The Final Victim (13 page)

    
Poor, poor child of divorce
, she tells herself-mockingly, yet the words sting.

    Struck by a sudden, fierce longing for her father, she wishes she had told Mom earlier that before he left the funeral reception last week, he promised to visit next weekend… and that
Lianna
wants to stay with him while he's here. He always stays at the same place: the Shark's Tooth Inn on the southernmost tip of the island.

    She figures he won't mind having her stay there, too. Especially since that will mean he won't have to keep dealing with Mom and her rules.

    Now isn't the time for
Lianna
to bring it up to her mother, but she will, first chance she gets.

    
Right,
and Mom will have that tight-lipped expression she gets every time
Lianna
brings up her dad.

    Why does Mom hate him so much? Why can't she see that her nasty attitude keeps her ex-husband away, not just from her-which is how she wants it-but from his daughter as well?

    It isn't fair.

    I need him. He's my dad.

    
Lianna
turns to look out the car window at the dense, graying sky beyond the rooftops. Raindrops threaten to fall any second now, as do
her own
tears.

    "Listen, go have fun with your friend," her mother tells her unexpectedly, and leans over to peck her on the cheek.

    
Lianna
doesn't mean to brush away the kiss as if it was a pesky fly.

    But she does. She can't help herself.

    The instant hurt in Mom's expression sends
Lianna
scrambling for the door handle.

    As luck would have it, Tyler happened to be recuperating in the hospital from a car accident when Gilbert Remington changed his will last winter. His grand-nephew, Jameson, a new partner in the firm, handled it in his absence.

    By the time Tyler realized what had
happened,
the new will was completed and signed.

    At that point, it wasn't necessarily Tyler's place to question a client's decision to all but disinherit two of his three heirs. He did so anyway, in part because Gilbert was a close friend; but mostly because Gilbert was always adamant that his estate be divided equally among the remaining
Remingtons
, regardless of his feelings for them.

    Something drastic must have happened to change his mind. Tyler couldn't deny being curious about a possible rift in Savannah's most prominent family.

    So he picked up the phone and called.

    He fully expected Gilbert to brush him off in his usual brusque manner, but his friend seemed oddly subdued as they exchanged initial niceties that day.

    When Tyler brought up the will, he drawled, "I knew I'd be hearing from you about it, Tyler. If you didn't croak, that is."

    Ah, that zinger was more like the cantankerous old SOB.

    "No, I'm alive and well-for the time being, anyway, according to my doctor. And thank you for the fruit basket." A personal note, let alone a visit, would have been nicer, but Gilbert never was the warm-fuzzy type. 1 don't plan on going anywhere anytime soon," Tyler went on, "and I'm sure you don't either, Gilbert."

    No reply.

    "But when you do… I see that you're essentially leaving everything to-"

    "Don't question me, Tyler. You didn't give me grief when I eliminated
Xavy's
wife after he passed away."

    "No," Tyler told him, "but that was different, Gilbert."

    
"How?"

    "This involves your own flesh and blood."

    It was no secret that Gilbert wasn't particularly fond of his daughter-in-law Susan. He never did take kindly to '
Yankees,"
and he merely tolerated her from the moment his son brought her home.

    Not that he ever had much
use
for his other daughter- I in-law, a fragile, petulant Southern belle who grew up on
Achoco
Island. He'd probably have gone to the trouble to write out Connie June as well, if she hadn't already been terminally ill at that point.

    In fact, Tyler recalls that at the time he was touched I by Gilbert's concern over her health, particularly toward the end. Gilbert flew in specialists to treat her and when that failed, hired the best private hospice nurses his money could buy. He arranged for fresh flower arrangements to be delivered daily to her bedside, and ordered in bulk any foods she could manage to keep down.

    As Tyler saw it then, the overly solicitous behavior was most likely in deference to Connie June's daughter.

    Either that, or in his twilight years the old man was starting to soften… a suggestion he'd have taken as an accusation, not a compliment, should Tyler ever have brought it up.

    
Which he wouldn't.

    Even if he hadn't eventually learned the real, and shocking, reason for Gilbert's solicitous behavior toward Connie June, the final change Gilbert made to his will would certainly have ultimately proven he wasn't softening with age.

    Rather, it would seem to indicate the opposite. "You know it's my job as your attorney to ensure that you were of sound mind and body when you made these latest changes," Tyler told Gilbert.

    "Your nephew must have decided that I was, because he didn't have a problem with the new will when he drew it up."

    "He doesn't know you the way I do."

    Gilbert snorted at that.

    As if to say,
You
don't know me at all, Tyler
.

    Still…

    "Why didn't you wait for me to come back before you made the changes?"

    "At our age, Tyler, who has time to wait?"

    "You could at least have consulted me."

    "You were lying in a hospital bed." Gilbert's tone was surprisingly subdued. "How could I do that to you?"

    "What did your family do to piss you off, might I ask?"

    "You might," Gilbert shot back, his lapse into kindly consideration unsurprisingly temporary, "but I don't have to answer, you nosy son of a bitch."

    It was hardly the first time in Tyler's life that Gilbert had called him that-usually with utmost affection. But this time, it was hardly a term of endearment.

    What on earth could have happened? Obviously, something earth-shattering enough to cause Gilbert to set aside his typically pragmatic approach to family finance.

    "You have to know all hell is going to break loose when your family finds out what you've done."

    "I won't be there to see it," was Gilbert's succinct response.

    "No, but I will."

    "Look on the bright side, Tyler. Maybe you'll get lucky and check out after I do."

    "I doubt that. I've always thought you were going to live forever," he replied, only half-kidding.

    "Then neither of us has anything to worry about, do we?"

    Maybe you don't
, Tyler thinks now, gazing at the legal document waiting on his desk.
But I most certainly do.

    The will is bound to be messily contested.

    What the hell was Gilbert thinking?

    The Magnolia Clinic is conveniently located in the shadows of Highway 16, just off the exit ramp. Mimi has no problem finding it, just as Dr. Redmond's nurse promised when she called this morning to summon them.

    Everything about this place is depressing, from the unadorned, yellow-brick facade to the rusty chain-link and barbed wire fence that rings the parking lot. There is nary a magnolia in sight. Most of the cars here, including those with MD license plates, are older domestic models, many in some form of disrepair, mute testimony to the economic level of clientele and staff.

    But this is where the
Johnstons
have landed, courtesy of a nonexistent insurance plan and a virtually empty bank account.

    "I'm going to have to park pretty far away from the door. Do you want me to go get a wheelchair?" she asks Jed, when they find themselves circling the lot a second time.

    "No. I'll walk."

    She opens her mouth to protest, but thinks better of it. He hates being treated like an invalid. He's been through enough of that lately, and who knows what lies ahead?

    After collapsing at work and being rushed to Candler General's ER with unbearable stomach pain, poor Jed spent a miserable week in a hospital bed. He was hooked up to an IV, injected and scanned and drained of various fluids as gastroenterology specialists attempted to determine the cause of his illness.

    Now, presumably, they know.

    And
it's
news that needs to be delivered in person.

    Which means it can't be good.

    This is just like what happened with Daddy…

    No, don't go there
, Mimi warns herself, turning into a fortuitously vacant spot beneath the parking lot's lone shade tree, a straggly-looking oak.

    
Don't think ahead. Don't even consider that. Daddy was a time bomb; he smoked three packs a day. Jed doesn't even-

   
"Stop
! "
Jed calls sharply.

    She slams on the brakes and looks at him in hopelessness, wondering how on earth she's going to coax him into going in to face the prognosis. He didn't want to come, doesn't want to know.

    When he's spoken at all in the hours since the doctor's nurse called to summon them here, it's to voice his intent to steal a boat and hurtle himself overboard far out in the Atlantic the next time a storm blows in.

    I swear, Mimi, if that doctor tells me something's really wrong with me, I'm not going to sit here and
the a
slow death…

    "Jed, I know this is hard," she says gently, her hands trembling on the steering wheel, foot frozen on the brake, "but we can get through it, whatever-"

    "Broken glass," he interrupts.

    She stares at him. Now he's incoherent
How
on earth is she going to get him to- "There." He points to the parking space she was about to take. Shards of a brown glass bottle are strewn with other litter between the parallel white lines. "Don't pull in. You'll slash the tires."

    "Oh." She swallows hard, shifts into reverse.

    Slashed tires can be patched, replaced. Slashed tires are so easy, really, in the grand scheme of things; ridiculously simple to remedy.

    "I'll find another spot," she manages to say around the lump in her throat as she eases the car back into the midday sun's full glare on the asphalt.

    "Or we could just leave. We could go pick up Cam from your mother's and get the hell out of here."

    "And go where?"

    "Who the hell cares? California. Hawaii. Europe. You've always wanted to go to Europe. You would have, I if it weren't for me."

    "Don't say that!"

    
"Why not?
It's true. If you hadn't stayed on the island and married me, you would have eventually found your way back to college and finished your degree."

    "Stop it
That's
not true!"

    
Yes, it is. You know it is. But it doesn't even matter. You never second-guessed your choice
.

    The sunny parking lot disappears behind a watery haze of tears. 'Jed, we'll go to Europe.
Maybe next spring.
We'll plan a trip."

    He's silent.

    
Next spring.

    
Please let us have next spring.

    And the one after that…

    Please let us have time.

    
Heart pounding in dread, she pulls blindly into a parking spot and turns off the engine.

    "Ready?" she asks-and instantly regrets it. What a foolish thing to ask.

    He merely shrugs.

    Slowly, hand in hand, the way they used to toddle down
Achoco
Beach as children, they walk toward the clinic to hear the doctor's verdict.

    '"Bye,"
Lianna
calls over her shoulder, bolting from the car, her own guilt, and mainly, her mother.

    She half-expects Mom to take off as well, tires shrieking. She wouldn't blame her.

    But the car remains, engine idling, as
Lianna
scurries up the walk leading to Casey's family's red brick Colonial. Why? Is Mom going to come after her to apologize, or yell at her some more? Or, uh-oh, is she suspicious?

    Liana forces herself to turn and give a quick wave to show that everything is all right
Looking
into the bright sunlight, she can't see into the car.
Which is fine with her.

    
Go on, Mom. Leave, would you? Just get out of here
.

   
It isn't until
Lianna
has disappeared through the wrought iron side gate that leads along a shade-dappled path, and slammed it firmly behind her, that she hears the Lexus pull away.

  
 
Good riddance.
Geez.