The Final Victim

by that's me

  Why is she out he­re?

  Why am I out he­re?

  I'm ex­ha­us­ted af­ter all that work on the ca­bin.

  This wasn't a go­od idea-this last-mi­nu­te im­p­ro­vi­sa­ti­on, co­ur­tesy of the unex­pec­ted co­di­cil.

  Oh? It will be a go­od idea if it works.

  Yes, but… The­re had to be anot­her way to do this.

  Her fo­ot­s­teps are co­ming omi­no­usly clo­ser, each one mar­ked by the dis­tinct slap­ping of a rub­ber so­le aga­inst her he­el.

  What if she se­es me?

  What then?

  Then, wha­te­ver has to hap­pen, will hap­pen. That's all the­re is to it. She's cer­ta­inly ex­pen­dab­le.

  Yes, but all in go­od ti­me. Don't get overly an­xi­o­us.

  Just stay still.

  She'll be go­ne mo­men­ta­rily.

  The flop­ping so­und ma­de by her sho­es masks the so­und of a long-held bre­ath ne­ces­sa­rily ex­pel­led in a hus­hed, qu­ave­ring rush.

  Then she's go­ne, up the steps and di­sap­pe­aring in­to the dar­ke­ned ho­use with a fa­int cre­ak of the outer scre­en do­or, and a qu­i­et click of the lock on the so­lid in­ner one.

  She must think she's sa­fe, tur­ning that de­ad­bolt.

  They all do, in­c­lu­ding Char­lot­te.

  None of the re­si­dents of Oak­ga­te wo­uld dre­am that me­re locks can't ke­ep pre­da­tors at bay. Not this pre­da­tor, an­y­way.

  But now is not the ti­me to prowl thro­ugh the qu­i­et ho­use un­no­ti­ced.

  Now the­re's no­body out­si­de to he­ar the soft pad­ding of fo­ot­s­teps in the dewy grass, or the sa­tis­f­ying slap­ping of a car­ni­vo­ro­us in­sect, or the pro­bing of fin­ger­tips along the ro­ugh, wi­de led­ge atop a ra­ised ba­se­ment win­dow.

  There, tuc­ked among the oy­s­ter shells that ri­se de­cep­ti­vely from the tabby sur­fa­ce, is the re­ason for this risky la­te-night so­j­o­urn.

  And on­ce the items are tuc­ked sa­fely in hand, the­re's no fur­t­her re­ason to lin­ger in the sha­dows of the old plan­ta­ti­on ho­use.

  Not to­night, an­y­way.

  Around front, one last glan­ce shows that all is still wit­hin; the win­dows that pun­c­tu­ate the fa­ca­de are dar­ke­ned, sha­des and dra­pe­ri­es drawn.

  Then, high over­he­ad, so­met­hing flas­hes in the night.

  It ta­kes a mo­ment to re­ali­ze that a light has co­me on, way up on the third flo­or.

  A sha­dow pas­ses in front of one of the dor­mer win­dows; so­me­body is prow­ling abo­ut up the­re.

  Charlotte isn't sur­p­ri­sed to find that she can't fall as­le­ep.

  What is sur­p­ri­sing is that her co­usins ha­ve ste­ered cle­ar of her for the re­ma­in­der of the af­ter­no­on and eve­ning. She fully ex­pec­ted an ugly con­f­ron­ta­ti­on when she got ho­me from Sa­van­nah, but the­re was no sign of Phylli­da or Gib, tho­ugh Gib's ren­tal car in the dri­ve­way me­ant they we­re in the ho­use so­mew­he­re.

  The ugly con­f­ron­ta­ti­on, for that mat­ter, had al­re­ady oc­cur­red-with Li­an­na.

  "I still can't be­li­eve it," she mur­murs, mostly to her­self, as she sta­res at the out­li­ne of the an­ti­que fur­ni­tu­re ac­ross the ro­om in the nig­ht-light's glow.

  Beside her, the bed­s­p­rings cre­ak in res­pon­se to her vo­ice. Roy­ce is still awa­ke. She tho­ught he'd drif­ted off when he stop­ped com­men­ting ear­li­er, as she went over and over what hap­pe­ned this af­ter­no­on.

  "I'm sorry," she tells him. "You sho­uld sle­ep. That's why we ca­me to bed early… I know you ha­ve to get up early to­mor­row for work. And he­re I am, ke­eping you up all night."

  "It's okay. I'm he­re." He yawns de­eply.

  "I didn't even ask you how yo­ur me­eting went," she re­ali­zes be­la­tedly.

  "That's okay. You've got a lot go­ing on." 'That's the un­der­s­ta­te­ment of the ye­ar."

  If she didn't ha­ve so much on her pla­te be­fo­re this mess with Li­an­na, she wo­uld ha­ve re­mem­be­red to call Li­an­na on her cell pho­ne this af­ter­no­on to tell her she was on the way to Ca­sey's ho­use. Then she ne­ver wo­uld ha­ve stum­b­led upon that sce­ne in the gar­den.

  Which, in so­me ways, wo­uld ha­ve be­en a bles­sing.

  Not that she isn't glad she nip­ped that lit­tle ren­dez­vo­us in the bud when she did, but…

  It's just that li­fe was much bet­ter be­fo­re she re­ali­zed that her only child li­es to her fa­ce and do­es God knows what be­hind her back.

  "So how was it?" she asks Roy­ce, kno­wing that he de­ser­ves her at­ten­ti­on now that she's kept him awa­ke for ho­urs. "The me­eting, I me­an."

  "Oh, it was fi­ne."

  "Did they li­ke you, Roy­ce?" ''Who do­esn't?" he asks with a chuc­k­le, then adds, when she re­ma­ins si­lent, "I'm just kid­ding. You we­re sup­po­sed to la­ugh at that."

  "Oh, sorry…" She men­tal­ly bac­k­t­racks over the last ex­c­han­ge, re­ali­zes what he sa­id, and tells him, "It wasn't a joke, as far as I'm con­cer­ned. I've ne­ver co­me ac­ross an­yo­ne who do­esn't li­ke you."

  That's be­ca­use you've ne­ver met Ka­ren."

  His ex-wi­fe.

  "And if I had to gu­ess, I'd say Vin­ce isn't all that crazy abo­ut me, eit­her," he adds go­od-na­tu­redly. "But as I was sa­ying, the­se guys I met to­day se­emed to li­ke me, so I'm 'I ho­ping I might get the­ir on-si­te bu­si­ness."

  "That wo­uld be gre­at."

  "It wo­uld."

  She's glad he do­esn't ela­bo­ra­te. Nor­mal­ly, she ta­kes an in­te­rest in his bu­si­ness de­alings, but to­night she can dwell only on her own di­sas­t­ro­us day.

  "How co­uld she do that to me, Roy­ce?"

  "If it's any con­so­la­ti­on, I re­al­ly don't think she me­ant to do an­y­t­hing to you."

  "She li­ed. She snuck aro­und with that boy be­hind my back. And jud­ging by the lo­oks of things, this isn't the first ti­me they ever la­id eyes on each ot­her. Or hands." Char­lot­te shud­ders, wis­hing she co­uld block out the ima­ge of Li­an­na, her baby girl, with that trashy Tin­k­s­ton boy pa­wing at her.

  "The only con­so­la­ti­on is that she isn't preg­nant," she adds darkly, rol­ling on­to her si­de to fa­ce him. 'That I know of, an­y­way."

  "Of co­ur­se she isn't preg­nant" Roy­ce to­uc­hes her arm. "Char­lot­te, don't blow it up in­to an­y­t­hing it isn't. You sa­id yo­ur­self that they we­re just kis­sing."

  "She was kis­sing. He was gro­ping."

  "They're te­ena­gers. It hap­pens."

  "She's ba­rely a te­ena­ger, and it's not al­lo­wed to hap­pen to my da­ug­h­ter." Her vo­ice has ri­sen abo­ve a hyste­ri­cal whis­per, but she can't help her­self.

  "Sweetheart, what she did was wrong," Roy­ce says so­ot­hingly, "but it's over, and it's not go­ing to hap­pen aga­in. We'll ma­ke su­re of that. So don't ob­sess abo­ut it. You've got eno­ugh to worry abo­ut right now."

  She sighs. "Did you ha­ve to re­mind me?"

  "Sorry."

  Charlotte re­ma­ins si­lent, tur­ning her he­ad res­t­les­sly on the go­ose down pil­low, which se­ems to be def­la­ting by the se­cond. If she co­uld just get com­for­tab­le, she might be ab­le to fall as­le­ep.

  No, you won't. You're wi­red. You're not go­ing to sle­ep to­night un­less you ta­ke one of Gran­dad­dy 's pills.

  She do­esn't want to re­sort to that, tho­ugh it's be­en tem­p­ting to sne­ak in­to his me­di­ci­ne ca­bi­net on the sle­ep­less nights that fol­lo­wed his de­ath. She pro­bably wo­uld ha­ve, if she co­uld bring her­self to walk in­to the bat­h­ro­om whe­re he di­ed.

  "For what it's worth," Roy­ce says aro­und a yawn, "I don't think you sho­uld worry abo­ut the mo
­ney, Char­lot­te. Yo­ur Gran­dad­dy wan­ted you to ha­ve it, not yo­ur co­usins. He must ha­ve had his re­asons."

  "I can't ima­gi­ne what they we­re. And I ho­nestly don't think Phylli­da and Gib ha­ve any idea, eit­her."

  "Oh, I don't know abo­ut that."

  "They we­re as shoc­ked as I was, Roy­ce. I saw the lo­oks on the­ir fa­ces. And they both swo­re up and down to Tyler they had no idea why Gran­dad­dy wo­uld ha­ve do­ne this."

  "Do you ho­nestly think they'd ad­mit it if they did know?"

  "I don't know." She pa­uses, mul­ling that over. Td li­ke to think so, but-"

  "But you're wil­ling to be­li­eve they might not be tel­ling the who­le truth?"

  Reluctantly, she says, "I gu­ess so. I me­an, ob­vi­o­usly, I'm not ter­ri­fic at spot­ting a li­ar. Lo­ok at the way my own da­ug­h­ter pul­led the wo­ol over my eyes. May­be my co­usins are do­ing the sa­me thing. May­be they know exactly why he chan­ged the will, but they're not ad­mit­ting it be­ca­use they're plan­ning to ha­ve it con­tes­ted."

  "Which is go­ing to be hard on ever­yo­ne," Roy­ce po­ints out grimly.

  "No kid­ding." Char­lot­te sits up, plum­ping the pil­lows in a frus­t­ra­ted ef­fort to get com­for­tab­le. "Ever­yo­ne in Sa­van­nah is go­ing to know abo­ut this be­fo­re they're thro­ugh. Do you know what pe­op­le are go­ing to be sa­ying abo­ut Gran­dad­dy? And me?"

  "And yo­ur co­usins, for that mat­ter."

  "Right. Oh, Lord, I wish I co­uld just pay them two-thirds of my in­he­ri­tan­ce, and ma­ke this who­le mess go away."

  "What's stop­ping you?"

  Charlotte im­me­di­ately go­es still. "What do you me­an?" 'Just wri­te them each a check and get it over with, if that's what you want to do."

  She re­ma­ins si­lent.

  "It wo­uld ma­ke the mess go away," Roy­ce tells her. "Which is what you want. And we both sa­id be­fo­re, the mo­ney isn't go­ing to chan­ge an­y­t­hing for us. We we­re do­ing just fi­ne wit­ho­ut it."

  "I know-"

  "So ta­ke yo­ur third of it, and we'll put it away, and gi­ve the rest to Phylli­da and Gib. Or gi­ve them the who­le dam­ned for­tu­ne if you want. It's only mo­ney. It'll sa­ve ever­yo­ne a who­le lot of tro­ub­le."

  She con­tem­p­la­tes the sug­ges­ti­on. It can't be that easy.

  "What's the mat­ter?" Roy­ce asks, af­ter a long mi­nu­te. "Don't you want to ma­ke this go away?"

  "It's tem­p­ting, but I don't think it's a go­od idea," she tells him, unab­le to put her fin­ger on just why.

  "Because it isn't what yo­ur gran­d­fat­her wan­ted, right? He cut yo­ur co­usins out of the will for a re­ason, and you want to res­pect his wis­hes."

  'That's exactly right," she ex­c­la­ims, re­li­eved that he put it in­to words for her. "How did you fi­gu­re that out be­fo­re I even did?"

  "Because I'm a very wi­se man," Roy­ce says, rol­ling so clo­se she can smell minty mo­ut­h­wash lin­ge­ring on his bre­ath. "And you're a very wi­se wo­man. That's why you'll pro­bably do the right thing, no mat­ter how hard it is on you. On all of us."

  "Things co­uld be wor­se, con­si­de­ring that the right thing hap­pens to be ac­cep­ting my gran­d­fat­her's en­ti­re for­tu­ne."

  Royce la­ughs, fol­ding her in­to his arms. "Don't get any big ide­as. We're not go­ing on any spen­ding spre­es in the ne­ar fu­tu­re… un­less you've chan­ged yo­ur mind?"

  "Why? Do you ne­ed a lit­tle mo­re bling bling?"

  "I've got plenty of bling, thank you very much, Jen­ny from the block." He kis­ses her neck. "But I can think of so­met­hing el­se I ne­ed…"

  In her hus­band's ten­der em­b­ra­ce, Char­lot­te al­lows her­self to re­lax at last.

  Royce is right.

  It's only mo­ney.

  And, as Phylli­da and Gib ha­ve yet to le­arn, mo­ney can't buy the things that mat­ter most in li­fe.

  Royce's mo­uth is mo­ving down, tra­iling kis­ses over her col­lar­bo­ne.

  Grandaddy didn't wit­h­hold her co­usins' in­he­ri­tan­ce in or­der to te­ach them a les­son-of that, Char­lot­te is cer­ta­in.

  He must ha­ve had a mo­re com­pel­ling, much dar­ker re­ason.

  And I'm go­ing to find out what it was, she vows si­lently, be­fo­re gi­ving in to her hus­band's qu­est to ta­ke her to a pla­ce whe­re she can for­get ever­y­t­hing for a blis­sful lit­tle whi­le.

  Jeanne lifts the items out of her top mid­dle bu­re­au dra­wer one by one. Ne­arly all of them on­ce be­lon­ged to her mot­her.

  The stack of la­ce-em­b­ro­ide­red han­d­ker­c­hi­efs.

  The croc­he­ted wo­olen shawl for win­ter mor­nings when a cold draft per­me­ates the third flo­or as ef­fec­ti­vely as do­es the sum­mer he­at.

  The pre­ci­o­us jo­ur­nals fil­led with po­etry, day-to-day ho­use­hold events, and fa­mily sec­rets-ail of it jot­ted in mot­her's spi­dery han­d­w­ri­ting.

  The al­bum fil­led with se­pia-to­ned pho­tos of un­s­mi­ling an­ces­tors, so­me of whom pla­yed a ro­le in tho­se very sec­rets.

  At the very bot­tom, be­ne­ath a loc­ked wo­oden ca­se that con­ta­ins her last-re­sort sal­va­ti­on, is a stack of bir­t­h­day cards from Gil­bert, ban­ded to­get­her with a fa­ded, blue-sa­tin rib­bon that on­ce ador­ned Mot­her's ha­ir.

  The cards didn't start co­ming un­til af­ter Fat­her and Mot­her had pas­sed away, and Je­an­ne's mind star­ted to go. Per­haps they we­re sent out of nos­tal­gia, per­haps out of pity. Or, just may­be, out of gu­ilt.

  In any ca­se, each card con­ta­ined a crisp twen­ty-dol­lar bill.

  Twenty dol­lars a ye­ar.

  From a man worth tens of mil­li­ons.

  Twenty dol­lars, cash-as if she co­uld ta­ke it right down to the mall and tre­at her­self to a lit­tle so­met­hing.

  Ah, well, it will co­me in handy af­ter all, this ni­ce lit­tle wad of "mad mo­ney"…

  In the tru­est sen­se of the phra­se, Je­an­ne thinks, a sad smi­le gra­zing her lips.

  "Don't you worry, Gil­bert," she whis­pers in­to the empty ro­om as she be­gins to co­unt the bills. "I'll be su­re and put it to go­od use."

  CHAPTER 6

  "I gu­ess I just don't un­der­s­tand why you aren't flying ho­me with us," Bri­an Har­per tells his wi­fe on Sa­tur­day mor­ning, as she tucks anot­her small T-shirt in­to the Vu­it­ton su­it­ca­se that holds the­ir son's clot­hing.

  "I ke­ep tel­ling you," she says we­arily. "It's be­ca­use I ha­ve to see this thro­ugh."

  "Contesting the will? It's go­ing to drag on for months, Phyll. You're not plan­ning on sta­ying he­re for that long… are you?"

  "Not months. We­eks, may­be."

  "You'll be trap­ped in this ho­use wit­ho­ut a car."

  "Gib has one, and I can al­ways rent so­met­hing if I ne­ed to. An­y­way, I'm su­re Gran­dad­dy's cha­uf­fe­ur will be back from va­ca­ti­on so­on. He can dri­ve me an­y­w­he­re I ne­ed to go."

  She clo­ses the top of the su­it­ca­se-or tri­es to. It se­ems to con­ta­in mo­re than it did when they ca­me, which is im­pos­sib­le. It's not as tho­ugh she's be­en out shop­ping for clot­hes la­tely.

  Far from it.

  When she isn't ta­king ca­re of an in­c­re­asingly ir­ri­tab­le tod­dler, the last few days ha­ve be­en spent with Gib, tal­king to at­tor­neys. Be­ing a law­yer him­self, her brot­her isn't con­tent with just any le­gal rep­re­sen­ta­ti­on.

  We ne­ed the best if we're go­ing to win this, he ke­eps tel­ling Phylli­da.

  Right. Still, she can't help won­de­ring if he's stal­ling his ef­forts a bit. Gib do­esn't se­em to be in any hurry to get back ho­me to Bos­ton. Which ma­kes her won­der just what kind of li­fe he left be­hind the­re.
/>   She, on the ot­her hand, wo­uld li­ke not­hing mo­re than to re­turn to the West Co­ast, with its ubi­qu­ito­us cen­t­ral air-con­di­ti­oning, ut­ter lack of hu­mi­dity… and Li­la, her lon­g­ti­me li­ve-in nanny for Wills.

  Pushing asi­de her gu­ilt for sen­ding her son ho­me wit­ho­ut her, Phylli­da re­minds her­self that he'll be in go­od ca­re. On­ce they land at LAX, Li­la will be per­fectly ca­pab­le of ke­eping Wills happy un­til her re­turn.