by that's me
She's anxious to get back to him. But Aimee is there. She told Charlotte to take her time shopping and not worry about anything. He's in capable hands.
'That would be fine," Detective Dorado informs her, after conferring with somebody else in the room, probably Williamson. 'Just as long as you can get right over here. We don't want to delay this."
"I'm headed straight to the causeway," she promises, sliding into the driver's seat, the ice cream in back forgotten.
"Looks like the storm really is coming, Jeanne," Melanie comments from the window, which she just lowered to a crack to keep the rain from blowing in. "Tropical Storm Douglas. The sky is getting dark out over the water."
Jeanne nods.
"I don't think it'll be upgraded to a full-blown hurricane, though. At least, I hope not."
"So do I," Jeanne lies.
A hurricane would be wonderful, really. A hurricane that would flatten the whole darned place. Then it would no longer be in her hands.
Hers…
And Melanie's.
I can't do it without her help.
But she'll be happy to oblige, as she always is.
You know I'd do anything for you, hon…
Anything?
There's only one way to find out.
"Melanie," she says heavily, "I hate to send you out in this, but I need you to do something for me before the storm gets any worse."
With another high-pitched, desperate grunt, Phyllida slams her bare feet against the door.
It refuses to budge.
She sinks back in exhaustion, her legs raw and bleeding where they're bound at the ankles and knees with unforgiving nylon rope. It's the same with her wrists, bound behind her. And her shoulders and upper back throb unbearably after hours-days… weeks?-in this excruciating position.
She has no* idea how long it's been, or even where she's imprisoned. She only knows that she's in some kind of brick, windowless room, maybe a cellar or an underground bunker.
There's no food or water in the room, but it's far from empty.
The first tiling she found was her Grandaddy's antique radio, of all things. At least, she thinks that's what it is. She accidentally struck the object when she was rolling around the mud floor, in a futile search for…
Something. Anything that might help her to get out of here.
It was only when her fumbling fingertips found the big, old-fashioned dials that she realized what the object was-and that it was useless in terms of a possible means of escape.
She's simply trapped here in the dark, with the radio-and other things.
At first, she thought she had found a child's body. It would explain the fetid odor that hovers in the stagnant air.
Then she realized it was a doll.
There are three of them. Doll furniture, too.
She stopped exploring when her hand grazed what felt like a coiled snake, and waited in terror for it to strike.
But it didn't.
She isn't going to explore anymore. Not in the dark.
There's not even a hint of daylight around the perimeter of the only door; no way of sensing the passing of time… when she's even conscious to think about it.
Most of the time, she's out cold, which is a blessing.
Then she won't have to think about what happened to her… or of what might happen next.
But somebody has to be looking for her out there.
Brian will try to find her.
Once he realizes I'm missing. God only knows how long it's been.
Or even Charlotte… Charlotte might realize…
Please, Charlotte. Please open your eyes. Please take a look at what's going on right under your nose, for God's sake! Please!
But her cousin won't see it. Nobody will.
Not unless they stumble across it, as Phyllida did. And even when she saw the shocking truth, she couldn't quite process it, couldn't bring herself to believe her eyes. She just stood there, slack-jawed- Until something slammed into her, and everything went black.
If only I had fallen asleep that night…
If only I had gone out into the rain to call Brian…
If only I had decided to honor my marriage vows, and pick up the pieces instead of deciding to run away…
None of this would have happened.
She'd be safely at home in California, instead of waiting to be rescued from this living hell…
Or waiting to the at the sadistic hands of the last person she ever would have found menacing.
CHAPTER 16
"So what you're telling me," Charlotte looks from Dorado to Williamson and back again, "is that my cousin Gib is a drug addict?"
"For what it's worth, he says he's not an addict. He's a courier."
"Reliable as Federal Express," Williamson adds with a sardonic shake of his balding head. "Only they use trucks and envelopes, instead of commercial aircraft and fake hair spray containers."
Charlotte shakes her head, unable to believe Gib would actually smuggle drugs into the country from Mexico. "Why would he do something so stupid?"
"Cash," Dorado says. "That's usually the motive for anything, including attempted murder."
"So you don't think my cousin is the one who shot Royce?"
"We didn't say that… only that the alibi he gave us- his real alibi, not the original one he used-checked out. He was networking with some Colombian pals that night."
"Networking? What do you mean?"
"Savannah is a prime port city on the 1-95 corridor between Miami and Boston," Williamson informs her, as if that explains everything.
At her blank look, Dorado jumps in. "I guess he decided that Savannah was convenient for business and decided to try and drum up some while he was here- once he realized he wasn't going to fly home to Boston an instant multimillionaire, anyway."
Charlotte shakes her head, trying to absorb what they're telling her. "I thought he was a lawyer up North."
Williamson is shaking his head.
"So he's…just a drug smuggler? Did he really even go to law school?"
"Yes. But he blew through most of his trust fund when he got it, and he's been in debt for years," Dorado tells her. "He wound up going to a loan shark at some points, figuring that if he could just get the money up front and keep himself afloat, he could eventually bail himself out the old-fashioned way."
"By getting a job?" Charlotte asks, still not following.
"By inheriting millions," Dorado counters. "We think he was banking on your Grandaddy to kick the bucket the whole time he was in law school, and when that didn't happen…"
"He helped him along," Williamson supplies.
Dorado throws him a cautious glance. "Maybe."
"Maybe," the other detective echoes grudgingly.
"And not by his own hand. He really was in Mexico the night your grandfather died. We checked it out." 'Was he dealing drugs?" Met with twin nods
, Charlotte asks, "But why?"
"Why not? Fast, easy cash. Plus, he was a fine, upstanding citizen. Who would ever suspect him?"
"Not me," Charlotte murmurs, numb. "How did he do it?"
"It was a nice little gig," Williamson informs her, sounding like every detective on every cop show she's ever watched.
Except this is real. Chillingly, horrifyingly real.
"He'd jet down to Mexico-he even bought a nice timeshare down there-and come back with a pricey souvenir every time." Pausing to looking at her more closely, Dorado slides over the cup of water he poured her from the cooler when she first sat down. "Why don't you drink some of that?"
She shakes her head. "No, thanks, I'm-"
"Really. You should take a sip. You don't look like you're feeling that great."
"I'm just… I've been really tired the last few days." 'You've been through hell."
She nods. "I guess it's catching up with me."
"So listen to Florence Nightingale over here and drink some water," Williamson says gruffly, and ignores the dark look Dorado shoots in his direction.
As Charlotte sips, Williamson tells her, 'We're going to look more closely into your grandfather's death, Mrs. Maitland. And your husband's shooting."
"And your cousin is still our prime suspect," Dorado inserts.
"I thought you said he was in Mexico when Grandaddy died, and when Royce was shot, I thought he-"
"His alibis don't mean crap," Williams says, and adds, "pardon my French."
"He could have had an accomplice," Dorado tells her.
"Or hired a hit man," Williamson adds.
Charlotte looks from one detective to the other, utterly overwhelmed. "So what now?"
"So now we check out the alibis of anybody else who could have had the slightest motive to hurt Maitland," Williamson says, as much to his partner as to Charlotte.
"We've been trying to reach your ex-husband," Dorado informs her. "Do you have any idea where we can find him?"
It's all she can do not to squeeze the water right out of the cup in her clenched hand. "He lives in Jacksonville. You should check his apartment, I would think."
"No shit, Sherlock." That, of course, comes from the ever-eloquent Williamson.
Dorado elaborates, "We haven't tracked him down there yet. We'll go over the contact information again with you. We also need to speak to your cousin Phyllida. Is she still staying with you?"
Charlotte hesitates only briefly before shaking her head. "No, she was supposed to fly back to California Saturday night."
"Supposed to?"
"I'm assuming she did. But when I talked to her nanny yesterday, she hadn't come home yet. They said she wasn't on the flight."
Again, {he detectives exchange a glance. Dorado asks for the flight information.
"How was their marriage?" Williamson wants to know.
"Not great, I don't think."
"Would you be surprised if your cousin Phyllida lied to her husband, or you, about where she was going?"
Charlotte contemplates that and finds herself relieved at the possible explanation for Phyllida's whereabouts. Maybe she's having an affair or something. "I wouldn't be surprised at all."
"Would you be surprised if she was a conspirator with her brother to harm you, your husband, or your grandfather?"
"Not really, no." Nothing would surprise her at this point.
Not even if she was to find out that Grandaddy had discovered what they were up to, and so wrote them out of the will because of it.
What doesn't make sense, if that was true, is his failure to confront Gib and Phyllida about it.
Unless he did.
But why wouldn't he go to the authorities?
Williamson is moving on brusquely, as if he's ticking off a mental checklist. "I understand your husband also has an ex-wife in New Orleans?"
She nods, her thoughts tumbling over each other like shells in an incoming tide. "But I don't know her address or her number off the top of my head."
"We'll get it. What about his daughter?" Dorado asks, hand poised on his notepad.
"She'd know it, but-"
"No, I realize that she'd know where to reach her mother. What I'm asking is whether she would have had any reason to hurt her father."
"None at all. And anyway, she was in New Orleans when he was shot."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I called her there several times after it happened to-"
"Land line or cell phone?"
She frowns. "Cell phone."
"She could have been anywhere, Mrs. Maitland."
"No, she flew in."
"After it happened?"
"Yes, the next morning."
"Did you pick her up from the airport?"
"No, she took a cab, but I saw her luggage," she adds knowing they're about to tell her the cab doesn't prove Aimee even came from the airport.
She closes her eyes, then triumphantly tells them, "I remember, she had checked the suitcase. There was a white baggage claim tag folded around the handle. I remember because I asked her about checking it."
"Did you notice the date on it?"
"No, but it did say ATL-SAV. My husband's luggage always says the same thing when he gets back."
"It could have been an old tag of his, then."
She vacillates for a troubled moment, wondering if Aimee could have possibly- "Wait!" she says, remembering. "I'm positive she was in the airport, in New Orleans. I heard the announcement for her flight boarding that morning while I was talking to her."
The detectives look at each other. "Do you remember which flight it was?"
She nods, pleased with herself. "Delta. Connecting through Atlanta. That's why I remember the announcement, because my husband has taken that same flight when he comes back from visiting her."
"So he visits her a lot?" Williamson asks, while Dorado jots down the flight information.
"He does now."
Too late, she realizes what she said.
"I mean, he does." She nods vehemently. "They get along very well."
"But there was trouble between them in the past?"
"Detective, my husband lost his son, Aimee's little brother, a few years ago. It just about ripped his family apart. He and his wife and daughter-well, they had to blame somebody. I know what that's like. Royce blamed himself. So did Aimee and Karen."
It's Williamson who breaks the uncomfortable silence.
"We'll need to check out your stepdaughter's alibi, Mrs. Maitland."
"It'll be our first priority," Dorado promises. "We'll make sure she really was on that flight. If she was, then you have nothing to worry about."
"She was," Charlotte tells him, lifting her chin resolutely.
But God knows she has everything to worry about.
Aimee… Karen… Vince…
They're going to put everyo�
�ne who has anything to do with the Remington family under a microscope.
And God only knows what they're going to find.
