The Final Victim (19 page)

    "Oh, I don't know about that."

    "They were as shocked as I was, Royce. I saw the looks on their faces. And they both swore up and down to Tyler they had no idea why
Grandaddy
would have done this."

    "Do you honestly think they'd admit it if they did know?"

    "I don't know." She pauses, mulling that over. Td
like
to think so, but-"

    "But you're willing to believe they might not be telling the whole truth?"

    Reluctantly, she says, "I guess so. I mean, obviously, I'm not terrific at spotting a liar. Look at the way my own daughter pulled the wool over my eyes. Maybe my cousins are doing the same thing. Maybe they know exactly why he changed the will, but they're not admitting it because they're planning to have it contested."

    "Which is going to be hard on everyone," Royce points out grimly.

    "No kidding." Charlotte sits up, plumping the pillows in a frustrated effort to get comfortable. "Everyone in Savannah is going to know about this before they're through. Do you know what people are going to be saying about
Grandaddy
? And me?"

    
"And your cousins, for that matter."

    
"Right.
Oh, Lord, I wish I could just pay them two-thirds of my inheritance, and make this whole mess go away."

    "What's stopping you?"

    Charlotte immediately goes still. "What do you mean?" 'Just write them each a check and get it over with, if that's what you want to do."

    She remains silent.

    "It would make the mess go away," Royce tells her. "
Which is what you want.
And we both said before, the money isn't going to change anything for us. We were doing just fine without it."

    "I know-"

    "So take your third of it, and we'll put it away, and give the rest to
Phyllida
and Gib. Or give them the whole damned fortune if you want. It's only money. It'll save everyone a whole lot of trouble."

    She contemplates the suggestion. It can't be that easy.

    "What's the matter?" Royce asks, after a long minute. "Don't you want to make this go away?"

    "It's tempting, but I don't think it's a good idea," she tells him, unable to put her finger on just why.

    "Because it isn't what your grandfather wanted, right? He cut your cousins out of the will for a reason, and you want to respect his wishes."

   
 
'That's exactly right," she exclaims, relieved that he put it into words for her. "How did you figure that out before I even did?"

    "Because I'm a very wise man," Royce says, rolling so close she can smell minty mouthwash lingering on his breath. "And you're a very wise woman. That's why you'll probably do the right thing, no matter how hard it is on you.
On all of us."

    "Things could be worse, considering that the right thing happens to be accepting my grandfather's entire fortune."

    Royce laughs, folding her into his arms. "Don't get any big ideas. We're not going on any spending sprees in the near future… unless you've changed your mind?"

    "Why? Do you need a little more
bling
bling
?"

    "I've got plenty of
bling
, thank you very much, Jenny from the block." He kisses her neck. "But I can think of something else I need…"

    In her husband's tender embrace, Charlotte allows herself to relax at last.

    Royce is right.

    It's only money.

    And, as
Phyllida
and
Gib
have yet to learn, money can't buy the things that matter most in life.

    Royce's mouth is moving down, trailing kisses over her collarbone.

    
Grandaddy
didn't withhold her cousins' inheritance in order to teach them a lesson-of that, Charlotte is certain.

    He must have had a more compelling, much darker reason.

    
And I'm going to find out what it was
, she vows silently, before giving in to her husband's quest to take her to a place where she can forget everything for a blissful little while.

    Jeanne lifts the items out of her top middle bureau drawer one by one. Nearly all of them once belonged to her mother.

    
The stack of lace-embroidered handkerchiefs.

    
The crocheted woolen shawl for winter mornings when a cold draft permeates the third floor as effectively as does the summer heat.

    The precious journals filled with poetry, day-to-day household events, and family secrets-ail of it jotted in mother's spidery handwriting.

    The album filled with sepia-toned photos of unsmiling ancestors, some of whom played a role in those very secrets.

    At the very bottom, beneath a locked wooden case that contains her last-resort salvation, is a stack of birthday cards from Gilbert, banded together with a faded, blue-satin ribbon that once adorned Mother's hair.

    The cards didn't start coming until after Father and Mother had passed away, and Jeanne's mind started to go. Perhaps they were sent out of nostalgia, perhaps out of pity. Or, just maybe, out of guilt.

    In any case, each card contained a crisp twenty-dollar bill.

    
Twenty dollars a year.

    
From a man worth tens of millions.

    Twenty
dollars,
cash-as if she could take it right down to the mall and treat herself to a little something.

    Ah, well, it will come in handy after all, this nice little wad of "mad money"…

    In the truest sense of the phrase, Jeanne thinks, a sad smile grazing her lips.

    "Don't you worry, Gilbert," she whispers into the empty room as she begins to count the bills. "I'll be sure and put it to good use."

    "I guess I just don't understand why you aren't flying home with us," Brian Harper tells his wife on Saturday morning, as she tucks another small T-shirt into the
Vuitton
suitcase that holds their son's clothing.

    "I keep telling you," she says wearily. "It's because I have to see this through."

    "Contesting the will? It's going to drag on for months,
Phyll
. You're not planning on staying here for that long… are you?"

    "Not
months
.
Weeks, maybe."

    "You'll be trapped in this house without a car."

    "
Gib
has one, and I can always rent something if I need to. Anyway, I'm sure
Grandaddy's
chauffeur will be back from vacation soon. He can drive me anywhere I need to go."

    She closes the top of the suitcase-or tries to. It seems to contain more than it did when they came, which is impossible. It's not as though she's been out shopping for clothes lately.

    
Far from it.

    When she isn't taking care of an increasingly irritable toddler, the last few days have been spent with
Gib
, talking to attorneys. Being a lawyer himself, her brother isn't content with just any legal representation.

    
We need the best if we're going to win this
, he keeps telling
Phyllida
.

    
Right.
Still, she can't help wondering if he's stalling his efforts a bit.
Gib
doesn't seem to be in any hurry to get back home to Boston.
Which makes her wonder just what kind of life he left behind there.

    She, on the other hand, would like nothing more than to return to the West Coast, with its ubiquitous central air-conditioning, utter lack of humidity… and Lila,
her
longtime live-in nanny for Wills.

    Pushing aside her guilt for sending her son home without her,
Phyllida
reminds herself that he'll be in good care. Once they land at LAX, Lila will be perfectly capable of keeping Wills happy until her return.

    It's just a shame his own father isn't more attentive. Brian has his limits.
Which is why he's been virtually useless here.
All he's done is golf, complain about the muggy weather, and express his outrage over
Phyllida's
token inheritance.

    "Do you need me to help you,
Phyll
?"

    She looks up in surprise at her husband's unexpected offer, then realizes Brian is talking about the suitcase, not the unfortunate state of her life in general.

    "Go ahead." She steps aside and allows him to deftly rearrange the clothes inside. He quickly manages to get it closed.

    As he does, she can't help wishing he was this efficient when it comes to other things. Household help- the nanny and maid and gardener-can do only so much. They don't provide emotional, intellectual, or financial support-and neither does her husband.

    
You 're
on your own
, she tells herself, not for the first time.

    A few minutes later, on the circular drive before the white-pillared portico, she presses her child in a tearful embrace, then offers her husband a perfunctory kiss good-bye.

    "Come home soon," he tells her. "Wills isn't the only one who's going to miss you."

    Watching Brian climb behind the wheel of the rental car, she wishes she was still in love with him. Life would be so much simpler if she was.

    He starts the engine and glances at the gas gauge. "Hey, it's full."

    "I know. I took it down to the Mobil station by the causeway last night."

    "
Fom
pumped gas?" he asks incredulously.

    "No! A very nice young man did. It's full serve."

    "But why even bother?"

    
"Because it was almost on E."

    "So? I can just bring it back to the rental place empty and they'll add the gas charge to the bill."

    
Right.
At some ridiculous price per gallon.

    Does Brian not grasp that they can't afford to squander money now?

    She, who has never pumped gas in her life, was almost tempted to pull up to the self-serve pump. But she isn't that desperate-yet. Anyway, it was kind of flattering to flirt with Kevin, the obviously smitten surfer-boy attendant, as he pumped her gas.

    "Okay, then," Brian says, shifting into drive. "I guess we're off." '"Bye,"
Phyllida
calls, blowing kisses at Wills and jogging after the car a little ways as it heads slowly down the dappled drive beneath the verdant arch of towering oaks cloaked in silvery Spanish moss.

    Then it disappears through the gates, leaving her alone.

    It's a beautiful day. They should have a nice flight- at least, the takeoff portion of it, she thinks, looking up at the clear blue sky beyond
Oakgate's
familiar brick silhouette.

    Her eye follows a white trail to a distant plane buzzing along, until a shadow passing directly overhead captures her attention.

    She trains her eye on it and realizes that it's a circling vulture. Within moments, it's been joined by several others, swooping gradually lower, toward the gabled roof.

    
Phyllida
knows that the ill-fated prey must be somewhere in the
tibicket
behind
Oakgate
, but from this vantage, it almost seems as though the prey lies in the house itself.

    It's some kind of omen
, she thinks, as goose bumps rise on her bare arms.

    
I'm never going to see my baby again
.

    The thought darts into her mind with all the premeditation of the stray orange butterfly flitting among the hibiscus blooms along the drive.

    Of course she's going to see Wills again.

    
But…

    What if Brian turns his back in the airport and a stranger snatches him?

    What if his plane crashes?

    What if hers does?

    Oh, God.

    Chilled despite the ninety-degree heat,
Phyllida
wraps her arms around herself in an effort to keep a sudden, inexplicable panic at bay.

    It's normal to worry
, she assures herself
. And those vultures don't mean anything. They're just looking for a meal in the marsh.

    Probably every single person who ever sends off a loved one on an airplane wonders, at least just in passing, about the possibility of a crash.

    And of course she's uncomfortable with the prospect of her irresponsible husband transporting their child across the continent, not to mention the lengthy separation to follow. Who wouldn't be?

    
Calm down,
Phyllida
.
Everything's going to be just fine
.

    Gradually, the chill subsides. The winged black predators have disappeared from sight, no doubt to feed on some hapless swamp creature.

    Walking on toward the portico, she once again feels the warm sunlight on her bare shoulders; becomes aware of the pleasant, rhythmic hum of insects in the tall grass that lines the drive, punctuated by occasionally chirping birds.