The Final Victim (36 page)

    Unfit for poor little Wills, whose toddler cronies and their nannies will continue to meet a few times a week at one palatial Beverly Hills spread or another while
Phyllida
pushes him on a swing in the park. Parks are still free, right? Swings are free?

    "Well, some of his friends have yards that are bigger than parks; their parents rent carousels and petting zoos for birthday parties. Where will Wills have his? Chuck E. Cheese?

    "Urn, Mrs. Harper?"

    "Yes?" Having reached the bottom of the stairs, she turns to look back at Melanie, up at the top.

    "I just wanted to ask if there's anything I can do.
If you need to talk, or anything.
You know… You just look so upset, and… I know what it's like."

    
Oh? Your brother was arrested on attempted murder charges, too?

    
Phyllida
curbs her tongue. She might not buy the woman's all-chipper, all-the-time act, but she shouldn't be rude to her. Maybe she really is just trying to help. At least somebody around here is.

    "Thank you," she says awkwardly, wishing Melanie would just continue on to the next flight of stairs and leave her to her own business.

    But the nurse goes on, "I just know that you're far away from home, and your little boy, and you might feel like you're all alone, and you might really need a friend. Really, I've been there."

    
Phyllida
nods and offers what she hopes is a pleasant smile even as she thinks,
Go away, will you? Just go away.

    But when Melanie gets the hint and does moves on,
Phyllida
finds herself feeling vaguely abandoned.

    
Which is ridiculous.

    
Because she doesn't want to talk to a nurse about her problems.
She doesn't want to talk to anyone.

    She just wants…

    What?
To go home?
That isn't it. Not with the mess waiting for her in LA.

    All right, so what does she want?

    All I want right now, she thinks grimly, is to curl up and die.

    In her room,
Lianna
pulls on the dress she wore last weekend in anticipation of seeing her father.

    He's coming back to
Oakgate
to take her to dinner tonight. It was his idea, to make up for the disappointment of last weekend.

    She begged her mother to let her go, and to her surprise, Charlotte relented. Apparently,
Lianna
is no longer grounded.

    Mom never said anything about her earlier punishment when she picked her up at Devin's Monday night after a long day at the hospital. She was more cordial than usual to Devin's parents, and thanked them for keeping
Lianna
all day and seeing to it that she ate lunch and dinner.

    Naturally, Mom couldn't have known that lunch was nachos at the mall food court, dinner was three
Krispy
Kreme
donuts, and that Devin's mother and stepfather didn't even know she was around until right before Mom showed up to get her.

    The last few days,
Lianna
has been trying to work up the nerve to ask her mother for her cell phone back. But she's afraid to even remind her mother that she took it away, just in case she also forgot she grounded
Lianna
.

    She's also skittish about sneaking out to meet Kevin, though he keeps urging her to do it. She
will
,
eventully
, just not yet. It isn't just that she's afraid she'll get caught-it's that she's afraid of what will happen between the two of them when she's alone with him again.

    So she's spent an entire week hanging around
Oakgate
, bored out of her mind, unable even to speak to her friends and Kevin, unless she calls them from the main line usually with zero conversational privacy.

    There was nobody to talk to around the house but Nydia. Oh, and Aunt Jeanne's chatterbox nurse, Melanie, who likes to drift downstairs whenever Aunt Jeanne is napping.

    But anything, even total social isolation or listening to Melanie chirp on and on about her life story, is better than going back and forth to the hospital in Savannah every day with her mother and Aimee.

    Her stepsister actually had the nerve to offer to fix her hair before dinner tonight. She's taken on the annoying habit of knocking on
Lianna's
door in the evenings to see if she wants to go to a movie, or shopping, or whatever.

    "No, thanks,"
Lianna
said curtly in response to her hair makeover offer. "I like it the way it is, and so does my dad."

    "Oh,
Lianna
, I didn't mean…" Aimee was immediately all flustered. "I just thought it might be fun, you know… I never had a little sister."

    
You still don't
,
Lianna
wanted to retort, but she managed to hold her tongue.

    That was last night.

    She hasn't seen Aimee all day, but she's beginning to feel a little guilty. Maybe she really was just trying to be nice, and not critical about
Lianna's
appearance.

    Still, who needs another grown-up hanging around the house, trying to be all girly-buddy? You'd think Aimee would go back home to New Orleans now that her father is out of the hospital, so things can get back to normal around here.

    But apparently she's not, because
Lianna
overheard her and Mom talking this morning about how Aimee's going to stick around awhile longer to help.

    
Why doesn't Mom ask me to help?
Lianna
can't help but wonder.
Why doesn't she treat me like a real person, instead of some annoying kid who's just in the way?

    Thank goodness for Dad. He should be here any second.

    
Lianna
surveys her reflection in the mirror.

    The dress is a little wrinkled, from being on the floor overnight before she rescued it and replaced it on a hanger. Maybe she should have at least ironed it.

    And her hair isn't that great. She really needs to have it cut, or… something.

    But she doesn't need Aimee. They aren't going to be a happy little family together, no matter what Mom would like to think.

    The odd thing is…

    Well, Mom really likes her. It's almost as if, in Royce's daughter, she's found something that's been missing in her life ever since…

    Adam.

    Yes.

    It's almost as if Mom has allowed Aimee to fill that gaping void left by his death; as if she's finally found a second child again.

    Well, no way is
Lianna
going to consider Aimee a replacement for the older sibling she lost.

    Just as Royce isn't a replacement for her real dad, and never will be.

    With a resolute nod and a silent prayer,
Lianna
hurries to finish getting ready for her dinner date.

    
Please, don't let anything keep my dad from showing up this time.

    Please.

    "Alone at last," Royce murmurs, as Charlotte settles on the couch beside him.

    Aimee has gone off to make some calls about renting a hospital bed for the parlor, or so she claimed. According to Charlotte, she probably just discreetly wanted to give the two of them some privacy after a trying week.

    Charlotte sighs. "I'm so glad you're back…"

    
Home.

    This time, however, she doesn't add that part. She probably doesn't want to get into that again.

    Good. Neither does
he
.

    "So am I." He stretches an arm along the back of the sofa. "Come here."

    "I don't want to bump your leg."

    "Don't worry about it. My leg is fine." He pats the cushion right beside him. "I miss cuddling with you. That's not all I miss," he adds suggestively, "but the other part's going to have to wait."

    She smiles and slides close to him, leaning her head against his chest.

    For a moment, they just sit contentedly.

    Royce senses that Charlotte's muscles are beginning to unclench for the first time all week. She feels more tightly wound than the antique clock on the mantel.

    Its steady ticking is the only sound in the room, besides a soft chorus of crickets that drifts through the open window as dusk settles over the grounds.

    "It's so quiet," Royce murmurs, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. 'That hospital was so noisy, all the time."

    "It was pretty noisy around here, too, until the new unlisted phone number kicked in yesterday."

    That's right, Royce remembers, she mentioned this morning that she was forced to abruptly terminate the old one, thanks to incessant calls from the press. The Remington scandal has enveloped the regional news for days now.

    There was even a news van parked out beyond the stone gateway when they arrived here. Aimee-who has no use for the nosy press and is quite vocal about it-said it was worse the other day, when they returned from the hospital to find reporters broadcasting live from the lawn.

    Charlotte had forgotten to close the gate when they'd left that morning-it isn't a habit anyone has been in for years. Of course, the news crew had no qualms about trespassing.

    "I swear
,
they're like cockroaches-all they need to do is find a tiny crack in the foundation, and the next thing you know, whole armies are streaming in."

    Royce had to laugh at that. She always did have a way with colorful metaphors.

    Well, at least the main house isn't visible from the gate, which they have been careful to keep closed ever since. The brick plantation home is well screened by the long lane and all those Spanish moss-draped live oaks, safe from prying eyes-and cameras.

    "Are you in any pain?" Charlotte asks, idly studying the label of an orange prescription bottle. "Because it says you can take this again in an hour."

    "No, I'm fine." He watches her set the bottle back on the table beside the couch, aligning it with the other medication they brought home. "Charlotte, maybe you should put those away somewhere."

    "Oh, no you don't, Mister," she says lightly. "No way are you going to start in again about how you're just fine, and you don't need anything for the pain. There's no reason for you to suffer. You're taking these, Royce, until the doctor tells you to stop."

    "No, that's not what I meant." He hesitates, trying to phrase it correctly. "I just don't know if y'all should leave them out here where anyone can… you know… find them. Some of those are narcotics."

    "What are you getting at, Royce? You don't think that Nydia or
Phyllida
-"

    "No," he cuts in, "I don't."

    She stares at him.

    He gives a slight nod.

    "Royce, she might have lied and snuck out to see an older boy, but you're talking about drugs, here. I really don't think-"

    "You said you didn't trust her after what happened. I don't, either. And why leave the slightest bit of temptation in her path?"

    Charlotte sits in moody silence, staring into space.

    "I'm sorry," Royce tells her after a minute. "You're right. There's no reason to think
Lianna
might help herself to my medication. That's ridiculous."

    "It is ridiculous."

    "I guess after seeing how they kept the narcotics in the hospital under such tight control, I couldn't help but think anybody could just stumble across these and help themselves."

    "
Lianna
would never do that. I know she's done some awful things, and I don't trust her as far as I can throw her when it comes to boys, but I know my daughter. She wouldn't touch drugs."

    "I'm sorry."

    "Don't be. You were right to consider it. But you don't have to worry about
it,
or anything at all, for that matter. Why don't you just rest now?"

    Charlotte strokes his cheek gently, sounding, and looking, just as exhausted as he feels. Her face is drawn; her lovely violet eyes underscored with dark crescents.

    "I'm afraid I'm going to fall asleep," he tells her, allowing his own eyelids to droop, just for a moment.

    "Go ahead. You need it."

    He shakes his head, forcing his eyes open. "Not yet. I
haven't
been alone with you in a week; I'm not going to waste this opportunity by being unconscious."

    She smiles.
"How about if I put on some music?"
"That sounds good," he says around a yawn, fighting sleep. "I'll just close my eyes for a few seconds while you…"

    Hearing Melanie climbing the stairs, humming to herself, Jeanne quickly slides the bureau drawer closed. No
need to have the nurse catch
her checking and rechecking her possessions. When the police made it up here, they gave her room only a cursory once-over. They never thought to search beneath the woolen shawl spread over an old lady's lap on a sweltering afternoon.

    By the time Melanie reenters the room bearing an aromatic tray of food, Jeanne's wheelchair has been turned and she's once again facing the window, wearing an absent expression.

    "I heated up your dinner, Jeanne," Melanie announces in her buoyant way. "I even put it on a regular plate for you for a change, and I brought real silverware, too."

    Yes, she did. And the meal looks even skimpier on the good china than it would have in the compartments of a cardboard tray.

    "Look what we have tonight, Jeanne!
Turkey and gravy, mashed potatoes, asparagus.
Doesn't that sound good?"

    It
sounds
good
, Jeanne thinks morosely,
but it won't be
.

    Melanie chats about the weather as Jeanne inspects her tray.

    "Big storm brewing," she says in the same manner in which she'd inform a small child that a carnival is coming to town. "It's called Douglas. Everybody's been talking about it on TV. They're saying it could turn into a hurricane. But don't worry, Jeanne, I'll make sure you're safe. And it's not for a few more days, anyway. Tomorrow we're just going to get some plain-old summer rain."

    Jeanne nods. The turkey appears to be reheated sliced cold cuts doused with canned gravy, the potatoes are instant, and the asparagus has been reduced to green slime she could eat with a spoon… if she had one.

    She usually gets a set of three white plastic utensils shrink-wrapped with a paper napkin and salt and pepper packets.

    Not tonight.

    For whatever reason, Melanie has decided to go all fancy on her. Jeanne suppresses the urge to ask her where she found the fancy table service. Did she take it upon herself to go through the cupboards?