The Final Victim, page 22
"I don't." I didn't. But that was before I needed to distract him from the misery our lives have become.
"When is it on?"
"It was starting when we left home just now, and I promised him he could finish watching it here."
"Oh, all right, sweet pea. Let Granny change the channel for you."
"You don't have to do that, Mom." Mimi pours steaming coffee into a chipped mug from the plastic drying rack beside the sink.
Using the remote to change the channel, much to Cam's delight, Maude says, "I was just watchin' the news, but all that's left now is the sports and your daddy is the only one who liked to watch that part. I just like the news. Have y'all seen what happened in Savannah?" She rises from the chair and sets Cam on it, in front of his program.
"No, what happened?" Mimi turns to the refrigerator for creamer:
Thus, her back is turned to her mother when Maude informs her, "Charlotte Remington's husband was shot right on Oglethorpe Avenue last night. You must know her, don't you? From when you used to run around with that Remington boy? What was his name? I know it was Gilbert, after his daddy and Grandaddy, but what did they used to call him again?"
Gib.
"I know Charlotte-I mean, I knew her a long time ago." Ignoring the other question, Mimi lifts the carton of half-and-half from the shelf with a trembling hand. "I don't know her husband, though. Is he…?"
"Serious condition in the hospital is all they're sayin' on the news."
"Do they say who shot him?"
Maude shrugs. "It's just like those snipers that go around shootin' up cities up North. Can't believe it's startin' down here."
"I can't, either." Mimi fumbles for a spoon in the drawer, then stirs her coffee so violently that it spills over the top of the mug.
"Everybody always thought those Remingtons had it all," Maude muses, stooping to pick up a little truck from the collection of toys she purchased at yard sales and keeps in a plastic laundry hamper for Cameron. "I'm startin' to think all they really have is a whole lot of money. I wouldn't trade places with any one of 'em. How 'bout you?"
"Of course not," Mimi murmurs, watching her son happily grasp the used toy in his chubby little hands.
Tucked into the pocket of his lightweight black-wool dress pants, Gib's cell phone rings just as he reaches the Bryan Street parking garage where he left his rental car the night before.
He contemplates not answering it, hardly in the mood to talk after the night he just had.
But curiosity gets the better of him and he reaches for the phone to see who's calling.
The number on the caller ID screen isn't local, and it takes Gib a moment to place the area code.
Oh. California.
He flips the phone open. "Yeah, Phyllida."
"Where are you?"
"Why?"
"Because I want to send you flowers," is the sarcastic response. "What do you think? For one thing, it's Sunday morning and I'm assuming you never came home last night and I have no idea where you are."
"Save the worrying for your kid, Phyll. I'm a big boy. Sometimes these things happen."
"Trust me, I'm not all that worried about you right now, Gib. But I need you to get back here as soon as you can, and…"
"And what?" he asks edgily when she trails off.
"And I hope you can account for every second of the last twelve hours."
"Why?" he asks, his heart pounding.
"Because somebody shot Charlotte's husband."
Pacing the narrow aisle between two short rows of uncomfortable chairs, Charlotte instantly recognizes the slender young blonde who bursts into the private surgical waiting room, pulling a rolling suitcase.
Royce's daughter.
At last
"Charlotte Maitland?"
"That's me. You must be Aimee."
"Yes." Her stepdaughter rushes over to her, grabbing her in a tight embrace.
Caught off guard by the fervent greeting, Charlotte returns it gratefully. These have been the longest, loneliest hours of her life, and Aimee feels less a stranger to her than her own cousins did when they were here earlier.
"I'm so glad you're here," Charlotte tells her, but the words sound more strained than she intended.
Probably because I've never met her before in my life, and here I am clinging to her like she's my long-lost best friend.
She releases Aimee from her grasp.
"My luggage," the girl says, turning to the suitcase she left behind in the doorway.
"I'll get it. Sit down." Charlotte hurries over to grab the bag, noticing the airline tag around the handle. "You had to check it?"
Too big for carry-on. I didn't know how long I'd be here, so I just threw everything into the biggest bag I had." 'That's good." Charlotte nods, trying to think of something else to say, and missing her husband more than ever. This wasn't how she was supposed to meet Royce's daughter for the first time.
"When I didn't see you in the big waiting room I was worried that something went wrong and he was still in surgery, but I can tell by your face that Daddy's okay. He is, isn't he?" Aimee adds anxiously.
"He's out of the OR but still in recovery. They told me I could wait in here instead of going down to the big waiting room."
"Why?"
The question is perfunctory, yet Charlotte doesn't want to answer it.
She suspects the nurses allowed her to remain in this small, empty waiting room rather than mingle with the masses because she's a Remington, a VIP. Or maybe it's because of the commotion caused earlier down the hall when a couple of pesky reporters tried to question her, before a stern nurse ordered them out.
It doesn't matter why she's here. She's far more comfortable in seclusion, where she can weep and pace and worry away from the prying eyes of strangers.
"How did the operation go?" Aimee asks.
'The surgeon said we're lucky it didn't shatter the bone, or hit an artery…" She shudders at what might have been.
"Oh, God." Tears spring to Aimee's eyes. "I've been so worried… I tried to call you when I landed but I got your voice mail. Is Daddy awake? Has he said anything?"
"I don't know, I haven't seen him. The doctor said they were able to remove the bullet and repair the damage to his leg."
Charlotte can't help but feel as though she's methodically reciting a report she's given before, and in a sense, she is. She repeated the same information to both her cousins when they were here earlier.
It took at least two hours after she called Phyllida for her to show up with Gib. They both seemed shaken, and asked if there was anything else they could do.
There are probably a lot of things they could do, if Charlotte was capable of thinking straight-and willing to ask.
But she is neither. Not under the circumstances.
"So Daddy will really be okay?"
They said he will."
Thank God." Aimee's voice is ragged; she sinks into a chair. "It must have been awful… You must have been so scared." “I was."
Charlotte closes her eyes tightly, trying to block out the barrage of memories.
The deafening report of what she didn't even realize was gunfire…
The shocking sight of Royce lying at her feet, bleeding…
Cradling her moaning husband in her lap on the wooden porch floor, pressing the open wound in his leg with her bare hand…
It seemed as though she sat that way forever, fearing the worst, reliving the frightful moments on the beach that day as the lifeguards searched for her lost son in the surf. But that took hours; this couldn't have been very long at all.
No, she heard sirens screaming through the night even as the 9-1-1 operator she had reached on her cell phone told her to stem the flow, keep him alert, and stay on the phone-that help was on its way.
They let Charlotte ride in the back of the ambulance with him, and she watched as the paramedics stabilized him and stopped the bleeding. Royce was conscious, moaning, but unable to respond to the questions the medics were asking.
Mostly the questions were about his pain, but one of them did ask if he had any idea who could have shot him.
Royce could only groan in response.
At the time, Charlotte was irked that the medics would even ask such a question at a time like that.
Now she understands that it was necessary; that they were probably trained to do so.
And when Aimee asks almost the same tiling now- "Did the police get whoever shot him?"-Charlotte is less irked than she is reluctant to reply.
"I wish I could tell you they'd found him, but they haven't. They think it might have been random, a sniper attack."
"Oh, my God." Aimee digs her fingertips into her scalp beneath a thick mane of flaxen hair. "Poor, poor Daddy."
Struck by a wave of renewed longing for Royce, Charlotte fumbles in her purse for a tissue, finding only a clump of damp used ones.
She turns her back, hoping Aimee won't hear her sniffling, and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.
Royce. I need you, Royce.
"Here…" Aimee is pressing a packet of Kleenex into her hand. "Take this."
"Thank you," she manages to say, before her voice gives way to sobs.
CHAPTER 9
'Jeanne?"
It takes her a moment to wake from a sound sleep. When she does, she opens her eyes to find Gilbert's housekeeper standing above her bed.
It's late morning-she can tell by the angle of the light coming in the bull's-eye window above her bed.
"I'm sorry to wake you, but I thought you should know."
"Know what?" Her brain still fuzzy with sleep, she sits up, rubbing her eyes.
"Mr. Maitland was… injured last night In Savannah."
"What happened to him?"
Nydia hesitates.
"Was it a car accident? Is he all right? Was Charlotte with-"
Jeanne closes her mouth abruptly, remembering belatedly not to appear too lucid, even in front of Nydia.
The housekeeper seems to falter a bit-unusual for her-before admitting, "It wasn't a car accident. He was shot by a sniper."
Jeanne gasps in horrified dismay. "No! Oh, no. Charlotte…?"
"She was with him, but she's fine. And Mr. Maidand is in surgery, from what I understand."
Jeanne nods, pressing her fist against her quivering mouth.
"I just thought you should know." Nydia turns to leave.
"Thank you. Will you… tell me how he is? When you know more?"
"Of course."
Jeanne watches Gilbert's housekeeper make her exit She waits until the door closes at the foot of the stairs before slipping from beneath the covers.
It takes a minute for her bare feet to grow accustomed to standing. Gradually, the circulation returns to her wobbly old legs beneath the cotton summer nightgown, and they feel sturdy enough to carry her across the room, careful not to let the floorboards creak.
At the bureau, she opens the top middle drawer and reaches beneath the stack of handkerchiefs, the shawl, the journals and photo album.
Taking out the locked wooden box, she sets it on the bureau top, and glances over her shoulder as if she's going to find somebody watching her.
There's nobody up here, Jeanne, don't be silly.
Nobody but the ghosts… And they know all about this.
They know everything.
Jeanne reaches into the lace-edged neckline of the nightgown and retrieves a long gold chain that once belonged to Mother. Dangling from it are a locket that contains a picture of Marie Remington in her youth, and a small silver key.
With a quivering hand, Jeanne removes the chain from her neck and inserts the key into the lock on the box.
She opens the cover and glances down at the contents.
This, too, belonged to her mother.
This small pistol with the mother-of-pearl handle that was Marie Remington's protection-and may prove to be her daughter's salvation.
"I can't believe this is happening," Aimee says yet again, as she and Charlotte wait side by side for word about Royce.
Dry-eyed at last, Charlotte nods, too numb to say much. She just wishes the nurses would come and tell her something about Royce's condition, but there's been no word for quite some time now.
"I can't believe just a few hours ago I was happy-go-lucky, hanging out in New Orleans with my friends." Aimee pronounces it the same as Royce does, like a true native: N'Awlins. Her accent is even thicker than his-of course, since she still lives there.
With her mother.
Charlotte wonders idly whether Karen, Royce's ex-wife, is aware of what happened. Not that it matters. They're never in contact, as far as she knows.
But if something violent ever happened to Vincent, she would want to know. He's the father of her child.
Surely Aimee told her mother why she was leaving town abruptly.
"I'm just glad you found a seat on a plane," Charlotte tells Aimee. "I was worried you wouldn't be able to, on a weekend."
"After I got your message last night, I went straight to the airport. But I missed the last flight that could have possibly connected to Savannah before this morning. I was in such a panic. I called the main line for the hospital a few times during the night, but nobody would tell me anything. It was horrible." She buries her face in her hands, sounding as though she's on the verge of breaking down in sobs.
"I'm sorry." Charlotte wishes she felt comfortable enough to just reach out and give Aimee a reassuring hug.
But it might not be welcome now that their initial, emotion-driven physical contact has been broken.
For all she knows, Aimee resents her father's second wife. She wouldn't be the first stepdaughter to feel that way. And she's certainly capable of resentment, considering that she refused to speak to her father for so long after her brother's death.
But when Aimee looks up at her again, Charlotte sees immediately that there's nothing but genuine concern in her gaze. Her eyes, Charlotte notices, are a beautiful shade of light green, not brown like Royce's. She must have inherited them from her mother.
Charlotte rarely gives Royce's first wife much thought, but for the second time in as many minutes, she finds herself wondering about her. Wondering if she's as beautiful as Aimee, if she has the same willowy build, fair hair, and tawny complexion…
