by that's me
Back in her room at last, Lianna goes straight to the antique dressing table, turns on the lamp, and looks into the slightly wavy looking glass that has undoubtedly reflected countless other-and much prettier-Remington females before her.
Her nose wrinkled in distaste, Lianna leans into the mirror, checking her straw-colored hair for cobwebs.
None are visible, though she swears she can feel them lingering.
The trip back up two flights of stairs in total darkness was almost as much fun as running into her mother's creepy cousin in the upstairs hall. She shudders, as much due to dunking about Gib as at the memory of hearing something scamper in her wake on the return trip to her room.
Is it really worth all this, just to be with Kevin?
No, she concludes with little deliberation. He's kind of a jerk. Cute, but a jerk.
Still, it's not just about Kevin.
It's about freedom. It's about evading her mother's constant stranglehold, about being in charge of her own life for a change.
Lianna turns away from the mirror and changes swiftly into pajamas, tossing her shorts and T-shirt in a heap on the floor.
Hearing a clattering sound, she realizes that it's the key to the back door. She forgot to return it to its hiding place in the garden.
Oh, well. She'll do it some other time.
She tosses it into a drawer, turns off the lamp, climbs into her bed, and wearily decides she's had enough of sneaking out into the night… for now.
But the secret stairway will beckon again. Of that, she has no doubt.
And it's comforting just to know it's there whenever she feels the need to escape.
Dawn creeps gray and rainy over the Atlantic sky, washing away the remains of a strange, restless night.
At last, the players are in place for Act Two, the first act having drawn to a satisfying close.
Soon enough, the residents of Oakgate-past and present, permanent and temporary-will find them-selves playing out a drama nobody could have seen coming.
Nobody but me.
The stage must be set for the next act
And life must go on normally.
Rather, as close to normally as possible after a death. Even when that death claimed an old man who had long overstayed his welcome.
Interesting, how many ways there are to make death seem accidental.
The right poisons, administered in the right doses, can approximate any number of fatal illnesses without leaving a readily discernable trace.
Or, an electrical device thrown into a tub of water can result in fatal cardiac arrhythmia that leaves no outward signs, giving the appearance of a heart attack.
All you have to do is remove the device from the water, and nobody will be the wiser.
But it has to be the right kind of device. These days, household appliances have ground-fault circuit interrupters that turn off the power instantly in the case of immersion.
Years ago, there were no such precautions. Toasters, lamps - and yes, radios - lacked breakers that would prevent accidental electrocution.
Oakgate's closets, attic storage room, and cellar are as cluttered with antique appliances as they are with family secrets.
But the weapon of choice was right out in the open, and carefully, deliberately, chosen.
After it served its purpose, Gilbert Remington II's prized radio was carefully replaced on the mantel, right out in the open where it has always been.
Such a shame, in a way, that the delicious irony was lost on the victim. The old man never knew what hit him.
Neither, should the time come, will anyone else who dares to get in the way.
PART II
THE SECOND VICTIM
CHAPTER 4
"It's just that I missed you while you were gone, and you've only been back twenty-four hours," Charlotte wistfully tells Royce, opening the top drawer of her bureau. "I wish you could come with me today, that's all."
"I wish I could, too." He vigorously rubs a towel over his shower-dampened hair. "We could play footsie under Tyler's conference table while the will is being read."
She can't help but smile at that. "Yes, and I wouldn't feel so uncomfortable around my cousins if you were there."
The weekend, her first without Grandaddy, was a difficult one-especially with Royce gone, her cousins here, and Lianna more remote than ever. Charlotte did her best to keep it together, even spending two full days at the beach with Phyllida and her son while Brian and Gib were out golfing.
But it was nerve-wracking for her in the end. Every time the lifeguard blasted a whistle, or little Wills tried to squirm out of his mother's arms in the surf, Charlotte endured a stab of uneasiness.
And it isn't as though she and her cousin have much in common. Phyllida's world seems to revolve around die gym, shopping, filling out preschool applications for Wills-reportedly a complicated, competitive process- and occasionally going to an audition.
Several times, Charlotte welled up with tears over their grandfather, but she kept her grief hidden behind her sunglasses, knowing its intensity isn't shared.
It isn't that Phyllida and Gib didn't love Grandaddy. Of course they did, despite their apparent indifference. Although disconcerted, Charlotte has repeatedly assured herself of that. They just aren't as emotional as she is, that's all. They haven't lost all that she has.
She was relieved when Royce got home early Monday morning, his flight right on time, as he had promised. He even took the day off, and they spent most of it at their new home in Savannah, checking on the progress of the renovation. The contractor and Royce seem satisfied that they're on track again, but the job isn't going quickly enough for Charlotte.
And she doesn't want to go without him today.
She removes a new package of pantyhose from her drawer. Ordinarily she doesn't wear stockings; she hates the constricting feel on her legs. Now, she's forced to don them for the second time in a week. The funeral, of course, was the other occasion.
Oh, Grandaddy.
"I'm sure it'll be fine. Your cousins seem nice enough," Royce points out, oblivious to the tears welling in her eyes as he stands before the full-length mirror to expertly knot his tie.
She swallows the lump in her throat. '’They might seem nice, but I keep feeling like they resent me-and Lianna, and you, for that matter."
"Me?" he echoes incredulously.
"I think so." She sits on the edge of their bed and gingerly pulls the dark stockings up her legs.
"Why would they resent me?"
"Who knows? Because you get to sleep in the nicest guest bedroom? Or because you've spent more time with Grandaddy than they have these past few years?"
"Oh, come on. It isn't as if your grandfather and I ever went palling around
together, Charlotte. In fact, I'm not all that convinced he even liked me."
"He did," she assures him, standing and smoothing her tailored navy blue skirt over her legs. "He's gruff with everybody, even me. I mean, he was."
She pauses to regain her composure. There are those tears again, ever ready to spring to her eyes and spill down her cheeks. She probably shouldn't have worn mascara today. "But if he didn't like you, Royce," she goes on, "he'd have let me know about it."
"I wouldn't be so certain about that."
She shakes her head. "Are you sure you can't cancel your meeting and come with me?"
"I wish I could, but this could be a major new corporate client for me."
"Yes, but after today…" She trails off, but he must know what she's dunking. After today, they'll be millions of dollars richer. The income from his computer-consulting business will be even less necessary than it is now.
"It isn't about the money for me, Charlotte," he reminds her. "I love what I do, and I'm good at it."
"Of course you are. I didn't mean-"
"I know you didn't." He smiles as if to show her that his pride isn't wounded.
"Nothing is going to change, Royce. After today. I remember what we said about tucking it away and going on. So don't worry."
"I'm not worried."
Then why, Charlotte can't help but wonder as a nagging uneasiness takes over, am I?
"How about a little more pudding, Jeanne?" Melanie asks. "It's tapioca. You love tapioca."
Jeanee hates tapioca, but what does it matter? They've been bringing it to her for years, assuming she enjoys it because she eats it all.
She supposes she could ask for vanilla pudding instead, or even chocolate, but that would mean striking up a conversation, and potentially inviting other topics.
It's much easier, much safer, to just eat the tapioca, and whatever else the nurse brings to her.
Today it was sloppy joes, overcooked carrots, and pudding; yesterday, creamed beef, limp string beans the color of jarred olives, and stewed peaches.
Institutional food. If you're hungry enough-and Jeanne invariably is-you'll eat it.
Jeanne eats it, and she remembers…
Remembers beans freshly picked off the vine: stem ends snapping easily beneath her fingers; their vibrant, grassy shade of green retained even after they were slightly steamed; delicious buttered and salted-the crisp burst of flavor on her tongue…
Remembers peaches plucked from the orchard out back, so ripe your fingertips could rub the skin from the flesh at the slightest touch, revealing luscious, pink- tinged, orange-yellow fruit that always reminded Jeanne of a Low Country sunset…
"Jeanne?" Melanie persists. "More tapioca?"
She shakes her head vehemently.
Now her peaches and her beans come from cans, plopped in compartments of thick beige paper trays and delivered by young women who speak to her with the measured simplicity of a preschool teacher and merely bide their time here, their thoughts on their otherwise fascinating lives.
Petite blond Melanie is Jeanne's favorite by far of all the nurses who have come through here over the years; she, at least, doesn't seem particularly eager to leave when her shift is over. She doesn't seem to have much of a life away from Oakgate. Often, she arrives early or stays longer than she needs to, bustling around reassuringly, often humming.
She's always, always cheerful. Too cheerful, almost. Never before has Jeanne ever encountered another human being who doesn't seem to have a bad day-or even a so-so day-ever.
But she doesn't only sing and hum and, on occasion, whistle jauntily. She talks, too, ostensibly to Jeanne, but sometimes, it seems, to herself, often about herself. She reveals in disarming detail a childhood spent in one foster home after another, abusive parents who willingly signed away their rights. She spent years praying she'd be adopted, and realized in her teens that the prayer would never be answered.
You'd think a person like that would grow up to be a glum, pessimistic adult. But not Melanie.
She even wound up on the streets for a few years, and has alluded to doing whatever was necessary to stay alive. Then, she said, along came a wealthy older gentleman who took her under his wing, got her an apartment, put her through nursing school.
"If it weren't for him, Jeanne, who knows where I'd be?" she likes to ask. She also likes to answer. "I know where I'd be. Dead."
Jeanne would be very interested to know more about the mysterious benefactor who saved her. Whenever Melanie mentions him, Jeanne notices that she fails to reveal even his first name-and senses that the oversight is deliberate. Jeanne can't help but sense an uncharacteristic reticence that hints there might be pertinent details Melanie isn't sharing. But asking about the man would open the door to reciprocal interaction-and perhaps, emotional complications-that Jeanne just doesn't need.
Certainly not now, when she has a difficult decision weighing on her mind.
Decision?
What decision?
You know what you have to do, Jeanne. You always knew what you 'd do if it came down to this…
But not yet.
Not when there's still a chance.
"Would you like to get back into bed now, and take a nap?"
She shakes her head at Melanie's query, preferring to remain here in the window, where she can watch the driveway below.
They all left a short time ago, separately, in pairs. First Charlotte and her daughter, then Phyllida and Gib, followed shortly by Phyllida's husband whose name Jeanne can't recall, toting their young son and a beach umbrella.
Charlotte's husband, Royce, left hours earlier in his silver Audi, dressed in a suit and carrying a briefcase as he does most mornings-probably going to his office if it's a weekday.
Is it a weekday?
Where is Royce's office?
What does he even do?
If Jeanne ever knew, she can't remember.
Nor is it important.
"What day is it?" she asks the nurse, bustling somewhere behind her.
"Did you say something, Jeanne?" Melanie is instantly at her side, eager to be engaged in conversation.
"What day is it?"Jeanne is careful to maintain a monotone this time.
"The date? Let's see, it must be July-"
"No, the day. What day? Saturday, or…?"
"Oh, it's Tuesday."
Tuesday.
A weekday.
Her grandnephew and both grandnieces were dressed in dark-colored, professional-looking suits.
They're going to the lawyer's office, Jeanne concludes, momentarily pleased with her detective work.
Then, as she acknowledges what that means-Gilbert's will is about to be read-the tapioca pudding goes int
o a spin cycle in her stomach.
In all his years as an attorney, Tyler Hawthorne has never faced the reading of a will with as much trepidation as he does now, as he paces his Drayton Street office.
It isn't just because he and Gilbert Xavier Remington II had been friends since childhood. When they lost Silas Neville-the third member of the close-knit group formed in a boarding school dormitory almost eighty Septembers ago-Tyler was mostly just sorrowful.
