The Final Victim

by that's me

  She fum­b­les with the key ring, pus­hing asi­de a plas­tic-fra­med so­uve­nir pho­to: of her­self and Roy­ce, po­sing be­fo­re a pic­tu­re-per­fect ar­ti­fi­ci­al bac­k­d­rop of the Grand Can­yon. They we­re the­re in May, for the­ir an­ni­ver­sary. In re­ality, the can­yon was shro­uded in mist that day.

  It se­ems li­ke a li­fe­ti­me ago.

  Finding the right key, she pus­hes it in­to the ig­ni­ti­on.

  "Grandaddy, what ha­ve you do­ne?" she whis­pers, res­ting her fo­re­he­ad aga­inst the ste­ering whe­el.

  Unable to be­ar anot­her mo­ment in the suf­fo­ca­ting he­at of the car, Char­lot­te at last turns the key. Her swe­at-dam­pe­ned fo­re­he­ad is struck by a wel­co­ming blast from the vent Okay, go­od.

  Now what?

  Of all the days for Roy­ce to ha­ve an im­por­tant me­eting. If she co­uld just see her hus­band, talk to him, she'd fe­el bet­ter. She al­ways do­es when he's aro­und. But she'll just ha­ve to wa­it Right now, the­re's not­hing to do but pick up Li­an­na and go ho­me to fa­ce her co­usins.

  * * *

  "Will you ple­ase just shut up so I can think stra­ight?" Gib ra­kes a hand thro­ugh his blond ha­ir and pa­ces ac­ross the small se­cond-flo­or sit­ting ro­om, shut­te­red aga­inst the strong af­ter­no­on sun.

  "Don't tell me to shut up."

  "I'm sorry," he tells Phylli­da, if only to pre­vent a petty ar­gu­ment with the dra­ma qu­e­en. "I'm just trying to fi­gu­re out what the hell co­uld ha­ve hap­pe­ned to ca­use this."

  "Nothing /did, if that's what you're thin­king."

  It is what he's thin­king. He do­esn't trust his sis­ter. Ne­ver has. As far as he's con­cer­ned, Phylli­da is a lying, sche­ming di­va who­se only in­te­rest is her­self.

  And may­be her kid, he al­lows. To be fa­ir.

  Remingtons are not­hing if not fa­ir.

  Yeah, right.

  "I ha­ven't even tal­ked to Gran­dad­dy in months," Phylli­da in­forms him, to fur­t­her pro­ve her in­no­cen­ce.

  "Well, ne­it­her ha­ve I."

  "Maybe that's the prob­lem."

  "Oh, ple­ase. Do you re­al­ly think he cut us out be­ca­use she ga­ve him mo­re at­ten­ti­on than we did?"

  "Do you?" Gib shrugs.

  "Why did he do it, Gib? This is crazy."

  It is crazy. What can the­ir gran­d­fat­her pos­sibly ha­ve aga­inst them?

  Grandaddy was a pretty sta­unch So­ut­hern Bap­tist. Un­re­aso­nab­le, in Gib's opi­ni­on, at ti­mes. Did he and his sis­ter so­me­how of­fend the old man's mo­rals?

  What if…?

  No, Gib tells him­self sternly. The­re's no way he knows abo­ut you. No way on earth.

  It had to be so­met­hing el­se. So­met­hing that in­vol­ves Phylli­da, too.

  "Maybe it's be­ca­use he didn't li­ke Mot­her," he sug­gests.

  "What do­es she ha­ve to do with an­y­t­hing? Gran­dad­dy cut her out ye­ars ago, af­ter Daddy di­ed. You know that"

  "I know, but may­be he knew that if we got the mo­ney we'd use so­me of it to help her, and he didn't li­ke that idea."

  "You're re­al­ly re­ac­hing he­re, Gib," Phylli­da tells him. "I do­ubt Gran­dad­dy has even tho­ught abo­ut Mot­her in ages. And you saw him wal­t­zing with her at my wed­ding. I think he de­ci­ded to let bygo­nes be bygo­nes."

  "I think he was se­ni­le and had no idea who she even was."

  She snorts. "Gran­dad­dy might ha­ve be­en old, but he wasn't se­ni­le. He knew it was Mot­her. He was la­ug­hing and tal­king to her."

  "Yeah, well, he didn't wri­te her back in­to the will af­ter that, did he?"

  "No, but I don't think he wro­te us out be­ca­use of her."

  "I gu­ess not." Gib is qu­i­et for a mo­ment, thin­king. "May­be if she con­vin­ced him to do it…"

  "Mother?"

  "No! Char­lot­te. May­be she tal­ked him in­to gi­ving it all to her."

  Phyllida sha­kes her he­ad. "She's too dam­ned ni­ce. I ho­nestly don't think she ca­res abo­ut the mo­ney all that much."

  "Nice pe­op­le li­ke mo­ney too."

  "I don't know…" Phylli­da toys with the ed­ge of a tab­le­top la­ce do­ily, rol­ling and un­rol­ling it. "Don't you think she se­emed as sur­p­ri­sed as we we­re?"

  "Maybe she was fa­king it."

  "She's no ac­t­ress."

  No, but you are, Gib can't help thin­king. He won­ders aga­in if his sis­ter co­uld be hi­ding so­met­hing.

  Then aga­in, who isn't?

  He, at le­ast, is mo­re skil­led at it than most.

  Anyway, even if Phylli­da did do so­met­hing to up­set Gran­dad­dy, why wo­uld Gib be cut out of the will as well? That do­esn't ma­ke any sen­se.

  No, it se­ems far mo­re li­kely that the one per­son who be­ne­fit­ted from the chan­ge in the he­irs ap­pa­rent wo­uld be the per­son res­pon­sib­le for it.

  "At le­ast you got the cuf­flinks," Phylli­da tells him pet­tily.

  He knew that was co­ming.

  "Only be­ca­use no­body el­se can use them," he's ob­li­ged to po­int out. "You know how much he ha­ted to see an­y­t­hing go to was­te. Re­mem­ber when we we­re kids? He sa­ved twist ti­es off bre­ad bags." 'The cuf­flinks are pla­ti­num. They're worth so­met­hing if you sell them."

  "I'm not go­ing to sell them, Phylli­da." Not right away, an­y­way.

  "You're go­ing to we­ar them?"

  He shrugs. "Why not?"

  "Oh, right, I for­got. You're a fancy law­yer with fancy shirts."

  He cho­oses to ig­no­re that, as he do­es her ot­her, fre­qu­ent com­ments abo­ut his war­d­ro­be.

  He al­so ig­no­res his sis­ter's catty, "I'm sur­p­ri­sed Gran­dad­dy didn't al­so le­ave so­me jewelry to Nydia."

  At le­ast, un­til she adds a pro­vo­ca­ti­ve, "Con­si­de­ring what pe­op­le ha­ve be­en sa­ying abo­ut the two of them."

  "What ha­ve pe­op­le be­en sa­ying?" Gib asks with in­te­rest.

  "You know… that Gran­dad­dy had be­en…"

  "What?"

  She bobs her per­fectly wa­xed eyeb­rows pro­vo­ca­ti­vely.

  "You think he was do­ing the ho­use­ke­eper?" he asks with per­ver­se de­light. The tho­ught had ne­ver en­te­red his mind. So much for old-fas­hi­oned So­ut­hern Bap­tist mo­rals.

  Well, go­od for the old ge­ezer, get­ting re­gu­lar ac­ti­on at his age. That's mo­re than an­y­body can say abo­ut Gib at the mo­ment.

  It's be­en over a we­ek sin­ce Cas­san­d­ra to­ok off, me­aning it's mo­re than a we­ek sin­ce he's be­en with a wo­man.

  He ac­tu­al­ly cal­led her in Bos­ton to see why she'd left, ho­ping he might be ab­le to per­su­ade her to co­me back, at le­ast for the we­ekend.

  No such luck.

  Her re­ason: Sorry, Gib, fu­ne­rals and fa­mi­li­es just aren't my thing.

  Yeah, li­ke fu­ne­rals and fa­mi­li­es are his thing? An­y­way, she knew why they we­re co­ming down to Ge­or­gia. She didn't ha­ve to ac­cept his in­vi­ta­ti­on to co­me down he­re with him-not that she was en­ti­rely so­ber when she did. And not that they had known each ot­her for twen­ty-fo­ur ho­urs at that po­int, ha­ving met in a bar at Lo­gan Air­port af­ter get­ting off se­pa­ra­te but equ­al­ly tur­bu­lent flights ho­me to Bos­ton.

  She cla­imed to be re­tur­ning from a bu­si­ness trip- not that the­re was an­y­t­hing re­mo­tely cor­po­ra­te abo­ut her skimpy out­fit.

  Then aga­in, he told her the sa­me thing. But at le­ast he lo­oked the part, in his cus­tom-ma­de su­it and silk tie.

  He was well in­to his se­cond Dirty Mar­ti­ni-his mind fil­ling with sig­ni­fi­cantly dirty tho­ughts as his hand ma­de its way from Cas­san­d­ra's arm to her ba­re knee-when his cell pho­ne ran
g with the news abo­ut Gran­dad­dy.

  He didn't cry.

  It was a call he'd be­en wa­iting for. He knew it wo­uld even­tu­al­ly co­me. He just didn't know exactly when, or who wo­uld ma­ke it.

  As it tur­ned out, it was Char­lot­te, and she so­un­ded pretty bro­ken up over Gran­dad­dy's de­ath.

  Gib tri­ed to at le­ast so­und sor­row­ful, but it was hard for him to carry on much of a con­ver­sa­ti­on with the no­ise in the lo­un­ge and the an­no­un­ce­ments over the air­port PA system. In the end, he simply told her to hang in the­re and pro­mi­sed her that he'd catch the next pla­ne down to Sa­van­nah.

  "What hap­pe­ned?" Cas­san­d­ra as­ked when he hung up, wat­c­hing him qu­ickly dra­in what was left of his drink.

  So he told her.

  He wasn't en­ti­rely se­ri­o­us when, fu­eled by too much gin, he as­ked her to co­me to Sa­van­nah with him.

  Nor was he en­ti­rely sur­p­ri­sed when she sa­id, "I might as well-my bag is al­re­ady pac­ked and I re­al­ly don't ha­ve plans for the we­ekend."

  Several ho­urs and se­ve­ral coc­k­ta­ils la­ter, they we­re lan­ding in Sa­van­nah. Cas­san­d­ra didn't bat an eye when he sug­ges­ted that they spend that night in a ho­tel and wa­it un­til the next day to go to his fa­mily's pla­ce.

  That was so­me night. The ro­om had a king-si­zed bed, a Jacuz­zi, and a daz­zling vi­ew of the ri­ver­f­ront. Not that Gib and Cas­san­d­ra spent much ti­me lo­oking out the win­dow.

  Too bad abo­ut her. Re­al­ly, it is. She was Gib's kind of wo­man.

  At this po­int, ho­we­ver, pretty much any hal­f­way at­trac­ti­ve fe­ma­le wo­uld be his kind of wo­man… She might not even ha­ve to be a blon­de.

  "So how do you know abo­ut Gran­dad­dy and Nydia?" he asks his sis­ter, his cu­ri­osity pi­qu­ed.

  "I over­he­ard a co­up­le of his old cro­ni­es tal­king abo­ut it at the fu­ne­ral. They sa­id she was pro­bably in the tub with Gran­dad­dy when he had his he­art at­tack. That she was why he had the he­art at­tack, ac­tu­al­ly."

  "No way." Gib finds it hard to ima­gi­ne a skinny, ho­usef­rau li­ke Nydia nu­de, gi­ving an­y­body a he­art at­tack… not in a go­od way, an­y­way.

  Still, may­be the­re's so­me truth to the the­ory. Af­ter all, Nydia is the one who fo­und his body…

  "We ne­ed to call Mot­her, Gib," Phylli­da says, ef­fec­ti­vely cur­ta­iling his ti­til­la­ting tho­ughts.

  "Mother? Why?"

  "Because she's co­un­ting on this mo­ney as much as we are. She do­esn't want to li­ve with Aunt Ro­se­mary the rest of her li­fe, and work in so­me sto­re wa­iting on pe­op­le who used to be her fri­ends."

  "I know, and she won't ha­ve to. We're go­ing to con­test the will. Why up­set her?"

  Phyllida shrugs. "I just think she ne­eds to know."

  No, you just ne­ed to go crying on her sho­ul­der, as usu­al, he thinks, ag­gra­va­ted.

  "Don't tell her, Phyll. Don't."

  He can tell by the lo­ok on her fa­ce that she isn't plan­ning to he­ed his war­ning. God, she's as pat­he­ti­cal­ly ne­edy now as she was when they we­re gro­wing up. She al­ways ran to the­ir mot­her with the slig­h­test prob­lem, whi­ning and wa­iling for at­ten­ti­on.

  She al­ways got it, too.

  Mother might ha­ve cod­dled his sis­ter, but she ad­mi­red and res­pec­ted Gib. He's al­ways be­en con­tent in that know­led­ge.

  And he su­re as hell isn't go­ing to burst her bub­ble now.

  "Don't tell Mot­her," he tells Phylli­da one last ti­me. "I me­an it."

  "Well, I de­fi­ni­tely think we sho­uld con­f­ront Char­lot­te abo­ut Gran­dad­dy when she co­mes ho­me, Gib."

  "About him get­ting it on with the ho­use­ke­eper?" he asks fa­ce­ti­o­usly, just to get on her ner­ves.

  "About the will!" Phylli­da is su­itably exas­pe­ra­ted. "Don't you think we ne­ed to talk to her?"

  "Not re­al­ly." He pa­ces ac­ross the ro­om, then back aga­in. "What do you think she can pos­sibly tell us?"

  "Who knows? We ne­ed to put her on the spot."

  "Frankly, I'd rat­her avo­id her for the ti­me-"

  Gib stops pa­cing ab­ruptly, struck by so­met­hing that hadn't oc­cur­red to him un­til now.

  He was wrong ear­li­er.

  Charlotte isn't ne­ces­sa­rily the only per­son who be­ne­fits from the chan­ged will.

  "Kevin, I'm to­tal­ly se­ri­o­us. Cut it out."

  "Why?"

  "Because!" Li­an­na slaps his hand away be­fo­re it can cre­ep be­ne­ath her T-shirt aga­in. The gli­der they're sit­ting on gro­ans be­ne­ath her shif­ting we­ight as she mo­ves away from him.

  He mo­ves clo­ser. "It was okay fi­ve mi­nu­tes ago."

  "So? It's not okay now."

  "Why not?"

  "Because…" She juts her Up to blow her own hot bre­ath on her fa­ce in a fu­ti­le ef­fort to co­ol off. "I'm all swe­aty."

  "Who ca­res? So am I."

  Yeah, no kid­ding. The fa­int, pun­gent, un­fa­mi­li­ar odor of mas­cu­li­ne per­s­pi­ra­ti­on min­g­les with the he­ady scent of Ca­sey's mot­her's clim­bing ro­ses that co­ver a ne­arby ar­bor.

  Kevin re­ac­hes for her aga­in.

  "Come on, stop it! I me­an it! My mot­her's co­ming."

  His he­ad jerks aro­und to exa­mi­ne the gar­den path be­yond the gli­der's can­vas aw­ning.

  "She isn't he­re now, you idi­ot," Li­an­na says with a la­ugh, tuc­king her shirt back in­to the wa­is­t­band of her shorts. "Do you think I'd just be sit­ting he­re with you if she was?"

  "Nope." Un­da­un­ted at be­ing cal­led an idi­ot, he smirks. "You'd be run­ning away to hi­de."

  "So wo­uld you."

  "You know it." He glan­ces at his Ti­mex. "Anyhow, I tho­ught you sa­id she wasn't co­ming for at le­ast anot­her ho­ur."

  He's right. She did say that.

  But that was be­fo­re he tri­ed to go fur­t­her than she ex­pec­ted. Aga­in. It's get­ting to be a pat­tern with them over the­se past few we­eks-yet, one she do­esn't ne­ces­sa­rily want to avo­id.

  After all, Ke­vin's cu­te, and a go­od kis­ser, and he re­al­ly li­kes her.

  She just isn't com­for­tab­le ma­king out with him out­si­de in bro­ad day­light, that's all.

  Things might be dif­fe­rent if they co­uld re­al­ly be alo­ne to­get­her, in pri­va­te. So­me­ti­mes, she thinks she's re­ady for that. Ot­her ti­mes, she knows she's not.

  Being Ke­vin's gir­l­f­ri­end is con­fu­sing.

  "Listen, I ha­ve no idea when my mot­her's go­ing to show up, ac­tu­al­ly. You ne­ed to go, so I can get out front and wa­it for her on the steps." Li­an­na in­c­hes away from him on the gre­en and whi­te vinyl cus­hi­on, fe­eling aro­und with her fe­et in the grass for the rub­ber flip-flops she kic­ked off ear­li­er.

  "Won't she think so­met­hing's up when you're out­si­de and yo­ur fri­end's not aro­und?"

  Maybe she will, co­me to think of it. But the plan to use Ca­sey's ho­use whi­le her fri­end's fa­mily is away on va­ca­ti­on se­emed li­ke a go­od one when Li­an­na ca­me up with it last night.

  "I'll ma­ke up so­met­hing," she tells Ke­vin.

  "Like what?"

  "Like Ca­sey was eating this cin­na­mon taffy and she bro­ke a brac­ket and had to go to an emer­gency or­t­ho­don­tist ap­po­in­t­ment."

  "That's pretty go­od," Ke­vin says ad­mi­ringly. "Cin­na­mon. How'd you think of that? Tel­ling the fla­vor, I me­an."

  She shrugs. "You've got to use de­ta­ils. That ma­kes it re­al."

  "Wow. You're a gre­at li­ar."

  "Thanks."

  "You're so be­a­uti­ful, too."

  She so isn't. She has buck te­eth and knobby kne­es a
nd it's ta­king fo­re­ver for her to grow out her ha­ir from that la­ye­red cut she got last spring that her mot­her tho­ught wo­uld lo­ok go­od on her.

  But Ke­vin re­al­ly must think she's ir­re­sis­tib­le, be­ca­use he sli­des clo­se to her and the next thing she knows, he's pul­ling her in­to his strong arms aga­in, pres­sing a hot, wet kiss on the damp skin of her neck, be­ne­ath her ha­ir.