The Final Victim

by that's me

  Charlotte still isn't so cer­ta­in abo­ut it her­self, but she ma­de the of­fer spon­ta­ne­o­usly, and Aimee is gra­te­ful for a pla­ce to stay.

  Anyway, Nydia se­emed to get over it pretty qu­ickly, be­ca­use she co­oked them a hot me­al. But they we­re too ex­ha­us­ted to to­uch it. They all went to bed early.

  'Was an­y­body el­se he­re?" 'Just my gre­at-aunt up on the third flo­or. She has a vi­si­ting nur­se du­ring the day, but not at night." 'What abo­ut yo­ur co­usins? We­re they he­re?"

  "Not when we went to bed, no."

  "Where we­re they?"

  "I don't know. Gib's ren­tal car wasn't he­re and I'm pretty su­re they we­re both out."

  "Pretty su­re?" 'They ke­ep to them­sel­ves, De­tec­ti­ve. And they don't li­ve he­re; they're ho­use­gu­ests."

  "I re­ali­ze that. I'm just trying to fi­gu­re out whet­her they we­re he­re or out when y'all got back last night."

  "Out. When I as­ked Nydia abo­ut them, she sa­id she hadn't se­en eit­her of them sin­ce yes­ter­day mor­ning."

  "What abo­ut this mor­ning?"

  "You'll ha­ve to ask her. I ha­ven't se­en them. Gib's ren­tal car is par­ked out the­re now, tho­ugh."

  "All right." Do­ra­do se­ems to be fi­nis­hed ta­king no­tes. He lo­oks up at Wil­li­am­son, who gi­ves a slight nod, cu­e­ing his par­t­ner to say, "We've tur­ned up a co­up­le of in­te­res­ting things in our in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on of the ce­me­tery."

  It's Char­lot­te and Aimee's turn to ex­c­han­ge a glan­ce.

  "We fo­und fo­ot­p­rints in the mud in a num­ber of spots, which we think be­lon­ged to the sho­oter," Do­ra­do an­no­un­ces.

  "Men's sho­es?" Char­lot­te asks, and holds her bre­ath for the an­s­wer.

  "Yes."

  All right. So it co­uldn't ha­ve be­en Ka­ren.

  Of co­ur­se it wasn't Ka­ren!

  Right. She knew that all along, re­al­ly.

  She just co­uldn't help get­ting pa­ra­no­id ear­li­er, thin­king abo­ut the pe­op­le in Roy­ce's li­fe who might ha­ve a ven­det­ta aga­inst him.

  But Ka­ren isn't any mo­re li­kely to ha­ve shot him than Vin­ce is. Or so she tri­ed to con­vin­ce her­self last night, when Li­an­na told her that he was sup­po­sed to ha­ve vi­si­ted Sa­tur­day night, but didn't-and co­uldn't be re­ac­hed.

  That isn't unu­su­al. It wasn't the first ti­me Vin­ce had fa­iled the­ir da­ug­h­ter. Nor sho­uld it ma­ke Char­lot­te won­der if he re­al­ly was whe­re he cla­imed to be, di­ning on Ac­ho­co Is­land.

  But she isn't abo­ut to bring up his na­me or vo­ice her sus­pi­ci­on, ho­we­ver slight, to the po­li­ce.

  Not yet, an­y­way.

  Dorado go­es on, 'The so­les in the fo­ot­p­rints we fo­und in­di­ca­te that the­se we­re men's dress sho­es."

  "Dress sho­es?" Char­lot­te ec­ho­es, frow­ning.

  That do­esn't fit her ima­ge of an anon­y­mo­us sni­per at all.

  It's Aimee who asks Do­ra­do, "What do y'all think that me­ans?"

  "We're lo­oking in­to it."

  "So you don't ha­ve a sus­pect in mind yet?" Char­lot­te asks. "That's all you ha­ve to go on? Fo­ot­p­rints?"

  Again, the two men ex­c­han­ge a glan­ce.

  "We did find so­met­hing el­se, a few yards away from whe­re the sho­oter was stan­ding." Wil­li­am­son re­ac­hes in­to his poc­ket and ta­kes out a small en­ve­lo­pe.

  He opens it, re­mo­ves a small obj­ect, and holds it out in the palm of his hand.

  "Do eit­her of you re­cog­ni­ze this?"

  Aimee, se­ated clo­ser to him, le­ans over, then im­me­di­ately sha­kes her he­ad. "No."

  Williamson swo­ops his hand for­ward, brin­ging it to rest di­rectly in front of Char­lot­te. "How abo­ut you, Mrs. Ma­it­land?"

  She ga­zes in dis­be­li­ef at the he­ir­lo­om pla­ti­num cuf­flink em­b­la­zo­ned with the ini­ti­als GXR.

  "Yes, may I ple­ase spe­ak to a Dr. Pet­ra Von Ca­ve?" Mi­mi asks the per­son who's co­me on the li­ne at last, af­ter a lengthy wa­it whi­le the fo­re­ign re­cep­ti­onist ap­pa­rently scram­b­led to find so­me­one who spe­aks En­g­lish.

  "Dr. Von Ca­ve has left for the day," the vo­ice tells her in a thick ac­cent, and Mi­mi is ta­ken aback un­til she re­mem­bers that it's al­re­ady mi­daf­ter­no­on over­se­as.

  Still, you'd think a wor­ld-re­now­ned sci­en­tist wo­uld at le­ast stick aro­und the of­fi­ce-or is it a lab?-until fi­ve or six.

  "May I ask who's cal­ling?"

  "Maybe y'all can just tell me whe­re I can re­ach her?" she asks, re­mem­be­ring to ke­ep her vo­ice low.

  Jed is as­le­ep in the bed­ro­om, and Ca­me­ron is com­p­le­tely ab­sor­bed in a Bob the Bu­il­der vi­deo-a gift from his gran­d­mot­her-in the li­ving ro­om.

  "I'm af­ra­id I can't do that. Who is this, ple­ase?"

  Mimi he­si­ta­tes. "I'll… I'll call her back, if y'all will just tell me when I wo­uld be li­kely to find her at this num­ber." 'That's hard to say. You might try her to­mor­row, but Dr. Von Ca­ve can be dif­fi­cult to re­ach. Are you cer­ta­in you wo­uldn't li­ke me to ta­ke a mes­sa­ge?"

  "No, that's all right."

  Mimi hangs up, frus­t­ra­ted.

  What mes­sa­ge co­uld she pos­sibly le­ave?

  My na­me is Mi­mi and I li­ve in Ame­ri­ca and I ne­ed you to sa­ve my dying hus­band out of the go­od­ness of yo­ur he­art.

  She'd ha­ve a bet­ter chan­ce if she knoc­ked on the do­or of Trump World To­wer and as­ked The Do­nald if he can spa­re a few mil­li­on.

  Still, she'll try aga­in la­ter. And to­mor­row. For as long as she has to.

  Because now that Gib will be be­hind bars, her only op­ti­on is to gi­ve up and hel­p­les­sly watch Jed was­te away in agony.

  Damn you, Gib.

  How co­uld you?

  Restless, she pa­ces the length of the small kit­c­hen, then back aga­in, and re­turns to re­fill her cof­fee cup. God knows she ne­eds the jolt af­ter yet anot­her sle­ep­less night.

  She did the right thing, tel­ling the po­li­ce what Gib sa­id…

  Didn't she?

  It's not as if she has any pro­of that he's the one who shot Roy­ce.

  Still, af­ter what he sa­id Sa­tur­day mor­ning when they met on that bench in the squ­are, af­ter she as­ked-no, sha­me­les­sly beg­ged-him to help her…

  "I'd lo­ve to lo­an you so­me mo­ney, Mi­mi, and it's for such a go­od ca­use. But I just don't ha­ve it."

  He was lying.

  That's what she tho­ught at the ti­me, an­y­way. She tho­ught he had to ha­ve mo­ney. He's a Re­min­g­ton, for God's sa­ke.

  "My trust fund is an­ci­ent his­tory, I've got stu­dent lo­ans, cre­dit cards, bor­ro­wing aga­inst fu­tu­re ear­nings- all that, and not­hing co­ming in."

  "What do you me­an?"

  "I don't ha­ve a job yet," he cla­imed.

  She sho­uld ha­ve stop­ped right the­re, but she co­uldn't. Not with Jed's li­fe han­ging in the ba­lan­ce, and mo­ney be­ing the only way to sa­ve him.

  She had to go and bring up the fact that Gib's gran­d­fat­her had just di­ed.

  Well, who wo­uldn't as­su­me he had in­he­ri­ted mil­li­ons from the old man?

  "No, he left ever­y­t­hing to my co­usin Char­lot­te," Gib in­for­med her, so ve­no­mo­usly that she re­ali­zed he had to be tel­ling the truth.

  There was no mis­ta­king the aut­hen­ti­city of that ven­ge­ful gla­re in his eyes as he went on, "So it lo­oks li­ke I'll be a pa­uper for at le­ast a whi­le lon­ger, un­til Phylli­da and I are suc­ces­sful in con­tes­ting the will-un­less so­met­hing god-aw­ful hap­pens to Char­lot­te and her hus­band and kid."

  He sa­id it c
a­re­les­sly, or so she tho­ught, tos­sing the words from his ton­gue as easily as he as­ked her, in the next bre­ath, if she was su­re she didn't want to jo­in him that eve­ning for a night on the town.

  "I'm mar­ri­ed, Gib," she po­in­ted out. "Re­mem­ber?"

  "Oh, ye­ah," he sa­id flatly, in a to­ne that told her he hadn't for­got­ten, even for a mo­ment. Far be it from Gib Re­min­g­ton to let a lit­tle thing li­ke anot­her man-or a. wed­ding ring-stop him from ma­king a mo­ve.

  She co­uldn't help but be re­min­ded of that aw­ful day back in high scho­ol, when she let her­self in­to his dor­mi­tory ro­om to find a li­ve tab­le­au of the world's ol­dest bo­ar­ding scho­ol cliché: the­re was Gib, in bed with Miss Lu­cas, the blond, bu­xom yo­ung En­g­lish te­ac­her.

  Mimi's fa­vo­ri­te te­ac­her, in fact, and the one who hel­ped her fill out all tho­se es­says on her scho­lar­s­hip-ap­pli­ca­ti­on forms.

  To her cre­dit, Miss Lu­cas was mor­ti­fi­ed.

  To Mi­mi's ut­ter dis­gust, Gib was not.

  No, he had the ner­ve to be ve­xed that she had in­va­ded his pri­vacy and used her key-the key he had pres­sed on her just we­eks ear­li­er, when he hin­ted that it wo­uld be a ni­ce bir­t­h­day sur­p­ri­se if he ca­me back from physics class and fo­und her wa­iting for him, na­ked, in his bed.

  So much for physics class.

  So much for Miss Lu­cas be­ing Mi­mi's fa­vo­ri­te te­ac­her.

  And so much for Mi­mi be­ing Gib Re­min­g­ton's gir­l­f­ri­end.

  She vo­wed then that she wo­uld ne­ver spe­ak to him aga­in.

  And she kept that vow…

  Until that the day on the be­ach.

  The day that fo­re­ver al­te­red the co­ur­se of her li­fe- just as Gib Re­min­g­ton's eig­h­te­enth bir­t­h­day had ye­ars ear­li­er and the Mag­no­lia Cli­nic wo­uld ye­ars la­ter.

  "Why wo­uld Gib sho­ot Roy­ce?" Char­lot­te asks in dis­be­li­ef, still trying to ab­sorb what the de­tec­ti­ves ha­ve in­fer­red the­se last few mi­nu­tes, af­ter she told them that the cuf­flinks be­lon­ged to her gran­d­fat­her, and we­re be­qu­e­at­hed to Gib.

  But if Gib did ta­ke them, the­re's no tel­ling when, and that wo­uld me­an that he hel­ped him­self from Gran-dad­dy's jewelry box. At le­ast, that's whe­re the cuf­flinks we­re the last ti­me Char­lot­te saw them, along with his pri­zed gold watch, on the day her gran­d­fat­her di­ed - when she was gat­he­ring it and the bu­ri­al su­it he had cho­sen long ago.

  "Could mo­ney ha­ve be­en a mo­ti­ve?" Wil­li­am­son sug­gests. "It of­ten is."

  Seeing her co­usin in a who­le new light, Char­lot­te pus­hes asi­de a re­ne­wed rush of spe­cu­la­ti­on over why Gran­dad­dy might ha­ve di­sin­he­ri­ted Gib and Phylli­da.

  "Royce do­esn't ha­ve mo­ney," she tells Wil­li­am­son. "He runs a com­pu­ter-con­sul­ting bu­si­ness."

  "And he's mar­ri­ed to you."

  She shrugs. "Why him, then? Why not me?"

  For a mo­ment, the only so­und is the chir­ping of birds be­yond the tall scre­ened win­dows, and the hum of the pad­dle fan as it turns over­he­ad, fa­iling to stir the sultry mor­ning air.

  Then Do­ra­do says, "We aren't en­ti­rely su­re that yo­ur hus­band was the sho­oter's in­ten­ded tar­get, Mrs. Ma­it­land."

  With a sigh, Mi­mi re­mem­bers her cof­fee, gro­wing cold in her hand.

  She sho­ves the cup in­to the mic­ro­wa­ve and pres­ses Re­he­at, with a si­lent pled­ge to put Gib out of her tho­ughts for the re­ma­in­der of the day.

  Her reg­ret that she had even ap­pro­ac­hed him in the first pla­ce min­g­les now with re­li­ef that she wasn't for­ced to ta­ke things a step fur­t­her.

  She had be­en pre­pa­red to do wha­te­ver she had to, if it me­ant she'd ha­ve a way to get the mo­ney from Gib.

  But in the end, that wasn't ne­ces­sary.

  Gib might ha­ve re­ve­aled his shoc­king lit­tle sec­ret- his own un­li­kely po­ver­ty-but hers is still sa­fe.

  Yes, but at what cost?

  Shaking her he­ad as if to rid it of that dis­t­res­sing tho­ught, Mi­mi opens the ref­ri­ge­ra­tor to lo­ok for the half-and-half.

  Staring un­se­e­ingly at the con­tents of the frid­ge, she re­minds her­self that it wasn't me­ant to be. She wasn't me­ant to tell. And now, she knows she ne­ver will.

  But what abo­ut Jed? How can I help him now ?

  Sorrow, swift and raw, set­tles over her on­ce aga­in.

  At le­ast she did the right thing, go­ing to the po­li­ce. If Gib had an­y­t­hing to do with the at­tack on his brot­her-in-law…

  "Unless so­met­hing god-aw­ful hap­pens to Char­lot­te and her hus­band…"

  Mimi sha­kes her he­ad.

  Why did you ha­ve to go and say that, Gib?

  Amazing that the­re's still a part of her that wants to pro­tect him, even af­ter all the lo­usy things he did to her.

  She sho­uld be re­mem­be­ring be­ing dis­g­ra­ced that day in his dor­mi­tory. She sho­uld be thin­king pay­back is a bitch.

  But she isn't.

  She only fe­els sad for him.

  That's be­ca­use he's an ex­pert ma­ni­pu­la­tor. He knows just how to get what he wants.

  Don't I know it.

  There's anot­her part of her, thank go­od­ness, that do­esn't gi­ve a damn abo­ut Gib Re­min­g­ton an­y­mo­re. Yes, and she'd just as so­on see him thrown in ja­il if he re­al­ly did ta­ke a shot at Char­lot­te and her hus­band Sa­tur­day night.

  If he didn't, the po­li­ce will fi­gu­re out his in­no­cen­ce qu­ickly eno­ugh.

  Detective Wil­li­am­son cer­ta­inly was gra­te­ful for her in­for­ma­ti­on. He was no teddy be­ar, but he did sha­ke her hand warmly and thank her for co­ming for­ward.

  So she did do the right thing.

  Definitely.

  Realizing that the mic­ro­wa­ve is be­eping, she grabs the half-and-half. The car­d­bo­ard car­ton is we­ig­h­t­less when she lifts it from the shelf; she re­ali­zes it's all but empty.

  Terrific. They're out of ever­y­t­hing. Milk, bre­ad, eggs…

  I ha­ve to buy fo­od, she thinks dully. And I ha­ve to pick up Jed's pres­c­rip­ti­ons from the phar­macy, and drop off Cam's lib­rary bo­oks and duck out be­fo­re I ha­ve to pay a fi­ne we can't af­ford, and pay the elec­t­ric bill…

  Life go­es on.

  It has a way of do­ing that.

  It did af­ter Daddy di­ed.

  It is now, with Jed so sick.

  And it will even if so­met­hing hap­pens to him.

  For the first ti­me, Mi­mi al­lows her­self to ima­gi­ne li­fe wit­ho­ut her hus­band.

  What will hap­pen to me and Cam?

  Who will lo­ve us?

  She sinks in­to a cha­ir, bu­ri­es her he­ad in her arms, and cri­es at last, long and hard.

  "Y'all me­an, Gib might ha­ve be­en aiming for Char­lot­te?" Aimee rests a re­as­su­ring hand on Char­lot­te's trem­b­ling arm as she sits in si­len­ce, sha­ken by Do­ra­do's omi­no­us the­ory.

  'There's no way of kno­wing exactly whe­re the sho­oter was aiming."

  Charlotte no­ti­ces that De­tec­ti­ve Wil­li­am­son is ca­re­ful not to im­p­li­ca­te Gib di­rectly. Of co­ur­se not, be­ca­use the­re's no way he can ac­tu­al­ly be a sus­pect in this. That's crazy.

  Gib, with all his swag­ger, isn't her fa­vo­ri­te per­son in the world, nor, to be ho­nest, is he the most up­s­tan­ding ci­ti­zen she can think of. But that do­esn't me­an he wo­uld try to kill his own flesh and blo­od over mo­ney.

  There has to be so­me ot­her re­ason-a lo­gi­cal re­ason ever­y­body's over­lo­oking-for the cuf­flink to ha­ve tur­ned up in the gra­ve­yard.

  As she told the de­tec­ti­ves, for
all she knew, Gib didn't even ha­ve them in his pos­ses­si­on yet. He cer­ta­inly hadn't as­ked her abo­ut them, so un­less he did ta­ke it upon him­self to go thro­ugh Gran­dad­dy's things and help him­self…