by that's me
She watches the detectives seize stacks of carefully folded clothing from his drawers, tossing them on the bed. They do the same with the contents of the small closet, not pausing to remove them from their hangers. Each garment is thoroughly examined, creases and pockets and shirt cuffs checked, before it is unceremoniously tossed to the floor.
Gib would be cringing, Charlotte thinks, if he could see this.
Hopefully cringing only because of what they're doing to his cherished wardrobe, and not trepidation over what they might discover.
She breathes an inner sigh of relief when half a dozen pairs of shoes are swept up from the closet floor, their soles scrutinized before they're tossed into a heap in the corner.
Gib's brown Italian-leather Dopp bag is emptied on the floor, with a cursory inspection of his toiletries. Charlotte doesn't miss the snorts and derisive comments from the macho cops about the many hair products "pretty boy" uses.
A more thorough perusal is made of the contents of Gib's matching leather jewelry case. Charlotte's pulse quickens, as she waits to see if the heirloom cufflink's missing partner will turn up.
It doesn't.
Furniture is pushed and pulled from place to place, draperies yanked from their rods, the rug rolled, lifted, propped upright in a corner. The bedding is removed, the mattress patted and probed, then slid away altogether and leaned against a wall.
Poor Grandaddy must be turning over in his grave,Charlotte thinks, shifting her weight but not her gaze as the men inspect the box spring. Thank goodness they're almost finished in here, and so far, nothing- 'There's a slit in this cover. Look at this!" Dorado plunges a hand through the box spring's gauzy lining and pulls something out.
In the immediate flurry of activity around the bed, Charlotte can't see the object, but whatever it is seems to be incriminating.
A swift, further probe into the hole in the box spring yields several other items as well.
Steeling herself in dread, she stands on her tiptoes to look over Williamson's imposing shoulder to see what the fuss is about.
In that instant, her worst fear materializes.
Lined up on the floor as a police photographer snaps pictures from every angle are a pair of muddy brown dress shoes and a rumpled, yet still-starched white dress shirt, one French cuff still studded with an unmistakable heirloom platinum cufflink-the other empty.
CHAPTER 13
"Here, Royce…" Leaving his left elbow in Aimee's capable grasp, Charlotte releases his right and scurries ahead to shove the coffee table away from the couch in the front parlor. "Sit right here."
Royce groans slightly as he lowers himself, with his wife and daughter's help, into the cushions. 'That's better."
Charlotte and Aimee exchange a worried glance. Maybe it is too soon for him to be home from the hospital, less than a week after his ordeal began. They both thought so, especially since the old elevator at Oakgate stopped working sometime this week. It would have come in handy, getting him to and from the second floor.
But Royce was determined to get out of there regardless, and the doctors agreed to release him Friday afternoon, just in time for the weekend.
Longing for privacy, what with the media going crazy over the scandal of Gib's arrest, Charlotte nevertheless can't help being jittery about the prospect of caring for Royce at home. She wanted to hire a full-time visiting nurse, but Royce wouldn't hear of it.
"I'll be good as new in a couple of days," he proclaimed heartily.
That bravado disappeared somewhere during the painstaking journey through the gathering dusk, up the front steps and across the portico.
Charlotte and Aimee both urged him to agree to let them bring a wheelchair along, but Royce is determined to go on his own steam from here on in.
Thank goodness Aimee has agreed to put her resume and post-graduation job hunt on hold for a while longer, to stay and help. As she pointed out to Royce, she's an RN now. Who better suited to handle the task?
"You're not still feeling dizzy?" Charlotte asks, resting a hand on Royce's cheek.
Aimee warned her they'd better keep an eye on him for possible fever and infection, but he doesn't feel unusually warm. The doctor wouldn't have let him leave without making sure he was fine, and it hasn't even been an hour since he left the hospital to return to Oakgate.
"No, I'm fine now. Really. Walking all that way just took a lot out of me, that's all." He sighs. "Maybe I can sleep down here tonight."
Charlotte looks dubiously at the nineteenth-century couch, with its low arms and back, and wood moldings bordering the cushions. It wouldn't make the most comfortable bed in the world.
Aimee speaks up as if she's read Charlotte's thoughts, "I bet we can arrange to rent one of those hospital beds for a few days, Daddy. Until you can make it upstairs to your bedroom again."
Sensing Royce is about to protest, Charlotte quickly agrees, "That's a great idea-and I can sleep right here on the couch in case you need anything."
"No way am I making you sleep on this thing," Royce tells her. "We'll both sleep in our own bed. I'm sure the stairs will be no problem."
Aimee shakes her head, looking at Charlotte as if to say, He's too stubborn for his own good.
Charlotte, who wishes Royce hadn't repeatedly pushed aside the elevator issue in his eagerness to spring himself from hospital care, nevertheless isn't particularly anxious to spend another night in bed without her husband beside her.
"Is it good to be home?" she asks, plumping a throw pillow behind his neck as he settles back with a sigh of relief.
"I'm not home," he reminds her with a faint smile. "Not yet."
It takes her a perplexed moment to figure out what he means.
Oh. Of course. He's referring to their house: the one on Oglethorpe Avenue.
The house where he was gunned down.
She murmurs her agreement and turns her back to flip on a table lamp so he won't see her expression.
How can he even want to go back there after what happened?
It's like the beach all over again…
Except Royce lived.
And Adam's death was an accident.
What happened to Royce was not.
Now Gib is in jail, thus far unable to raise the sizeable bail. Apparently, he doesn't have a penny to his name. His bank accounts are all but empty, and he had liquidated all his investments a few years ago.
He turned to his family for help, but Phyllida claims to be incapable of coming up with the money and their mother doesn't have it, either.
Charlotte knows because she overheard Phyllida's end of a long-distance conversation with Aunt Susan.
It started out in a fairly composed manner, with Phyllida saying, "No, my house is already mortgaged up to t
he hilt, and even if it weren't, I wouldn't risk losing it…1 know he's my brother… I know… No, we can't do that… Because I don't trust him not to take off and leave the country, that's why."
Knowing how Aunt Susan always doted on her son, Charlotte wasn't surprised by the obvious argument that ensued. It wound up with Phyllida tearfully saying, more than once, "I know, Mommy, but I can't" and "We just don't have that kind of money."
Whether Phyllida was telling the truth and whether her regret was real remained unclear to Charlotte until the call ended with a slammed receiver. Phyllida's quiet sobs were barely audible, which convinced Charlotte that for once, her cousin's emotional display was real.
But Charlotte didn't go in to comfort her. The two have kept a cordial distance all week, ever since Gib was taken out of here in handcuffs.
Phyllida cried then, too. But when her brother turned to beg her to help him, she literally turned her back as he was led out the door.
"Do you honestly believe Gib could have done something like this, Charlotte?"she asked afterward, more than once, in disbelief. "Do you honestly think he's guilty?"
Charlotte's answer is always the same.
Yes.
What else is there to think? What other conclusion can be drawn from the evidence that was found in his room?
He admitted that the shoes were his, but denied wearing them on the night in question.
He also vehemently denied ever having removed the cufflinks from his grandfather's jewelry box, much less having worn them. No, he had no idea how one landed in the cemetery and the other on a shirt that was, indeed, his own. But he didn't know how any of that stuff got into his box spring.
The detectives don't believe him, and neither does Charlotte.
She's certain now that Grandaddy's reason for disinheriting Gib, and Phyllida, too, stemmed from something he must have found out about them. And she's going to find out what it is.
Now, however, she's just trying to focus on Royce, on getting him settled here at Oakgate so he can heal.
As for Phyllida…
Charlotte couldn't bring herself to ask her lingering cousin to leave, though that's what she wanted.
But Phyllida is going anyway. She announced tins morning that she's booked a flight out for tomorrow night.
"I wanted to get out over the weekend," she told Charlotte. They're saying there's a tropical storm coming tins way early in the week, and it could turn into a hurricane."
Charlotte was cordial, hoping to mask her relief with a pleasant, 'That's a good idea. You'll be home safe and sound before the storm hits."
Right, and-well, I wanted you to know I've realized there's no point now in contesting the will. So I might as well go."
Good. Just leave me alone, Charlotte thought when she said it.
She wants nothing further to do with either of her cousins, regardless of Grandaddy's reasons for disinheriting them. Charlotte is more than ready to move on… if not, necessarily, out.
The prospect of preparing Oakgate to be sold is daunting one. In her exhaustion, she can't imagine finding the motivation to start sorting through the house packing things up, bringing realtors through, making arrangements for Aunt Jeanne…
Anyway, there's no rush.
The house on Oglethorpe isn't ready yet, thank goodness. The renovation has ground to a halt, with the finishing fixtures and paint as yet unselected. On Monday afternoon, Charlotte instructed the contractor to just g on to his next project, promising she would call him t finish when things settle down.
"Are you sure you don't just want me to wrap thing up for you now, Mrs. Maitland?" Don asked, as she pulled out a pen and her checkbook. "If you just had few hours to go over the paint and the other couple o things, I could-"
"No," she said firmly. "Right now, my time is devote to my husband. We'll call you when we need y'all again after he gets out of the hospital."
The contractor left with a doubtful suit yourself shrug and a hefty check.
Now that Royce is out of the hospital, the last thin Charlotte wants to think about is that house.
Gone are her visions of cheerful, sun-splashed room and laughter; all she remembers is that awful night ' the dark, and fumes, and gunshots, and blood…
How can that house ever be home?
Maybe in time…
That's what Aimee keeps telling her.
'You know, I hate that this has robbed you of your spirit, Charlotte," she said just last night, when Charlotte halfheartedly said she didn't care where they stopped for dinner on the way back from the hospital, or what they ate. "Don't let him do this to you."
"Who?"
"Gib!" Aimee said, in a who else? tone. "He hasn't won yet. Daddy is alive, and so are you. And Gib is in jail. He can't hurt y'all anymore, and he can't win, unless you give in and let him."
Aimee is right.
Charlotte has no intention of letting Gib ruin the life she's worked so hard to rebuild. She just needs time.
Time for Royce's wounded leg to heal.
And time for Charlotte's wounded soul to do the same.
It has become increasingly difficult for Phyllida to leave her room. Every time she ventures out into the house, she feels like an interloper, disgraced by association to her brother.
Anyway, it's no longer as though she has as much a right to be here as Charlotte does.
The house, and everything in it, belong to Charlotte. It's a wonder she hasn't come right out and asked Phyllida to leave, though the unspoken invitation has been obvious all week.
Well, she'll be out tomorrow. With little else to occupy her, she's been watching the Weather Channel, and she has no desire to top off this horrendous visit East with a hurricane. All she wants for the next twenty-four hours is to be left alone to pack her things and gather her courage to return to the wreckage of her life.
Now, as she rounds a corner of the upstairs hall on her way to find something to eat in the kitchen, Phyllida is dismayed to hear movement on the stairs below.
She pauses to consider fleeing back to her room, but hunger gets the better of her and she continues on.
To her relief, it's only Melanie, Aunt Jeanne's terminally cheerful nurse, starting back up the stairs carrying a tray filled with food.
"How are you?" Phyllida asks, because she has to say something, conscious of the younger woman's curious gaze from the foot of the steps.
"Fine," Melanie says, and makes a tremendous effort to adjust a steaming cup on the tray with one hand.
That's so she won't have to look at me, Phyllida notes.
She'd be amused at the transparent ploy, if she weren't so darned…
Well, weary.
Not so much physically tired, though she can't remember the last time she slept through an entire night.
She's just… depleted. Utterly deplet
ed, in every way. She has nothing left to give to anyone.
Not even her own child.
That's part of the reason she's lingered at Oakgate this long. How can she bring herself to fly home to her son when she can barely get through each day without falling apart?
Brian asks countless questions and goes on and on every time he calls about how much he misses her. Translation: everything is falling apart around the house without her there to keep it together. There are bills to be paid, and calls to be returned, and appointments to be kept… It's all so overwhelming.
