The Final Victim

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The Final Victim Page 32

by that's me


  It so­unds go­od, Je­an­ne thinks mo­ro­sely, but it won't be.

  Melanie chats abo­ut the we­at­her as Je­an­ne in­s­pects her tray.

  "Big storm bre­wing," she says in the sa­me man­ner in which she'd in­form a small child that a car­ni­val is co­ming to town. "It's cal­led Do­ug­las. Ever­y­body's be­en tal­king abo­ut it on TV. They're sa­ying it co­uld turn in­to a hur­ri­ca­ne. But don't worry, Je­an­ne, I'll ma­ke su­re you're sa­fe. And it's not for a few mo­re days, an­y­way. To­mor­row we're just go­ing to get so­me pla­in-old sum­mer ra­in."

  Jeanne nods. The tur­key ap­pe­ars to be re­he­ated sli­ced cold cuts do­used with can­ned gravy, the po­ta­to­es are in­s­tant, and the as­pa­ra­gus has be­en re­du­ced to gre­en sli­me she co­uld eat with a spo­on… if she had one.

  She usu­al­ly gets a set of three whi­te plas­tic uten­sils shrink-wrap­ped with a pa­per nap­kin and salt and pep­per pac­kets.

  Not to­night.

  For wha­te­ver re­ason, Me­la­nie has de­ci­ded to go all fancy on her. Je­an­ne sup­pres­ses the ur­ge to ask her whe­re she fo­und the fancy tab­le ser­vi­ce. Did she ta­ke it upon her­self to go thro­ugh the cup­bo­ards?

  It's be­en ye­ars sin­ce Je­an­ne has la­id eyes on this whi­te chi­na with the gold rims. It be­lon­ged to her own mot­her first, and then to Ele­ano­re.

  She ga­zes down at the pla­te, eyes blur­red with a flo­od of re­ne­wed di­sil­lu­si­on­ment that it was Gil­bert's wi­fe, and not Je­an­ne, who in­he­ri­ted Mot­her's chi­na.

  It wasn't Ele­ano­re's fa­ult, of co­ur­se. Nor was it her hus­band's. No, it was Fat­her who de­ci­ded that the chi­na, and ever­y­t­hing el­se that had ever be­lon­ged to Mot­her, wo­uld be gi­ven to his son and da­ug­h­ter-in-law.

  Without his fat­her's know­led­ge, Gil­bert al­lo­wed Je­an­ne to ta­ke a few of the­ir mot­her's pos­ses­si­ons that had only sen­ti­men­tal va­lue. The han­d­ker­c­hi­efs and shawl that bo­re Mot­her's me­ti­cu­lo­us stit­c­hery. The pho­tog­raph al­bum. The ha­ir rib­bon.

  Gilbert ne­ver knew abo­ut the jo­ur­nals-or abo­ut the gun.

  How pro­ud Ele­ano­re was to ha­ve ser­vi­ce for six­te­en.

  She even threw a co­up­le of din­ner par­ti­es back when she and Gil­bert we­re first mar­ri­ed.

  In fact, that's how Ele­ano­re met Jonat­han Bar­row in the first pla­ce, be­gin­ning the dow­n­ward spi­ral that even­tu­al­ly en­ded in her de­ath.

  But, of co­ur­se, no­body knows abo­ut that. No­body ali­ve to­day, ot­her than Je­an­ne, can truly ap­pre­ci­ate the pe­cu­li­ar man­ner in which his­tory tends to re­pe­at it­self, ge­ne­ra­ti­on af­ter ge­ne­ra­ti­on, at Oak­ga­te.

  Jeanne do­esn't be­li­eve in co­in­ci­den­ces, ho­we­ver. The­re are re­asons for what hap­pe­ned to Ele­ano­re, just as the­re we­re re­asons for what hap­pe­ned to her own mot­her…

  And what is so­on to be­fall yet anot­her Re­min­g­ton wo­man who li­ves un­der the old plan­ta­ti­on's dor­me­red ro­of.

  'Jeanne?" Me­la­nie asks, ho­ve­ring at her el­bow. "Aren't you hungry?"

  She is. She's fa­mis­hed. She picks up her fork and kni­fe, re­lis­hing the­ir ple­asant we­ight in her grasp. She no­ti­ces that Me­la­nie has al­so pro­vi­ded her with a cloth nap­kin this eve­ning, and a pa­ir of salt-and-pep­per sha­kers she re­mem­bers her mot­her using ye­ars ago.

  After ta­king a pre­dic­tably di­sap­po­in­ting bi­te of the tur­key, Je­an­ne mo­ves the pla­te aro­und, chec­king be­ne­ath the rim.

  "What's the mat­ter, Je­an­ne?" the nur­se asks, ho­ve­ring at her el­bow. "What are you lo­oking for?"

  "A spo­on… I ne­ed it for mas­hed po­ta­to­es, and the gravy…" She do­esn't want to was­te a drop-es­pe­ci­al­ly sin­ce the­re's ba­rely eno­ugh to co­ver the rub­bery tur­key in the first pla­ce.

  "Oh, no prob­lem. I'll go back down and get one for you. Is the­re an­y­t­hing el­se you ne­ed?"

  Yes, Je­an­ne thinks glumly, sta­ring at the dis­mal me­al, but not yet. Not to­night.

  So­on, tho­ugh, very so­on.

  Charlotte slips out from be­ne­ath Roy­ce's arm and cros­ses the par­lor to the man­tel, whe­re Gran­dad­dy's ra­dio has sat mu­te for we­eks now.

  It'll be go­od to ha­ve mu­sic in this ho­use aga­in, Char­lot­te thinks as she re­ac­hes for the di­al. May­be I'll even le­ave it tu­ned to the Ol­di­es sta­ti­on.

  She turns the knob with a click, but not­hing hap­pens. Not even a burst of sta­tic.

  Oh-the vo­lu­me must ha­ve be­en tur­ned all the way down. She twists the di­al all the way aro­und cloc­k­wi­se, but the ra­dio re­ma­ins si­lent.

  Ah, Nydia must ha­ve ac­ci­den­tal­ly un­p­lug­ged it whi­le she was win­ding the clock.

  Charlotte fol­lows the dan­g­ling cord, but finds that it's still plug­ged in­to the out­let on the wall be­si­de the man­tel.

  'That's odd," she says softly.

  "Hmmm?" Roy­ce asks, stir­ring on the co­uch be­hind her.

  "Nothing, it's just… Gran­dad­dy's ra­dio do­esn't work an­y­mo­re for so­me re­ason."

  "It's old," he mur­murs. "Must be bro­ken."

  "First the ele­va­tor, and now this. Af­ter all the­se ye­ars. I'm go­ing to ha­ve it fi­xed." 'The ele­va­tor?"

  The ra­dio," she de­ci­des alo­ud. "Aimee al­re­ady cal­led the ele­va­tor guy. He's co­ming next we­ek. I'll ta­ke the ra­dio to Mr. Gol­d­berg."

  "Who's he? The ra­dio guy?" Roy­ce lo­oks amu­sed.

  "Pretty much. He has the lit­tle re­pa­ir shop down by the ca­nal-he tin­ke­red with Gran­dad­dy's te­le­vi­si­on last win­ter and got it run­ning aga­in. I ha­ve to go down to the So­uth Sho­re to­mor­row or Sun­day, an­y­way, to pick up so­me things at the su­per­mar­ket."

  "Why do you ha­ve to go run­ning all the way down the­re? Let Nydia do the shop­ping."

  Normally she do­es, but she wants to pick up the in­g­re­di­ents for the com­p­li­ca­ted French se­afo­od dish she co­oked for Roy­ce back when they we­re first mar­ri­ed and she had vo­wed to be­co­me mo­re do­mes­tic.

  He lo­ved it, and she'd pro­mi­sed him she'd ma­ke it every we­ek.

  Has she bot­he­red with it sin­ce?

  Urn, no you ha­ven't. So much for Su­per Wi­fe.

  Royce ne­ver re­al­ly se­ems to mind that she ra­rely co­oks, but it will be ni­ce to sur­p­ri­se him with din­ner to­mor­row night.

  And she'll get a chan­ce to get the ra­dio fi­xed.

  Hearing a fo­ot­fall be­yond the par­lor do­or, she lo­oks up ex­pec­tantly, ex­pec­ting Aimee to re­turn, or may­be even Li­an­na, who has yet to co­me down and gre­et her step­fat­her. Char­lot­te re­ali­zes she must be up­s­ta­irs get­ting re­ady for her din­ner out with Vin­ce, but it wo­uld be ni­ce if she spa­red a few mi­nu­tes to see Roy­ce be­fo­re she le­aves.

  But no­body emer­ges from the next ro­om.

  Frowning, Char­lot­te calls, "Li­an­na? Is that you?"

  The only reply is a cre­aking flo­or­bo­ard.

  Irritated, Char­lot­te cros­ses to the French do­ors, which Aimee left aj­ar, and pe­eks in­to the lar­ger par­lor.

  It's de­ser­ted, but she glim­p­ses a sha­dow di­sap­pe­aring aro­und the cor­ner in­to the hall be­yond.

  "Lianna!" she calls.

  No reply.

  "Lianna?"

  She hur­ri­es to the do­or, and finds the hall de­ser­ted as well.

  A mo­ment la­ter, Nydia ap­pe­ars in the do­or­way le­ading to­ward the back of the ho­use. "Is so­met­hing wrong, Mrs. Ma­it­land?'

  Frowning, Char­lot­te asks, "Ha­ve you se­en Li­an­na in the last few se­conds? Or an­yo­ne?
"

  "I ha­ven't se­en her, but I did knock on her do­or and tell her that her fat­her is he­re wa­iting for her. I sent him in­to the par­lor to wa­it."

  "Well, he isn't the­re."

  "Maybe they left."

  "She bet­ter not ha­ve left wit­ho­ut let­ting me know," Char­lot­te says, and stri­des qu­ickly to the win­dow to see whet­her Vin­ce's car is still he­re.

  Sure eno­ugh, it's par­ked right out front-and the­re's Vin­ce on the por­ti­co, set­tling him­self in­to a wo­oden roc­ker just be­yond the po­ol of light shi­ning from the scon­ce be­si­de the do­or.

  'Thanks, Nydia." She pe­ers out the do­or be­yond the por­ti­co. A light ra­in is fal­ling. "Vin­ce?"

  Her ex-hus­band lo­oks up. "Oh, hi. How's it go­ing?"

  How's it go­ing?

  What she wants to say is, My hus­band was just shot by my co­usin and the who­le world is buz­zing abo­ut the scan­dal… How do you think it's go­ing?

  Instead, she me­rely asks, "We­re you in the par­lor just now, wa­iting for Li­an­na?"

  "No."

  "Are you su­re?"

  "Of co­ur­se I'm su­re. I de­ci­ded I'd rat­her wa­it out he­re. Why?"

  "No re­ason," she says, not cer­ta­in she be­li­eves him. May­be he was eaves­d­rop­ping on her and Roy­ce. He must be nosy abo­ut all that's go­ne on, es­pe­ci­al­ly gi­ven the me­dia's at­ten­ti­on to the to­pic.

  It wo­uld cer­ta­inly ex­p­la­in why, for on­ce in his li­fe, he's ac­tu­al­ly shown up on ti­me to see Li­an­na.

  Or rat­her, shown up, pe­ri­od.

  God only knows, it wo­uld ma­ke mo­re sen­se if the­re was so­met­hing in it for him. He pro­bably wants to en­su­re his brag­ging rights as a "Re­min­g­ton in­si­der." For all she knows, he'll sell an in­ter­vi­ew to so­me re­por­ter to­mor­row.

  "Listen," Char­lot­te says, pus­hing asi­de her sus­pi­ci­ons, "ma­ke su­re you ha­ve Li­an­na back he­re at a re­aso­nab­le ho­ur, will you?"

  "What's re­aso­nab­le?" is the mad­de­ning reply.

  'Just ha­ve her back he­re by ele­ven, okay? It's sup­po­sed to po­ur all night and I don't li­ke her out la­te in bad we­at­her." Or with you.

  He sa­lu­tes.

  "Oh, and Vin­ce? You sho­uld know I had to chan­ge to an un­lis­ted pho­ne num­ber yes­ter­day," she re­mem­bers to say. She hasn't even had a chan­ce to tell an­y­body in the ho­use, in­c­lu­ding Li­an­na, abo­ut that yet. Not that the­re's any hurry. Anot­her day or two of si­len­ce af­ter the con­s­tant rin­ging will be wel­co­me, es­pe­ci­al­ly with Roy­ce ho­me, res­ting.

  "What's the new num­ber?" Vin­ce asks, re­ac­hing in­to his poc­ket "Do you ha­ve a pen and pa­per?"

  "No, I'll prog­ram it in­to my cell," he says, hol­ding it up. "That way, I'll be ab­le to call wit­ho­ut ha­ving to lo­ok it up."

  As if he's re­al­ly go­ing to sud­denly start pho­ning the­ir da­ug­h­ter on a re­gu­lar ba­sis. Ye­ah, su­re.

  Frustrated, Char­lot­te gi­ves Vin­ce the num­ber, and re­minds him aga­in to ha­ve Li­an­na back by ele­ven.

  Then she slowly re­turns to the par­lor, and Roy­ce.

  "What's go­ing on?" he asks drow­sily.

  "Nothing, I just… I think I'm he­aring things. And se­e­ing things," she adds, al­most po­si­ti­ve she had glim­p­sed a fi­gu­re di­sap­pe­aring aro­und the cor­ner in­to the hall.

  "Maybe Gran­dad­dy re­al­ly is ha­un­ting this pla­ce," she mu­ses, glan­cing aga­in at the ra­dio. She re­ad so­mew­he­re on­ce that ghosts of­ten use elec­t­ro­nic de­vi­ces to ma­ke the­ir pre­sen­ce known.

  Maybe Gran­dad­dy's spi­rit has si­len­ced the ra­dio.

  Maybe he's trying to tell her so­met­hing by do­ing that.

  Yes, she thinks wryly as she snug­gles be­si­de her hus­band on­ce aga­in, and may­be you've fi­nal­ly go­ne off the de­ep end, Char­lot­te Ma­it­land.

  For the se­cond ti­me this month, Mi­mi is awa­ke­ned by the pi­er­cing ring of a te­lep­ho­ne.

  It's fo­ur thirty AM.

  She se­izes the cor­d­less re­ce­iver from the nig­h­t­s­tand and bolts from the ro­om with it, not wan­ting to wa­ke Jed. He had a ter­rib­le ti­me ear­li­er, res­t­less and mo­aning in agony. It was only af­ter she ga­ve him anot­her ro­und of pa­in meds-too so­on af­ter the last do­se, but she co­uldn't stand to see him suf­fer-that he fi­nal­ly fell in­to a de­ep sle­ep.

  "Hello?" She clut­c­hes the re­ce­iver hard aga­inst her ear, pra­ying it's not abo­ut her mot­her this ti­me. She wo­uldn't be ab­le to be­ar it.

  "Yes, is this Mrs. Joh­n­s­ton?"

  "Yes…"

  "This is Dr. Von Ca­ve," a dis­tant, Euro­pe­an-ac­cen­ted vo­ice an­no­un­ces. "I apo­lo­gi­ze if I've wo­ken you… I'm af­ra­id I ha­ve, ha­ven't I? I didn't even think to con­si­der the ti­me dif­fe­ren­ce be­fo­re I di­aled…"

  Stunned, Mi­mi stam­mers that it's all right.

  She ne­ver ex­pec­ted a re­turn call when she at last po­ured out her he­art to the doc­tor's re­cep­ti­onist a few days ear­li­er. She didn't even en­ti­rely be­li­eve at the ti­me that the wo­man truly to­ok down her na­me and te­lep­ho­ne num­ber.

  "Thank you so much for cal­ling me back," she says in a rush. "I ho­nestly… I didn't re­al­ly ex­pect it. I tho­ught you must get co­un­t­less des­pe­ra­te mes­sa­ges from pe­op­le li­ke me…" 'To be qu­ite ho­nest, Mrs. Joh­n­s­ton, I do. But yo­urs ca­ught my eye when I no­ti­ced the fa­mi­li­ar area co­de."

  "Familiar?"

  There's a pa­use. "Mrs. Joh­n­s­ton, you do li­ve in Ge­or­gia in the vi­ci­nity of Ac­ho­co Is­land, don't you?"

  "Yes, I li­ve on it," Mi­mi rep­li­es, won­de­ring why that's re­le­vant-and not re­al­ly ca­ring. All that mat­ters is that the only wo­man on earth who can pos­sibly sa­ve Jed's li­fe is on the ot­her end of the te­lep­ho­ne li­ne at last.

  But be­fo­re she can beg her to help, Mi­mi finds her­self lis­te­ning in gro­wing dis­be­li­ef to the pre­ci­se re­ason Dr. Von Ca­ve re­tur­ned her call.

  Jed, she re­ali­zes in shock, may be en­s­na­red in a ma­lig­nancy who­se let­hal ten­tac­les ex­tend far be­yond his own li­fe-and-de­ath ra­ce aga­inst ti­me.

  Careful not to ma­ke a so­und, Phylli­da slips down the sha­dowy hal­lway to­ward the sta­irs. The tre­ads, she's ta­ken ca­re to no­te in the past, cre­ak only on eit­her si­de; not down the mid­dle.

  She des­cends di­rectly along the cen­ter in swift, fe­at­her-fo­oted si­len­ce, gra­ce­ful­ly ba­lan­ced wit­ho­ut ne­eding to grasp the ra­il. All tho­se bal­let les­sons she to­ok as a girl co­me in handy when it co­mes to sne­aking thro­ugh a sle­eping ho­use.

  It's ne­ar dawn he­re, but only past one on the West Co­ast. Bri­an will be up wat­c­hing Co­nan or Ba­se­ball To­night or wha­te­ver it is he stays up la­te to watch. She wo­uldn't know. Wo­uldn't ca­re, eit­her.

  What mat­ters is that she do­esn't ha­ve to wa­it un­til no­on to­mor­row to call and tell him abo­ut the de­ci­si­on she's ma­de.

  In the kit­c­hen, she pa­uses, clut­c­hing her cell pho­ne and the flas­h­light she ret­ri­eved from the uti­lity dra­wer. Then she pe­eks thro­ugh the win­dow and re­ali­zes that a ste­ady ra­in is fal­ling.

  Okay, so she won't ma­ke the call from out­si­de.

  But she can't do it right he­re in the kit­c­hen. Who knows what ti­me Nydia be­gins to stir, con­si­de­ring the un­godly ho­ur she go­es to bed, and the even mo­re un­godly ho­ur she's be­en ser­ving bre­ak­fast all the­se ye­ars.

  Nor sho­uld she go back to her ro­om; the di­vi­ding wall bet­we­en her ro­om and Li­an­na's is one of the few that isn't ma­de of plas­ter, and the last thi
ng she wants is to be over­he­ard.

  No, she's bet­ter off go­ing to the far par­lor, whe­re she'll be en­su­red of a pri­va­te con­ver­sa­ti­on be­hind clo­sed do­ors.

  It's not one she's lo­oking for­ward to, but now that she knows what she has to do, she owes it to Bri­an to tell him right away. Do­esn't she?

  It wo­uldn't be fa­ir to wa­it un­til she gets back to­mor­row night No, her flight gets in la­te, and by the ti­me she gets ho­me from the air­port and lo­oks in on Wills…

 

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