The Final Victim

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.