The Final Victim (29 page)

    A river of icy panic floods
Lianna's
veins. "
What?''
she
shrieks. "Somebody shot Daddy? Oh, my God, is he-"

    
A pair
of firm hands take hold of her shoulders from behind, and Nydia's stern voice commands her to hang up the phone. When
Lianna
is too frozen in panic to move, she grabs the receiver and does it herself.

    Then she turns the whimpering
Lianna
around to face her.

    "Look at me. It wasn't your father,
Lianna
… Do you understand me?"

    It wasn't your father…

    I'm calling from the
Chatham Gazette
for a comment on the shooting of your father…

    
Lianna
stares up at Nydia, shaking her head in mute confusion.

    It was Mr. Maitland who was shot," Nydia tells her, and it falls into place.

    Royce.

    Royce was shot.

    Royce…

    "Did he die?" she manages to ask, forcing the words past the lump of dread rising in her throat.

    "No, he was shot in the leg, and he's going to be just fine."

    "Where's my mother?"
Lianna
asks shrilly, suddenly needing to feel her mother's arms around her, hear her reassuring voice. 'What happened to my mother?"

    "She's fine."

    "Where is
she!
"

    "
Shhh
, you'll frighten your aunt Jeanne. Your mother is still at the hospital with your-with Mr. Maitland."

    
Your father.

    That's what she was about to say.

    Even Nydia, who knows their domestic situation better than anyone, almost called Royce
Lianna's
father.

    Why do people always do that?

    Why don't they remember that she already has a father?

    
Bitter longing courses through her; longing for her dad, her mom… and Adam.

    We were a family.
A
real
family, all of us with the same last name, all of us living under one roof.

    
Doesn't anybody remember that but me? Doesn't anybody care?

    "I need to call my father," she informs Nydia curtly. "And my mother, too. Which hospital is she at?"

    "I don't know."

    "Yes, you do. Y'all just don't want to tell me."

    "Your mother asked me to protect you,
Lianna
." Nydia looks
Lianna
in the eye and rests staunch hands on her shoulders.

    It isn't a hug-far from it
Lianna
can't imagine this woman being capable of showing affection.

    But she senses that the gesture is meant to comfort her.

    And for some reason, it actually does.

    "Mrs. Maitland didn't want the news to get to you before she did," Nydia tells her. "She wanted to let you know about it herself."

    
"When?"

    "Whenever she gets home-I'm sure it'll be soon."

    Never in her life has
Lianna
felt more alone.

    "Can I call my father?" she asks in a small voice. "Please? He must have heard about this if reporters are calling, and he's going to be worried about me."

    Nydia seems to mull that over. "Go ahead," she says reluctantly, releasing her hold on
Lianna
.

    She dials the number hurriedly, wondering why, if he tried to call and repeatedly got a busy signal-or, more importantly, if he heard about the shooting-he hasn't shown up at
Oakgate
to check on her.

    He must have a good reason,
Lianna
thinks.

    He always does.

    In fact, she has to walk by the
Maitlands
' new home on her way there after leaving her ear in a parking garage several blocks away.

    
No, you didn't
have
to. You
wanted
to
.

    
All right.
So she could have parked someplace else, or walked a different route.

    She
wanted
to come this way;
needed
to see the crime scene, if only to make what happened last night-and her own involvement-a reality.

    But she doesn't allow herself to stop and stare, like other curious onlookers milling around the sidewalk.

    No, she keeps right on walking, allowing
herself
only a cursory glance at the tall frame house beyond its yellow crime scene tape.

    She takes in the light green paint and dark green shutters with contrasting ochre trim, the looming mansard roof adorned with three arched dormer windows, the small pillared porch half a story above the sidewalk.

    It was there, she knows, that Royce Maitland was gunned down.

    Turning her head, she sees that the cemetery, too, is ringed in yellow tape. Several uniformed officers are visible among the tombstones, undoubtedly looking for clues to the shooter's identity, unaware that the person who holds the key is right here beyond the black iron fence.

    Mimi takes one last look at the house. It's not as grand, by any means, as the
Remingtons
' plantation house on the northern end of the island. But it's an elegant home just the same, certainly suitable for one of Savannah's most prestigious families, and located in the heart of the city's most sought-after-and expensive- neighborhood.

    She can't help noting as well that this house is a far cry from the
Johnstons
' modest Low Country cottage.

    But that's home, and she doesn't have any regrets. Not about giving up college and Europe and marrying Jed and having Cameron, anyway.

    If only she could take back some of the other decisions she's made in her life…

    
Specifically, decisions involving
Gib
Remington.

    Then again, if she hadn't gotten involved with him all those years ago, she might have altered her destiny in every way. Some of them positive, but others too heart-wrenching to even imagine.

    As a rule, she tries not to.

    She tries to forget what happened between her and
Gib
, not just in high school, but that night on
Achoco
beach.

    It's just that sometimes the past roars into the present like a tidal surge in a hurricane's wake, and it's impossible to escape its path.

    Mimi quickens her pace, shoulders hunched and her hands buried deep in the pockets of her khaki pants.

    "Where are you going?" Jed had asked drowsily, stirring on the couch when she'd looked in on him.

    She gathered her thoughts quickly before answering, and hated herself for lying to him. But there was no other way. "I have to run to the store. Do you need anything?"

    "Nothing you can buy at the store."

    Those words pierced her heart "Do you want something to eat before I go?" she managed to ask.

    "Eat? No.
No way."

    
"Maybe just some Jell-O?
Or broth?" He managed to keep both of those down yesterday, as far as she knows.

    
"No, thanks."
He shifted his position on the cushion, wincing as he did so. "Where's Cam?"

    
"At my mother's.
She offered to keep him for the day." That, at least, is the absolute truth.

    Mimi has reached the intersection of Habersham and Oglethorpe at last
There's
the precinct building, kitty-corner from the northeast perimeter of Colonial Park Cemetery.

    She forces herself to cross the street and walk directly inside, knowing that if she falters for even a moment, she'll risk losing her nerve altogether.

    Long shadows fall through
Lianna's
second-floor windows, but she doesn't bother to reach over and turn on the light. Huddled on her bed, her arms wrapped around her knees, she can't seem to do anything but sit here crying and feeling sorry for
herself
.

    It isn't just because her mother seems to have abandoned her and her stepfather was shot by some lunatic.

    Part of it is utter frustration that her father was so close by for an entire weekend, and she didn't even get to see him.

    For that, she blames her mother, and Nydia, too. If the phone hadn't been off the hook for the better part of the day, Daddy would have been able to get through.

    When she reached him on his cell phone, he was already
back
in Jacksonville. He told her he kept trying to call and tell her that he had gone out sailing earlier with some friends, and wouldn't be over until later, on his way home. When he got back from sailing and the phone was still busy, he left for home.

    "You know how it is, with Sunday-night traffic on 1-95, honey," he told
Lianna
, when she asked why he didn't just stop by, since he had to drive norm to get to the causeway.

    "I had to get moving or I never would have gotten back here. I have to work in the morning."

    He was making
excuses,
she could tell by the way he sounded. He didn't drop by because he was afraid of what Mom would say if he did that.

    "It's okay," she said, trying not to cry.

    Especially when she told her father what happened to Royce.

    He sounded shocked, and really upset. He asked her if she was okay about fifty times.

    All right, so it was only a few times.

    Her friend Devin called her, freaking out, about a minute after she hung up with her father.

    "Oh my God,
Lianna
,
are
y'all okay? I've been trying to get you all day. I heard about Royce and I thought maybe something terrible happened to you, too!"

    "No, just my stepfather… And he's okay. I mean, he will be."

    "Is he, like, unconscious and all bloody and everything?"

    
Lianna
was forced to admit that she hadn't even seen him, let alone talked to her mother, since it happened. Hearing that, Devin felt as sorry for her as she felt for herself.

    "I can't believe your mother would totally leave you alone out there when some crazy lunatic is going around shooting at your family."

    
Lianna
, who hadn't even thought of it that way, grew even more upset at her mother, who sure seemed to be taking her sweet old time coming home.

    Seated beside his sister in the last row of the darkened movie theater,
Gib
stares unseeingly at the screen. This is their second movie in a row, and the summer's biggest blockbuster. But it could be a thrice-viewed 1980s B-flick for all the interest
Gib
has in the heroine's involvement in the assassination plot onscreen.

    He has his own problems right now. Problems that, for all he knows, are escalating back at
Oakgate
even as he and
Phyllida
hide out at this multiplex off the interstate.

    
We aren't hiding out
, he admonishes himself.
We're just…

    
Lying low.

    That's how he phrased it to his sister, when he outlined the plan for the evening, which included dinner at Chili's just off the exit-which turned out to be jammed-and will entail one more film after this one. By the time they return to
Achoco
Island, everyone in the household should be asleep.

    There will be no accusatory stares or probing questions. No insinuations that
Gib
and
Phyllida
are anything but sympathetic about what happened to Charlotte's husband.

    "Is that the guy who was in that car before?"
Phyllida
whispers,
and it takes
Gib
a moment to realize she's talking about-and actually focused on-the movie. Leave it to the would-be queen of Hollywood.

    "Yeah, that's him," he tells her, though he has no idea.

    "But I thought he was the one who shot-"

    
"
Shhh
!"

    Grateful to the annoyed patron behind them,
Gib
returns in peace to his own thoughts.

    
No, not in peace.

    He's feeling anything but peaceful at the moment.

    In fact, he had to force himself to stick to his own plan, rather than go rushing back to
Oakgate
to take care of unfinished business.

    That, he keeps telling himself, can wait.

    It's not as though anyone is likely to go searching his room.

    And even if they did, they wouldn't find it.

    Reassured,
Gib
finally helps himself to the tub of popcorn he bought earlier in the hope that he'd appear-to anyone who might happen to notice him, let alone recognize him as a Remington-for all the world like a relaxed moviegoer…

    And not like the on-screen fugitive to whom he can suddenly, disturbingly, relate.

    A bright swoop of approaching headlights reaches Jeanne's attic room before the sound of tires on crushed shells drifts through the open window.

    She rolls over to see who it is, and is surprised to see two cars pulling up to the portico. One is the familiar white SUV; the other a sedan Jeanne doesn't recognize.

    Charlotte climbs out from behind the wheel of the first; an unfamiliar woman-at least from this perch, with Jeanne's failing eyesight-emerges from the other.

    
Or maybe I do know her.

    Jeanne squints into the twilight, searching her memory.

    As happens with increasing frequency, the search yields nothing.

    She isn't particularly surprised. This day has been more difficult than most.
Perhaps if Melanie had been here…

    But as fate would have it, Sundays are her days off. Jeanne has spent the day alone, without anyone to bring her meals. Gilbert or Charlotte always took care of that on Sundays.

    One would think Nydia might have taken pity on her, considering that her car has remained in the driveway all day. She, too, is usually off on Sundays; she may be unaware that Jeanne has been left here to starve.

    But you would think she might have checked in, at least You would think she might have updated Jeanne on Royce's condition as she promised… and let her know whether there are any suspects yet in the shooting.

    Through the screen, Jeanne watches the younger woman heave a large suitcase from the car trunk, with Charlotte rushing to help. Together, they pull it toward the house.

    
Just before they disappear from view, the sound of laughter floats up to Jeanne's ears.

    Her mouth tightens with disapproval.

    
If they're laughing
, she concludes,
then
Royce Maitland must still be alive
.

    At long last,
Lianna's
mother shows up, bursting into the room without even knocking, and rushing over to the bed.

    
"
Lianna
!
Nydia said you know… Oh, sweetie, I've been trying to get back here to you all day, but I couldn't leave Royce."

    Unexpectedly overcome by a wave of emotion that sweeps the anger away,
Lianna
allows herself to be hugged fiercely. Her mother rocks her back and forth, crying into her hair.

    What a relief.
A relief to have Mom back here with her, a relief to feel Mom's arms around her.

    She hasn't hugged me in so long
,
Lianna
realizes, with tears streaming from her own eyes.
She hasn't been nice to*& in so, so long…

    "Is he okay, Mom? Is Royce all right?"

    "He will be…"

    "Who did this to him?"

    "Nobody knows… The police say it was random."

    Mom releases her, takes a deep breath and lets it out, then plucks a couple of Kleenex from the box on
Lianna's
nightstand. She hands one to
Lianna
, who wipes her eyes as her mother does the same.

    
Lianna
crumples the tissue and turns to pitch it into the wastebasket across the room.

    That's when she sees the stranger standing in the doorway.

    
"Hi,
Lianna
."
The woman waves.

    She knows me. Who the heck is she, and why does she know me?

    "Oh, Aimee… I'm sorry, come on in. I guess I lost my composure when I saw my baby girl there for a second.
Lianna
, this is Aimee."

    
Aimee?
Who the heck is Aimee?

    Mom is acting like she should know, and so is the stranger, who crosses right over to the bed and reaches down to give her a hug.

    
Lianna
stiffens.

    Confused, she looks up at her mother.

    "I told Aimee she should stay here with us," Mom says-as if that explains everything.

    'Yes, and y'all have no idea how grateful I am, Mrs. Maitland."

    Wow, Aimee's accent is really thick.

    "I keep telling you,"
Lianna's
mother says with a good-natured laugh. "It's Charlotte. If you don't figure that out soon, your wicked stepmother is going to insist on being called Mom."

    Aimee laughs, too.

    Huh?
Wicked stepmother?
Who's that?

    "I'll find Nydia so she can help you get
settied
down the hall," Charlotte says.

    "Are y'all sure it's no trouble?"

    "Positive. Royce is so glad you're staying here-and so are we."

    
We?
As in
Lianna
?

    
Who the heck- Oh.
It hits her, then, and she realizes who this Aimee is.

    She's Royce's daughter.

    Mom must have called her.

    
She called
her,
but she didn't call
me.

    "When did you get here?" she asks, trying to sound friendly.

    
"First tiling this morning.
I had to fly in from
N'Awlins
, where I live."

    It takes a moment for
Lianna
to decipher that-at least, most of it.

    "From
where
?" she asks.

    "
N'Awlins
."

    "New Orleans," Mom clarifies with a laugh. "And you must be exhausted, Aimee. I know you didn't sleep any more than I did last night, and you spent the whole day with me at the hospital."

    
Lianna
looks at the newcomer, further resenting her. Not just for the obvious closeness between the two of them after a day spent together, and a shared tragedy.

    But also for her looks. Aimee is as beautiful as Mom is, with same kind of long, thick hair-except hers is golden-and the same perfect figure.

    
Lianna
is conscious that her own hair is matted to her head-thanks to Mom and her sloppy tears-and that she's still wearing the ratty T-shirt she threw on when she found out Dad wouldn't be coming. Her beautiful sundress lies in a heap somewhere on the floor at the foot of her bed.

    But Mom didn't say anything about that, or about the general mess in the room she told
Lianna
to clean yesterday.

    Naturally,
Lianna
forgot about that until just now.

    "Aimee is a nurse," Mom informs
Lianna
, as if that matters in the least.

    "I started out as a hairdresser," Aimee says wryly, "but then I got caught up in an awful hurricane, and I realized what really matters. So now I can save people's lives, instead of just fixing their hair."

    
Lianna's
hand goes instinctively to her own head, even as she notices that Mom is looking at Aimee though she's some kind of superhero.

    "Have you eaten dinner,
Lianna
?" Mom asks, patting her hand, then her head, like she's a very young child or a cute pet. Or maybe she's just trying to fix
Lianna’s
hair without Aimee noticing.

    "No," she says glumly.

    
I
haven't
eaten lunch, either
.

    She thinks longingly of her father.

    Daddy, I wish you were here.

    I wish you were here, and this Aimee person wasn't.

    "I'm going to ask Nydia if she can make something for the three of us while I go take a shower and g cleaned up," Mom says, getting up off the bed.