The Final Victim (18 page)

    
Phyllida
takes a few more tentative steps forward, until some winged creature abruptly departs an overhead branch with a rustling flutter.

    She stops short, her heart pounding.

    That's it.
Phyllida
won't venture any closer to the graveyard, and she certainly has no desire to venture past it.

    Night sounds reverberate from the thicket on the far side of the iron fence: crickets, frogs, owls, an ominous, occasional rustling in the undergrowth, a distant splashing sound from the marsh and tidal creeks.

    The current property line extends a little ways in. Beyond that line, to tile north and east, are acres upon acres of woods and wetlands that were once a part of the
Remingtons's
plantation.
Grandaddy
sold the entire parcel years ago to some developer, who had planned to build a sprawling condo community, until a vocal environmental group successfully challenged the plan. Now it's a wildlife refuge, protected in its natural state from further development.

    When
Phyllida
was a little girl and Daddy would bring them down to visit his family on the coastal island, she and her brother loved to explore the abandoned portion of the property, especially the remnants of slave cabins.

    It's hard to believe nobody kept a closer eye on them. But then again, Mother wasn't here to do it because she rarely came
South
. She said she didn't like the heat and humidity, but
Phyllida
suspected that in reality, she didn't like
Grandaddy
any more than he liked her.

    Back then, the undergrowth didn't seem this dense- or maybe it was, and
Phyllida
and her brother brazenly pushed their way through it anyway, not caring about things like mud, or rattlesnakes and gators.

    Charlotte cared. She never came with them. She might have been older, but she was always squeamish, not to mention afraid of everything, even the dark.

    Wanting to get this over with so she can go back to bed and maybe get some sleep at last,
Phyllida
flips open her cell phone, presses a speed dial button, and holds it against her ear, listening to it ring.

    "Hello?"

    Her throat clogged with emotion, she manages to say, "Mom? It's me."

    
"
Phyllida
?"

    "Yes…" She's crying, then. She can't help it.

    "What's wrong, Darling? What is it?"

    "He cut us out of the will.
Both me and Gib.
He left everything to Charlotte."

    On the other end of the phone, Susan Remington gasps.
"Oh, no!"

    "I'm afraid, Mommy,"
Phyllida
sobs. "What are we going to do now? We were all counting on that money… all of us."

    
"I know, I know…"
Her mother's voice is soothing. "Don't worry, sweetheart, we'll survive. We always have."

    "I know, but…" She sniffles. "I don't know how."

    "What does your brother say about this?"

    "That we're going to contest the will." 'That's my brilliant attorney son. That's
exacdy
what you'll do."

    Still sniffling,
Phyllida
wipes her eyes with the back of her hands, feeling better already. She knew she would, if she could just talk to her mother.

    Mommy always makes her feel better.

    "There, now, Darling, you just calm down and get some sleep. It's late."

    "I know."

    "Where's your brother? Is he there? Can I speak to him?"

    "He went out someplace,"
Phyllida
says truthfully,
then
adds, "please don't tell him I told you about the will, okay, Mom? He didn't want to worry you with it"

    
No, but I did.
Because I'm a big baby, incapable of dealing with anything on my own
.

    
Or so her brother liked to tell her, when they were younger.

    'That's my son," her mother says with affection.
"Always protective.
I wish he wouldn't worry about me."

    
Phyllida
bites back a comment.

    If her mother hasn't figured out by now that
Gib
worries about nobody other than
himself
, she never will.

    What on earth is
she
doing out here at this time of night?

    The arc of her flashlight swings dangerously close to the nook beside the back steps. Any second now, it might expose this hiding spot.

    
And then what?

    
That won't happen. Don't even think about it.

    Just hold your breath and don't move.

    Yes, but it's nearly impossible to stay motionless when
mosquitos
hover about one's exposed skin, landing and stinging in a frenzied blood feast.

    Giving in to the almost overwhelming desire to slap at an insect would cause quite a stir in the quiet evening, and undoubtedly make it necessary to extinguish the human pest as well, with considerably more bloodshed.

    That might be infinitely satisfying in the moment, but would pose an unnecessary risk, overall.

    
Why is she out here?

    Why am I out here?

    I'm exhausted after all that work on the cabin.

    This wasn't a good idea-this last-minute improvisation, courtesy of the unexpected codicil.

    
Oh? It will be a good idea if it works
.

    Yes, but… There had to be another way to do this.

    Her footsteps are coming ominously closer, each one marked by the distinct slapping of a rubber sole against her heel.

    
What if she sees me?

    What then?

    Then, whatever has to happen, will happen. That's all there is to it. She's certainly expendable.

    
Yes, but all in good time. Don't get overly anxious.

    Just stay still.

    She'll be gone momentarily.

    The flopping sound made by her shoes masks the sound of a long-held breath necessarily expelled in a hushed, quavering rush.

    Then she's gone, up the steps and disappearing into the darkened house with a faint creak of the outer screen door, and a quiet click of the lock on the solid inner one.

    She must think she's safe, turning that deadbolt.

    They all do, including Charlotte.

    None of the residents of
Oakgate
would dream that mere locks can't keep predators at bay. Not this predator, anyway.

    But now is not the time to prowl through the quiet house unnoticed.

    Now there's nobody outside to hear the soft padding of footsteps in the dewy grass, or the satisfying slapping of a carnivorous insect, or the probing of fingertips along the rough, wide ledge atop a raised basement window.

    There, tucked among the oyster shells that rise deceptively from the tabby surface, is the reason for this risky late-night sojourn.

    And once the items are tucked safely in hand, there's no further reason to linger in the shadows of the old plantation house.

    Not tonight, anyway.

    Around front, one last glance shows that all is still within; the windows that punctuate the facade are darkened, shades and draperies drawn.

    Then, high overhead, something flashes in the night.

    It takes a moment to realize that a light has come on, way up on the third floor.

    A shadow passes in front of one of the dormer windows; somebody is prowling about up there.

    Charlotte isn't surprised to find that she can't fall asleep.

    What is surprising is that her cousins have steered clear of her for the remainder of the afternoon and evening. She fully expected an ugly confrontation when she got home from Savannah, but there was no sign of
Phyllida
or
Gib
, though
Gib's
rental car in the driveway meant they were in the house somewhere.

    The ugly confrontation, for that matter, had already occurred-with
Lianna
.

    "I still can't believe it," she murmurs, mostly to herself, as she stares at the outline of the antique furniture across the room in the night-light's glow.

    Beside her, the bedsprings creak in response to her voice. Royce is still awake. She thought he'd drifted off when he stopped commenting earlier, as she went over and over what happened this afternoon.

    "I'm sorry," she tells him. "You should sleep. That's why we came to bed early… I know you have to get up early tomorrow for work. And here I am, keeping you up all night."

    "It's okay. I'm here." He yawns deeply.

    "I didn't even ask you how your meeting went," she realizes belatedly.

    "That's okay. You've got a lot going on." 'That's the understatement of the year."

    If she didn't have so much on her plate before this mess with
Lianna
, she would have remembered to call
Lianna
on her cell phone this afternoon to tell her she was on the way to Casey's house. Then she never would have stumbled upon that scene in the garden.

    
Which, in some ways, would have been a blessing.

    
Not that she isn't glad she nipped that little rendezvous in the bud when she did, but…

    It's just that life was much better before she realized that her only child lies to her face and does God knows what behind her back.

    "So how was it?" she asks Royce, knowing that he deserves her attention now that she's kept him awake for hours. "The meeting, I mean."

    "Oh, it was fine."

    "Did they like you, Royce?" ''Who doesn't?" he asks with a chuckle, then adds, when she remains silent, "I'm just kidding. You were supposed to laugh at that."

    "Oh, sorry…" She mentally backtracks over the last exchange, realizes what he said, and tells him, "It wasn't a joke, as far as I'm concerned. I've never come across anyone who doesn't like you."

    That's because you've never met Karen."

    
His ex-wife.

    "And if I had to guess, I'd say Vince isn't all that crazy about me, either," he adds good-naturedly. "But as I was saying, these guys I met today seemed to like me, so I'm 'I hoping I might get their on-site business."

    "That would be great."

    "It would."

    She's glad he doesn't elaborate. Normally, she takes an interest in his business dealings, but tonight she can dwell only on her own disastrous day.

    "How could she do that to me, Royce?"

    "If it's any consolation, I really don't think she meant to do anything to you."

    "She lied. She snuck around with that boy behind my back. And judging by the looks of things, this isn't the first time they ever laid eyes on each other.
Or hands."
Charlotte shudders, wishing she could block out the image of
Lianna
, her baby girl, with that trashy
Tinkston
boy pawing at her.

    "The only consolation is that she isn't pregnant," she adds darkly, rolling onto her side to face him. 'That I know of, anyway."

    "Of course she isn't pregnant" Royce touches her arm. "Charlotte, don't blow it up into anything it isn't. You said yourself that they were just kissing."

    "She was kissing. He was groping."

    "They're teenagers. It happens."

    "She's barely a teenager, and it's not allowed to happen to my daughter." Her voice has risen above a hysterical whisper, but she can't help herself.

    "Sweetheart, what she did was wrong," Royce says soothingly, "but it's over, and it's not going to happen again. We'll make sure of that. So don't obsess about it. You've got enough to worry about right now."

    She sighs. "Did you have to remind me?"

    "Sorry."

    Charlotte remains silent, turning her head restlessly on the goose down pillow, which seems to be deflating by the second. If she could just get comfortable, she might be able to fall asleep.

    
No, you won't. You're wired. You're not going to sleep tonight unless you take one of
Grandaddy
's
pills.

    She doesn't want to resort to that, though it's been tempting to sneak into his medicine cabinet on the sleepless nights that followed his death. She probably would have, if she could bring herself to walk into the bathroom where he died.

    "For what it's worth," Royce says around a yawn, "I don't think you should worry about the money, Charlotte. Your
Grandaddy
wanted you to have it, not your cousins. He must have had his reasons."

    "I can't imagine what they were. And I honestly don't think
Phyllida
and
Gib
have any idea, either."