index finger together and thrusts his hand into Gib's face.
"Please don't." Slumped in his seat, appearing more exhausted than dejected, he tells Tyler, "I just can't believe they're trying to pin this on me, now, too."
"Who?"
"The detectives, who else? Just like they planted those shoes, shirt, and cufflink in my room."
Tyler says nothing, having heard that ludicrous claim repeatedly ever since Gib's arrest.
He again hears an echo of his own voice, so long ago.
I don't know how the cigarettes got into my room, Headmaster Swift. I didn't put them there.
I don't know how the answer key got etched onto my desk, Mr. Anderson. Somebody in another section must have left it there.
"My grandfather had a heart attack," Gib goes on, gazing at the Persian carpet. "We all saw the autopsy report."
"And we all know that cardiac arrest can mask other things." At least, they know that now, thanks to Williamson's ever-informative spiel.
"We also know"-as Williamson also pointed out- "that bodies can be exhumed for a number of reasons, not the least of which is suspected murder."
Gib's head is still bent. He doesn't flinch. It's impossible to gauge his reaction to that news, but Tyler would stake a hefty bet that there was one.
What Gib doesn't grasp-but what Tyler has come to realize, having spoken with the detectives prior to the confrontation-is that Williamson and Dorado are operating purely on a hunch.
There's no evidence that Gilbert Remington's death was anything but accidental. But in checking out all the avenues leading to Gib's possible motivation for Royce Maitland's shooting, the detectives aren't about to avoid this one.
As Dorado put it, it's awfully coincidental that the old man died just a few weeks before Royce Maitland was shot, and that the assault occurred shortly after Gib learned for the first time that he had been disinherited.
He was willing to do anything to get his hands on that money, Dorado told Tyler.
And Tyler couldn't bring himself to argue the point.
Having witnessed Gib's reaction to the will that day in his office, Tyler has no doubt that his surprise was as genuine as his dismay, which transformed right before the attorney's eyes to full-blown rage.
Tyler, of anyone, saw firsthand how much that money meant to Gib.
Tempted as he is to walk out of here and never look back, Tyler needs to take care of a few details first. There's no telling what might come to light if there's an ensuing investigation into Gilbert's death-and his life.
He owes it to his late friend-and to the memory of the Telfair Trio-to at least attempt to unearth the truth that lies beneath this latest Remington calamity, while making every effort to keep the near-miss of the past safely buried, where it belongs.
That doesn't mean he's going to represent Gilbert's grandson in court. But perhaps he can help him locate a criminal lawyer who has no potential conflict of interest-and nothing personal to lose.
No matter the eventual outcome… whichever way this turns out-whether Gib is exonerated or proven guilty-Tyler's loyalty to Gilbert will remain unsevered.
Yes, he thinks, but if there really is the slightest bit of hard evidence that Gilbert's death was anything other than from natural causes…
Then Gib Remington is entirely on his own.
Rounding the corner into the kitchen, Charlotte nearly slams into someone.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" Aunt Jeanne's nurse exclaims, taking a big step back, clutching a steaming mug. "I'm so glad I didn't burn you!"
Surprised to see her, Charlotte asks, "What are you doing here?" 'Just fixing your aunt some hot cocoa. Not the kind from the mix. I brought everything to make it from scratch. She likes a nice hot drink in the afternoon, and she was telling me that her mother used to make it for her that way when she was a little girl, so I-"
"No," Charlotte cuts in, not in the mood for idle chitchat, "I meant, what are you doing working today? I thought Sunday was your day off."
Melanie lowers her gaze to the mug. "It is. I just thought your aunt needed me here today. She's been so down, so it seemed like a good idea to come."
Charlotte digests this news with a twinge of guilt- she has neglected her elderly aunt these last few weeks, with all that's gone on-but also with a speck of suspicion.
It's not as though she can't afford to pay the nurse overtime. But that wasn't part of the original arrangement made by Grandaddy, and she can't help but wonder if Miss Sunshine, here, might not be a bit more shrewd than she comes across.
"Melanie," she says, after contemplating the best phrasing, "my grandfather had budgeted Aunt Jeanne's,care and until I can look more closely into her daily needs to see if that warrants a change, I'm afraid-"
"Oh, you think I'm here today for the money? Don't worry, Mrs. Maitland. I wasn't expecting to get paid. I'm just visiting."
Really? Or are you an opportunist who cleverly shifts gears when put on a spot? Charlotte wonders as she looks into Melanie's big, seemingly earnest, blue eyes.
She decides to keep her suspicions to herself, at least for now. "Well, it certainly is nice of you to give up your day off," is all she says.
"Oh, I don't mind at all. Your aunt is such a wonderful woman. I love spending time with her." Melanie's tone isn't the least bit reproachful, but Charlotte gets the silent message loud and clear.
I love spending time with her.,. and so should you.
"Well, thanks," she murmurs to Melanie, resolving to pop upstairs later to see her aunt.
"You look really nice today, Mrs. Maitland. That color looks great on you."
"Thank you."
"And where did you get those shoes? They're darling!"
Charlotte repeats her gratitude, and tells Melanie she doesn't remember where she bought the shoes- which isn't the truth. They were purchased at a boutique where the least expensive item would cost several weeks' worth of Melanie's hourly wage.
"Are you going someplace special?" the nurse chat
ters on.
"Oh, I was going to head to church, and-" She slaps her head, remembering.
"What is it?" I meant to get some ingredients at the supermarket for a seafood recipe I'm making for my husband, that's all."
"Would you like me to run out for you?"
"No, that's okay, you don't have to do that."
"I really wouldn't mind. I love being out and about! Especially when the sun is shining and the birds are singing, like today."
Sometimes, Charlotte thinks, Melanie's bubbly demeanor is a little hard to stomach.
"Really," Charlotte assures her, "that's okay. I'll go to the store later, or tomorrow. But thanks anyway."
"You're very welcome!"
The nurse is leaving the room when, as an afterthought, Charlotte calls, "Melanie?"
"Yes?" She looks expectantly over her shoulder with a jaunty swing of her long blond ponytail.
"Have you seen an old radio upstairs?"
"Oh!" Having turned around too quickly, Melanie accidentally sloshed cocoa over the rim of the cup onto her fingers. "I'm sorry, that that was really hot! What did you want to know?"
Charlotte repeats the question, watching the nurse set down the cup, cross to the sink, and rinse her hand under cold water.
"No, I haven't seen anything on the third floor, but I'll ask your Aunt Jeanne about it when I go back up."
Charlotte dismisses that notion with a wave of her hand. "Oh, that's all right She probably won't even know which radio I'm talking about."
"You might be surprised." Melanie turns off the tap and dries her hands on a dish towel. "Your aunt remembers more than y'all think."
As the nurse retrieves the hot cocoa and leaves the room, her last words ring in Charlotte's ears.
Your aunt remembers more than y 'all think.
She can't help but find the comment ominous, whether it was intended to be, or not.
"You heard what I told the detectives. I wasn't even in Savannah the night it happened. I was in Mexico, on vacation."
"I heard you, Gib," Tyler acknowledges, tapping his black wing tip impatiently on the Persian carpet, "and I was a little taken aback that you were able to recall in a split second your exact whereabouts on a specific date weeks ago without even glancing at a calendar."
"I didn't need to. It was a memorable trip, and I was in the company of a very memorable woman when Charlotte called about Grandaddy."
"Where were you?"
"In the airport. Charlotte can vouch for that if you talk to her. I remember the background noise was so bad I could barely hear her."
"What about your lady friend? Can I talk to her?"
Gib hesitates before answering. Just for a split second, but it's long enough to spark further suspicion in Tyler's mind.
"Sure," Gib says, "talk to her any time you want. Her name is Cassandra."
Pulling out a pen, Tyler asks for her last name and phone number, which Gib promptly claims not to know.
"You don't have her telephone number?" Tyler asks in disbelief. "Come on, Gib."
"I have it," Gib scowls, "but not here. Unfortunately I didn't have a chance to grab my little black book before I left the house."
Having had just about enough of Glib Gib, Tyler puts away his pen. With luck, she'll be in the Boston phone listings; if not, he'll commandeer Gib's cell phone-the modern-day equivalent of a little black book-which, come to think of it, must already be in police possession.
Dammit. Tyler simply wasn't cut out for criminal law, even at this stage of the investigation. Maybe he should cut his losses and refuse to have anything further to do with this.
The trouble is, he's nod just here out of legal obligation, or even loyalty to Gilbert. He's here, too, because of what he did. He and Silas Neville, all those years ago. Not just out of friendship and loyalty. They weren't immune to the deadly sins they learned about in Bible School many years ago: greed was also a factor. Gilbert compensated them well for their risk.
So, yes, Tyler Hawthorne has something at stake, should the police start looking for skeletons in the Remington closets.
So he wants to know-no, needs to know-if Gib Remington's greed could have possibly pushed him as far as murder.
If he were a betting man, and inclined to listen to his own intuition, he'd say no.
But he's a pragmatic attorney, and the evidence seems to say yes.
"This Cassandra," he asks Gib, "does she live in Boston proper? Or in the suburbs?"
Again, the slight hesitation.
"You don't know," Tyler says flatly, "is that what you're going to tell me? You went to Mexico with this woman and you don't even know where she lives? And you expect me to believe that?"
Tyler would love to slap the insolent look off Gib's handsome face.
Then the younger man unexpectedly admits, "I didn't go to Mexico with her. I just met her in the airport."
"Who did you go to Mexico with, then?" "I went alone."
"You expect me to believe that?" "It's the truth."
No, it isn't, Tyler thinks, watching his client intently. It isn 't the whole truth, anyway.
A female voice answers the phone with "Harper residence" on the first ring, but it doesn't belong to Phyllida.
Charlotte asks for her, going over again in her mind exactly how she's going to phrase her question about the radio. She decided not to make it a confrontation, as tempting as that is. No, it should be more of a… query, like a casual, You wouldn't happen to know where Grandaddy 's radio is, would you?
She won't even jump right in with that; first, she'll ask about the flight last night and apologize for not having had a chance to say good-bye.
Yes, it's a good idea to remain civilized. As Charlotte's mother always used to say, "You catch more flies with honey…"
"Mrs. Harper isn't here," the voice says, effectively bursting her bubble-for now. "Mr. Harper isn't, either. Who's calling, please?"
'This is her cousin Charlotte. Who is this?"
"Lila-I'm Wills's nanny," the woman says edgily, before blurting, "Are you in Georgia? That cousin?"
"Yes…"
"Mr. Harper has been trying to call you all morning. He tried yesterday, too. He thought something must have happened to the phone because we saw on the Weather Channel there was a hurricane coming-"
"You mean the tropical storm? No, that hasn't hit yet. We've just had rain-"
"Well, we saw there were flight delays, and whenever he tried to get through to you, the recording kept saying the phone was out of service."
"Oh-the number's been changed." And I would have told you if I had seen you, but you didn't even bother to say good-bye, she mentally scolds Phyllida.
Then, realizing what Lila just said, she asks, puzzled, "Why has Brian been trying to call me all morning?"
"He wasn't trying to call you-he was trying to get Mrs. Harper on the phone. He's been leaving voice mails for he
r, too, but she isn't picking up her cell phone."
Charlotte frowns. "You mean she isn't there? In California?"
"No. Isn't she there?"
"No. At least, I don't think so. I haven't seen her." 'Mr. Harper is worried sick, and poor little Wills keeps asking where his mommy is… When he woke up Saturday morning I told him she was coming back that night. Mr. Harper even brought him to the airport, even though the flight was scheduled to get in so late… but no Mommy."