The Final Victim

by that's me

  "I re­ali­ze that." Gib's to­ne is sul­len.

  Standing over him, Tyler slaps his hands, hard, on the tab­le and lo­wers his fa­ce to Gib's le­vel. "If I'm go­ing to even con­si­der be­ing re­mo­tely in­vol­ved in yo­ur de­fen­se from he­re on in-and I'll say right now that it isn't lo­oking li­kely that I am-you're go­ing to tell me ever­y­t­hing you know abo­ut yo­ur gran­d­fat­her's de­ath. Got it?"

  "I'm not go­ing to say an­y­t­hing to you that I didn't al­re­ady say in front of them," is the wrat­h­ful res­pon­se, as Gib jerks his he­ad in the di­rec­ti­on of the do­or thro­ugh which the two de­tec­ti­ves had just de­par­ted. 'This who­le thing is bul­lshit."

  "Watch yo­ur ton­gue," Tyler says sharply.

  To his cre­dit, Gib apo­lo­gi­zes.

  "I ho­pe you know that I'm this clo­se to wal­king out of he­re." Tyler pres­ses his thumb and in­dex fin­ger to­get­her and thrusts his hand in­to Gib's fa­ce.

  "Please don't." Slum­ped in his se­at, ap­pe­aring mo­re ex­ha­us­ted than de­j­ec­ted, he tells Tyler, "I just can't be­li­eve they're trying to pin this on me, now, too."

  "Who?"

  "The de­tec­ti­ves, who el­se? Just li­ke they plan­ted tho­se sho­es, shirt, and cuf­flink in my ro­om."

  Tyler says not­hing, ha­ving he­ard that lu­dic­ro­us cla­im re­pe­atedly ever sin­ce Gib's ar­rest.

  He aga­in he­ars an ec­ho of his own vo­ice, so long ago.

  I don't know how the ci­ga­ret­tes got in­to my ro­om, He­ad­mas­ter Swift. I didn't put them the­re.

  I don't know how the an­s­wer key got et­c­hed on­to my desk, Mr. An­der­son. So­me­body in anot­her sec­ti­on must ha­ve left it the­re.

  "My gran­d­fat­her had a he­art at­tack," Gib go­es on, ga­zing at the Per­si­an car­pet. "We all saw the autopsy re­port."

  "And we all know that car­di­ac ar­rest can mask ot­her things." At le­ast, they know that now, thanks to Wil­li­am­son's ever-in­for­ma­ti­ve spi­el.

  "We al­so know"-as Wil­li­am­son al­so po­in­ted out- "that bo­di­es can be ex­hu­med for a num­ber of re­asons, not the le­ast of which is sus­pec­ted mur­der."

  Gib's he­ad is still bent. He do­esn't flinch. It's im­pos­sib­le to ga­uge his re­ac­ti­on to that news, but Tyler wo­uld sta­ke a hefty bet that the­re was one.

  What Gib do­esn't grasp-but what Tyler has co­me to re­ali­ze, ha­ving spo­ken with the de­tec­ti­ves pri­or to the con­f­ron­ta­ti­on-is that Wil­li­am­son and Do­ra­do are ope­ra­ting pu­rely on a hunch.

  There's no evi­den­ce that Gil­bert Re­min­g­ton's de­ath was an­y­t­hing but ac­ci­den­tal. But in chec­king out all the ave­nu­es le­ading to Gib's pos­sib­le mo­ti­va­ti­on for Roy­ce Ma­it­land's sho­oting, the de­tec­ti­ves aren't abo­ut to avo­id this one.

  As Do­ra­do put it, it's aw­ful­ly co­in­ci­den­tal that the old man di­ed just a few we­eks be­fo­re Roy­ce Ma­it­land was shot, and that the as­sa­ult oc­cur­red shortly af­ter Gib le­ar­ned for the first ti­me that he had be­en di­sin­he­ri­ted.

  He was wil­ling to do an­y­t­hing to get his hands on that mo­ney, Do­ra­do told Tyler.

  And Tyler co­uldn't bring him­self to ar­gue the po­int.

  Having wit­nes­sed Gib's re­ac­ti­on to the will that day in his of­fi­ce, Tyler has no do­ubt that his sur­p­ri­se was as ge­nu­ine as his dis­may, which tran­s­for­med right be­fo­re the at­tor­ney's eyes to full-blown ra­ge.

  Tyler, of an­yo­ne, saw fir­s­t­hand how much that mo­ney me­ant to Gib.

  Tempted as he is to walk out of he­re and ne­ver lo­ok back, Tyler ne­eds to ta­ke ca­re of a few de­ta­ils first. The­re's no tel­ling what might co­me to light if the­re's an en­su­ing in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on in­to Gil­bert's de­ath-and his li­fe.

  He owes it to his la­te fri­end-and to the me­mory of the Tel­fa­ir Trio-to at le­ast at­tempt to une­arth the truth that li­es be­ne­ath this la­test Re­min­g­ton ca­la­mity, whi­le ma­king every ef­fort to ke­ep the ne­ar-miss of the past sa­fely bu­ri­ed, whe­re it be­longs.

  That do­esn't me­an he's go­ing to rep­re­sent Gil­bert's gran­d­son in co­urt. But per­haps he can help him lo­ca­te a cri­mi­nal law­yer who has no po­ten­ti­al con­f­lict of in­te­rest-and not­hing per­so­nal to lo­se.

  No mat­ter the even­tu­al out­co­me… whic­he­ver way this turns out-whet­her Gib is exo­ne­ra­ted or pro­ven gu­il­ty-Ty­ler's lo­yalty to Gil­bert will re­ma­in un­se­ve­red.

  Yes, he thinks, but if the­re re­al­ly is the slig­h­test bit of hard evi­den­ce that Gil­bert's de­ath was an­y­t­hing ot­her than from na­tu­ral ca­uses…

  Then Gib Re­min­g­ton is en­ti­rely on his own.

  Rounding the cor­ner in­to the kit­c­hen, Char­lot­te ne­arly slams in­to so­me­one.

  "Oh, I'm sorry!" Aunt Je­an­ne's nur­se ex­c­la­ims, ta­king a big step back, clut­c­hing a ste­aming mug. "I'm so glad I didn't burn you!"

  Surprised to see her, Char­lot­te asks, "What are you do­ing he­re?" 'Just fi­xing yo­ur aunt so­me hot co­coa. Not the kind from the mix. I bro­ught ever­y­t­hing to ma­ke it from scratch. She li­kes a ni­ce hot drink in the af­ter­no­on, and she was tel­ling me that her mot­her used to ma­ke it for her that way when she was a lit­tle girl, so I-"

  "No," Char­lot­te cuts in, not in the mo­od for id­le chit­c­hat, "I me­ant, what are you do­ing wor­king to­day? I tho­ught Sun­day was yo­ur day off."

  Melanie lo­wers her ga­ze to the mug. "It is. I just tho­ught yo­ur aunt ne­eded me he­re to­day. She's be­en so down, so it se­emed li­ke a go­od idea to co­me."

  Charlotte di­gests this news with a twin­ge of gu­ilt- she has neg­lec­ted her el­derly aunt the­se last few we­eks, with all that's go­ne on-but al­so with a speck of sus­pi­ci­on.

  It's not as tho­ugh she can't af­ford to pay the nur­se over­ti­me. But that wasn't part of the ori­gi­nal ar­ran­ge­ment ma­de by Gran­dad­dy, and she can't help but won­der if Miss Sun­s­hi­ne, he­re, might not be a bit mo­re shrewd than she co­mes ac­ross.

  "Melanie," she says, af­ter con­tem­p­la­ting the best phra­sing, "my gran­d­fat­her had bud­ge­ted Aunt Je­an­ne's,ca­re and un­til I can lo­ok mo­re clo­sely in­to her da­ily ne­eds to see if that war­rants a chan­ge, I'm af­ra­id-"

  "Oh, you think I'm he­re to­day for the mo­ney? Don't worry, Mrs. Ma­it­land. I wasn't ex­pec­ting to get pa­id. I'm just vi­si­ting."

  Really? Or are you an op­por­tu­nist who cle­verly shifts ge­ars when put on a spot? Char­lot­te won­ders as she lo­oks in­to Me­la­nie's big, se­emingly ear­nest, blue eyes.

  She de­ci­des to ke­ep her sus­pi­ci­ons to her­self, at le­ast for now. "Well, it cer­ta­inly is ni­ce of you to gi­ve up yo­ur day off," is all she says.

  "Oh, I don't mind at all. Yo­ur aunt is such a won­der­ful wo­man. I lo­ve spen­ding ti­me with her." Me­la­nie's to­ne isn't the le­ast bit rep­ro­ac­h­ful, but Char­lot­te gets the si­lent mes­sa­ge lo­ud and cle­ar.

  I lo­ve spen­ding ti­me with her.,. and so sho­uld you.

  "Well, thanks," she mur­murs to Me­la­nie, re­sol­ving to pop up­s­ta­irs la­ter to see her aunt.

  "You lo­ok re­al­ly ni­ce to­day, Mrs. Ma­it­land. That co­lor lo­oks gre­at on you."

  "Thank you."

  "And whe­re did you get tho­se sho­es? They're dar­ling!"

  Charlotte re­pe­ats her gra­ti­tu­de, and tells Me­la­nie she do­esn't re­mem­ber whe­re she bo­ught the sho­es- which isn't the truth. They we­re pur­c­ha­sed at a bo­uti­que whe­re the le­ast ex­pen­si­ve item wo­uld cost se­ve­ral we­eks' worth of Me­la­nie's ho­urly wa­ge.

  "Are you go­ing so­mep­la­ce spe­ci­al?" the nur­se chat­
ters on.

  "Oh, I was go­ing to he­ad to church, and-" She slaps her he­ad, re­mem­be­ring.

  "What is it?" I me­ant to get so­me in­g­re­di­ents at the su­per­mar­ket for a se­afo­od re­ci­pe I'm ma­king for my hus­band, that's all."

  "Would you li­ke me to run out for you?"

  "No, that's okay, you don't ha­ve to do that."

  "I re­al­ly wo­uldn't mind. I lo­ve be­ing out and abo­ut! Es­pe­ci­al­ly when the sun is shi­ning and the birds are sin­ging, li­ke to­day."

  Sometimes, Char­lot­te thinks, Me­la­nie's bubbly de­me­anor is a lit­tle hard to sto­mach.

  "Really," Char­lot­te as­su­res her, "that's okay. I'll go to the sto­re la­ter, or to­mor­row. But thanks an­y­way."

  "You're very wel­co­me!"

  The nur­se is le­aving the ro­om when, as an af­ter­t­ho­ught, Char­lot­te calls, "Me­la­nie?"

  "Yes?" She lo­oks ex­pec­tantly over her sho­ul­der with a ja­unty swing of her long blond pon­y­ta­il.

  "Have you se­en an old ra­dio up­s­ta­irs?"

  "Oh!" Ha­ving tur­ned aro­und too qu­ickly, Me­la­nie ac­ci­den­tal­ly slos­hed co­coa over the rim of the cup on­to her fin­gers. "I'm sorry, that that was re­al­ly hot! What did you want to know?"

  Charlotte re­pe­ats the qu­es­ti­on, wat­c­hing the nur­se set down the cup, cross to the sink, and rin­se her hand un­der cold wa­ter.

  "No, I ha­ven't se­en an­y­t­hing on the third flo­or, but I'll ask yo­ur Aunt Je­an­ne abo­ut it when I go back up."

  Charlotte dis­mis­ses that no­ti­on with a wa­ve of her hand. "Oh, that's all right She pro­bably won't even know which ra­dio I'm tal­king abo­ut."

  "You might be sur­p­ri­sed." Me­la­nie turns off the tap and dri­es her hands on a dish to­wel. "Yo­ur aunt re­mem­bers mo­re than y'all think."

  As the nur­se ret­ri­eves the hot co­coa and le­aves the ro­om, her last words ring in Char­lot­te's ears.

  Your aunt re­mem­bers mo­re than y 'all think.

  She can't help but find the com­ment omi­no­us, whet­her it was in­ten­ded to be, or not.

  "You he­ard what I told the de­tec­ti­ves. I wasn't even in Sa­van­nah the night it hap­pe­ned. I was in Me­xi­co, on va­ca­ti­on."

  "I he­ard you, Gib," Tyler ac­k­now­led­ges, tap­ping his black wing tip im­pa­ti­ently on the Per­si­an car­pet, "and I was a lit­tle ta­ken aback that you we­re ab­le to re­call in a split se­cond yo­ur exact whe­re­abo­uts on a spe­ci­fic da­te we­eks ago wit­ho­ut even glan­cing at a ca­len­dar."

  "I didn't ne­ed to. It was a me­mo­rab­le trip, and I was in the com­pany of a very me­mo­rab­le wo­man when Char­lot­te cal­led abo­ut Gran­dad­dy."

  "Where we­re you?"

  "In the air­port. Char­lot­te can vo­uch for that if you talk to her. I re­mem­ber the bac­k­g­ro­und no­ise was so bad I co­uld ba­rely he­ar her."

  "What abo­ut yo­ur lady fri­end? Can I talk to her?"

  Gib he­si­ta­tes be­fo­re an­s­we­ring. Just for a split se­cond, but it's long eno­ugh to spark fur­t­her sus­pi­ci­on in Tyler's mind.

  "Sure," Gib says, "talk to her any ti­me you want. Her na­me is Cas­san­d­ra."

  Pulling out a pen, Tyler asks for her last na­me and pho­ne num­ber, which Gib promptly cla­ims not to know.

  "You don't ha­ve her te­lep­ho­ne num­ber?" Tyler asks in dis­be­li­ef. "Co­me on, Gib."

  "I ha­ve it," Gib scowls, "but not he­re. Un­for­tu­na­tely I didn't ha­ve a chan­ce to grab my lit­tle black bo­ok be­fo­re I left the ho­use."

  Having had just abo­ut eno­ugh of Glib Gib, Tyler puts away his pen. With luck, she'll be in the Bos­ton pho­ne lis­tings; if not, he'll com­man­de­er Gib's cell pho­ne-the mo­dern-day equ­iva­lent of a lit­tle black bo­ok-which, co­me to think of it, must al­re­ady be in po­li­ce pos­ses­si­on.

  Dammit. Tyler simply wasn't cut out for cri­mi­nal law, even at this sta­ge of the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on. May­be he sho­uld cut his los­ses and re­fu­se to ha­ve an­y­t­hing fur­t­her to do with this.

  The tro­ub­le is, he's nod just he­re out of le­gal ob­li­ga­ti­on, or even lo­yalty to Gil­bert. He's he­re, too, be­ca­use of what he did. He and Si­las Ne­vil­le, all tho­se ye­ars ago. Not just out of fri­en­d­s­hip and lo­yalty. They we­ren't im­mu­ne to the de­adly sins they le­ar­ned abo­ut in Bib­le Scho­ol many ye­ars ago: gre­ed was al­so a fac­tor. Gil­bert com­pen­sa­ted them well for the­ir risk.

  So, yes, Tyler Haw­t­hor­ne has so­met­hing at sta­ke, sho­uld the po­li­ce start lo­oking for ske­le­tons in the Re­min­g­ton clo­sets.

  So he wants to know-no, ne­eds to know-if Gib Re­min­g­ton's gre­ed co­uld ha­ve pos­sibly pus­hed him as far as mur­der.

  If he we­re a bet­ting man, and in­c­li­ned to lis­ten to his own in­tu­iti­on, he'd say no.

  But he's a prag­ma­tic at­tor­ney, and the evi­den­ce se­ems to say yes.

  "This Cas­san­d­ra," he asks Gib, "do­es she li­ve in Bos­ton pro­per? Or in the su­burbs?"

  Again, the slight he­si­ta­ti­on.

  "You don't know," Tyler says flatly, "is that what you're go­ing to tell me? You went to Me­xi­co with this wo­man and you don't even know whe­re she li­ves? And you ex­pect me to be­li­eve that?"

  Tyler wo­uld lo­ve to slap the in­so­lent lo­ok off Gib's han­d­so­me fa­ce.

  Then the yo­un­ger man unex­pec­tedly ad­mits, "I didn't go to Me­xi­co with her. I just met her in the air­port."

  "Who did you go to Me­xi­co with, then?" "I went alo­ne."

  "You ex­pect me to be­li­eve that?" "It's the truth."

  No, it isn't, Tyler thinks, wat­c­hing his cli­ent in­tently. It isn 't the who­le truth, an­y­way.

  A fe­ma­le vo­ice an­s­wers the pho­ne with "Har­per re­si­den­ce" on the first ring, but it do­esn't be­long to Phylli­da.

  Charlotte asks for her, go­ing over aga­in in her mind exactly how she's go­ing to phra­se her qu­es­ti­on abo­ut the ra­dio. She de­ci­ded not to ma­ke it a con­f­ron­ta­ti­on, as tem­p­ting as that is. No, it sho­uld be mo­re of a… qu­ery, li­ke a ca­su­al, You wo­uldn't hap­pen to know whe­re Gran­dad­dy 's ra­dio is, wo­uld you?

  She won't even jump right in with that; first, she'll ask abo­ut the flight last night and apo­lo­gi­ze for not ha­ving had a chan­ce to say go­od-bye.

  Yes, it's a go­od idea to re­ma­in ci­vi­li­zed. As Char­lot­te's mot­her al­ways used to say, "You catch mo­re fli­es with ho­ney…"

  "Mrs. Har­per isn't he­re," the vo­ice says, ef­fec­ti­vely bur­s­ting her bub­ble-for now. "Mr. Har­per isn't, eit­her. Who's cal­ling, ple­ase?"

  'This is her co­usin Char­lot­te. Who is this?"

  "Lila-I'm Wills's nanny," the wo­man says ed­gily, be­fo­re blur­ting, "Are you in Ge­or­gia? That co­usin?"

  "Yes…"

  "Mr. Har­per has be­en trying to call you all mor­ning. He tri­ed yes­ter­day, too. He tho­ught so­met­hing must ha­ve hap­pe­ned to the pho­ne be­ca­use we saw on the We­at­her Chan­nel the­re was a hur­ri­ca­ne co­ming-"

  "You me­an the tro­pi­cal storm? No, that hasn't hit yet. We've just had ra­in-"

  "Well, we saw the­re we­re flight de­lays, and whe­ne­ver he tri­ed to get thro­ugh to you, the re­cor­ding kept sa­ying the pho­ne was out of ser­vi­ce."

  "Oh-the num­ber's be­en chan­ged." And I wo­uld ha­ve told you if I had se­en you, but you didn't even bot­her to say go­od-bye, she men­tal­ly scolds Phylli­da.

  Then, re­ali­zing what Li­la just sa­id, she asks, puz­zled, "Why has Bri­an be­en trying to call me all mor­ning?"

  "He wasn't trying to call you-he was trying to get Mrs. Har­per on the pho­ne. He's be­en le­aving vo­ice ma­ils for he
r, too, but she isn't pic­king up her cell pho­ne."

  Charlotte frowns. "You me­an she isn't the­re? In Ca­li­for­nia?"

  "No. Isn't she the­re?"

  "No. At le­ast, I don't think so. I ha­ven't se­en her." 'Mr. Har­per is wor­ri­ed sick, and po­or lit­tle Wills ke­eps as­king whe­re his mommy is… When he wo­ke up Sa­tur­day mor­ning I told him she was co­ming back that night. Mr. Har­per even bro­ught him to the air­port, even tho­ugh the flight was sche­du­led to get in so la­te… but no Mommy."