The Final Victim, page 39
An unbroken line of crawling traffic stretches from the Achoco Island Causeway all the way to the interstate. There's been no order to evacuate yet, not a mandatory one, anyway. But the storm system took another slight shift in the last few hours, according to the radio meteorologist. They're saying to expect flooding in low-lying areas, and you can't get much lower than the Johnstons's home on the canal.
I'll be back within the hour, she silently promises herself-and her family, who has no idea where she is.
She just couldn't go straight home after leaving Oakgate. Not without some answers. And she's going to try to find them in the local archives at the library's main branch on Bull Street in Savannah.
As she picks up speed, pulling onto the northbound ramp of 1-95, the rain seems to come down harder. She increases the wipers' speed, leaning forward over the wheel to see through the windshield, careful to keep a safe distance from the taillights of the eighteen-wheeler that got on in front of her.
Okay, this isn't the best weather for a road trip.
But she has no choice.
If what Dr. Von Cave suggested is actually true, then she might be on to something.
It would be so much easier if she could just have spoken to Charlotte directly.
When she ran into the young, vaguely familiar blond woman in the hallway as she was about to let herself out, she almost spilled the whole sad story in response to a simple, "Can I help you with something?"
Mimi fleetingly confided that she lives on the island and needs to speak with Charlotte about an urgent personal matter.
"She isn't here. Is it something I can help you with, maybe?"
"I don't think so," Mimi said."It's… a medical issue."
"I'm a nurse."
A nurse…
Is that why she looks familiar?
"Do you by any chance work at the Magnolia Clinic in Savannah?"
"No, I-"
"It doesn't matter, actually, where you work. I just need to get in touch with Charlotte as soon as possible. It's about my husband-he's been diagnosed with a rare stomach cancer, and I found out that Connie June Remington-"
"Mrs. Johnston!" The housekeeper scurried into the hall just then, far less welcoming than she was when she let Mimi in. "Mr. Maidand asked me to see that you had left. I'm sorry… You need to be on your way."
Mimi nodded and looked at the blond woman. "Can you tell Charlotte I was here, and to call me as soon as she can? My name is Mimi Johnston; I live down on the south canal."
She doubts Charlotte will get the message, let alone call her.
But then, she thought the same thing about Dr. Von Cave.
Of its own volition, her foot sinks slightly lower on the gas pedal.
And then, brazenly, lower still.
She's caught up to the truck, close enough to read the "How's My Driving?" sign on the back, despite the downpour and the spray.
Impatient to get to the library, heedless of the weather and the slick road, she decides to pass.
The moment she pulls out, a car horn blares, close behind her.
Too close.
It sends her swerving back into the right lane, out of control.
But only for a second.
A second is all it would have taken! her inner voice shrieks. You could have been killed.
Where would that leave Cam and Jed?
The steering wheel clenched in her white-knuckled hands, she has no choice but to slow to a relative crawl once again, staring bleakly through the windshield at the pouring rain.
This is becoming too precarious. Much, much too precarious.
An exhilarating, healthy little risk is one thing; fool-hardiness is altogether something else.
And I'm no fool.
Complications are escalating like the wind speed off the ocean. There's only one thing to do: eliminate them, step by step.
First things first.
Time to do away with Miss Beverly Hills. It shouldn't take long-and she'll make some hungry gator a nice, filling lunch, just like Pammy Sue did. It didn't take long after she was dumped in a shallow pool for the snapping jaws to emerge and devour her fetid remains. Lingering in the marsh to witness that frenzied feast was almost as gratifying as it would be to watch Pammy Sue the all over again.
In the end, there was nothing left of Mama's golden girl. Nothing at all.
Too bad alligators don't eat radios.
It, too, will have to be hidden… again.
The first time, it was to prevent Charlotte from taking it to a repairman who would open it up, undoubtedly see that it had been immersed in water, and tell Charlotte that was why it had stopped working.
Who knows what conclusion she might draw from that? 'She's smarter than she looks-unlike her West Coast cousin.
Hmm… maybe the radio can be weighted with a rock and sunk in the marsh on the way to the house.
That will have to do. The important thing is to get back to Oakgate before the storm's full fury descends.
A dank sea breeze incessantly rustles the palm fronds and moss-clotted foliage overhead, and the rain is picking up along with the wind. The sky has turned an ominous yellow-black over the Atlantic to herald the arrival of Tropical Storm-or perhaps it's Hurricane, by now- Douglas.
Ah, yes… the professional chefs knife is even more effective at clearing away troublesome vines than the utility knife was.
It will have to be thoroughly cleaned of blood-not to mention furtively sharpened-before it's been returned to the kitchen drawer back at Oakgate. Just in case.
In case, say, somebody would like to prepare a fancy French seafood recipe…
Or if a good, freshly whetted blade is needed for some altogether different purpose.
"So, like, he just called me to say that there's this really bad storm coming," Lianna tells Devin, practically whispering into the telephone receiver.
"Right. My mom is freaking out. Tropical Storm Douglas."
"Whatever… he has to work now because all these people are gassing up their cars to leave the island… so he said forget it and let's do it tonight instead."
"Where would you even go?"
"He said we could just, you know, hang out in his car, but…"
"What, you don't want to? That sounds romantic. Especially in a storm."
Lianna hesitates. "I don't know. I just don't know if I believe him."
"About what?"
"Having to work. Even though I could hear, like, all this noise in the background…"
"What did it sound like?"
"Like he was working at a gas station in the rain."
"Yeah, well, that doesn't mean anything," Devin says dismissively. "When my dad was having his affair before my parents split up, he used to make all these bogus staged calls to my mom to cover his butt. Like, he'd say he was calling from the car, stuck in traffic, or from the airport or something, and he wasn't. It just sounded like it because he was using this software-download service on his cell phone to make it sound like he was calling from somewhere else."
"You're kidding."
"Nope. I checked it out myself, actually, a while back. Before I figured out that now that my dad's gone and my mom's in charge, I can pretty much do what I want anyway. But if I wanted to come up with a good lie and cover my butt with fake background noise, I easily could, and Kevin could, too."
"So you think he's lying, too?" Lianna asks, incredulous that he would go to such lengths to make her think he's at work.
"I wouldn't be surprised."
"So what should I do?"
"Meet him tonight and call him on it. That's all you can do." 'Yeah, or not show up," Lianna says, glancing toward the window as the panes rattle in the wind. "Hey, the weather does look pretty bad. Did you say this is a hurricane?"
"Nah, just a tropical storm. At least, so far. My step-dad says it's no big deal. Trust me, it isn't." 'Yeah, well, you're up in Savannah. I'm stuck out here on this stupid island. I swear, I can't wait until we move back to the-"
There's a booming crack and then a deafening crash outside.
"Did you hear that?" she asks Devin. "God, it sounds like a gun just… Devin? Devin?"
The phone, Lianna realizes with a sickening feeling, has gone dead.
* * *
Waiting in the windowless interrogation room at the police station, where the detectives abandoned her ages ago with a promise to be back shortly, Charlotte is growing increasingly claustrophobic.
Her cell phone doesn't work in here, and she really should call home and let them know where she is. They must be getting worried, especially if that storm is still blowing in. It might even be starting to rain already; it could take her longer than usual to get back.
On top of that, most of the groceries she bought are going to be a total loss, sitting in the back of the SUV in the warm parking garage.
She supposes she could have stashed them in the fridge at the new house, conveniently located just down the block. But that would have meant setting foot in there again, and she isn't ready to do that. She couldn't even bring herself to drive down Oglethorpe Avenue to get here, instead going out of her way to avoid it.
She checks her watch again, wishing the detectives would at least stick their heads in, so that she could ask if she can leave the room to make a call.
Then again, she's almost afraid to call home, especially knowing that Aimee might pick up.
Of course Charlotte doesn't believe Royce's daughter, of all people, had anything to do with the shooting…
But the detectives don't seem as convinced.
And now, with all this time to sit and think, Charlotte is starting to get paranoid.
What if it was Aimee? What if she's so bitter over the loss of her brother that she wanted to hurt her father?
No. I can't be that poor a judge of character, can I?
No. I can't be that poor a judge of character… can I?
Still…
What if Aimee really did use an old baggage tag, like they said?
But I know she was calling me from the airport. I heard it in the background. I heard the flight announcement. Delta Flight 6-
"Mrs. Maitland?" Detective Dorado strides through the doorway, sans Williamson. "I'm sorry to have left you here for so long."
"It's okay, I just-I really need to call home and let them know where I am."
"You should-and you should probably stay here until the storm is over."
"What?" she asks in dismay.
"It's getting pretty nasty out there-especially down off the coast. Williamson was headed down to Jacksonville to look up your ex-husband but he just called and said he had to get off the road." 'The storm started already?" She pushes back her chair. "I can't stay in Savannah. I have to go back."
He holds up a hand. "Before you do, you should know one thing about your stepdaughter."
Once again, a corpse is dragged from the cabin to the nearest pool of water, considerably deeper already because of the tropical rain.
There, Phyllida Remington Harper's headless corpse is unceremoniously deposited with a splash.
Her head was inadvertently nearly severed when she tried to bolt in terror as her throat was cut.
Her fault, not mine. I only meant to slash her throat.
After she stopped flailing and gurgling, the sharp chefs knife finished the job with a neat, satisfying slice through the remaining tendons and spinal cord.
Satisfying, yes, but I should have left her head dangling if only to save an extra trip through this godawful storm.
No rest for the weary. Not today.
It's probable that the gators will have disposed of the torso and limbs by the time the head is retrieved from the cabin.
But surprisingly, the snapping jaws have yet to appear when the return trip has been made. The gators remain submerged and the body is still there, bobbing in the storm-tossed water.
Maybe the lurking creatures are waiting for the storm to end before they surface. Who can blame them? The weather is getting nastier by the second.
This time, there can be no loitering to watch the gators do their grisly work. Not with the storm raging and so much going on back at the house.
"Good-bye, Phyllida dear."
With that, the disembodied head of the would-be Remington heiress is tossed like a bowling ball into the churning, gator-infested water.
Charlotte holds her breath, fearing whatever Dorado is about to tell her about her stepdaughter, trying to prepare herself for the worst.
"Aimee was telling the truth about being on that flight from New Orleans."
"Thank God." Charlotte releases the breath audibly, through puffed cheeks. "Oh, thank God," she says again.
Then, with a pang of guilt and a silent apology to Aimee for even considering the worst, she adds, "But I never really had any doubt."
Not really.
"We confirmed everything with the airline. She went through Atlanta, just like you said, Mrs. Maitland-and just barely made the connection to Savannah because the first flight was way behind schedule getting in and then back out of New Orleans. In any case, we tracked her all the way through, and her bag as well. She did check it. You were right about her being innocent all along."
Weak with relief, Charlotte manages to say only, 'Thank you."
I knew it… I knew Aimee could never hurt Royce. Whatever she blamed him for in the past, she loves him… I couldn 't be mistaken about that.
But Karen…
"Did you contact Royce's ex-wife?"
"No. We tried to find her in New Orleans, but there's no listing. We'll need to talk to your husband about her, and we'll need to get an address and phone number for her."
"I'll call you with it as soon as I get home."
"Actually…" Dorado gestures toward the door. "Let's call your husband right now."
"Do we have to do it this way? Over the phone? Please, Detective, he's recovering from a major trauma."
"And we're trying to investigate the source of that trauma." His voice is gentle, but firm. "Let's call."
"Aimee?" Royce calls from the parlor. "Aimee! What the heck was that crash?"
I'll be back within the hour, she silently promises herself-and her family, who has no idea where she is.
She just couldn't go straight home after leaving Oakgate. Not without some answers. And she's going to try to find them in the local archives at the library's main branch on Bull Street in Savannah.
As she picks up speed, pulling onto the northbound ramp of 1-95, the rain seems to come down harder. She increases the wipers' speed, leaning forward over the wheel to see through the windshield, careful to keep a safe distance from the taillights of the eighteen-wheeler that got on in front of her.
Okay, this isn't the best weather for a road trip.
But she has no choice.
If what Dr. Von Cave suggested is actually true, then she might be on to something.
It would be so much easier if she could just have spoken to Charlotte directly.
When she ran into the young, vaguely familiar blond woman in the hallway as she was about to let herself out, she almost spilled the whole sad story in response to a simple, "Can I help you with something?"
Mimi fleetingly confided that she lives on the island and needs to speak with Charlotte about an urgent personal matter.
"She isn't here. Is it something I can help you with, maybe?"
"I don't think so," Mimi said."It's… a medical issue."
"I'm a nurse."
A nurse…
Is that why she looks familiar?
"Do you by any chance work at the Magnolia Clinic in Savannah?"
"No, I-"
"It doesn't matter, actually, where you work. I just need to get in touch with Charlotte as soon as possible. It's about my husband-he's been diagnosed with a rare stomach cancer, and I found out that Connie June Remington-"
"Mrs. Johnston!" The housekeeper scurried into the hall just then, far less welcoming than she was when she let Mimi in. "Mr. Maidand asked me to see that you had left. I'm sorry… You need to be on your way."
Mimi nodded and looked at the blond woman. "Can you tell Charlotte I was here, and to call me as soon as she can? My name is Mimi Johnston; I live down on the south canal."
She doubts Charlotte will get the message, let alone call her.
But then, she thought the same thing about Dr. Von Cave.
Of its own volition, her foot sinks slightly lower on the gas pedal.
And then, brazenly, lower still.
She's caught up to the truck, close enough to read the "How's My Driving?" sign on the back, despite the downpour and the spray.
Impatient to get to the library, heedless of the weather and the slick road, she decides to pass.
The moment she pulls out, a car horn blares, close behind her.
Too close.
It sends her swerving back into the right lane, out of control.
But only for a second.
A second is all it would have taken! her inner voice shrieks. You could have been killed.
Where would that leave Cam and Jed?
The steering wheel clenched in her white-knuckled hands, she has no choice but to slow to a relative crawl once again, staring bleakly through the windshield at the pouring rain.
This is becoming too precarious. Much, much too precarious.
An exhilarating, healthy little risk is one thing; fool-hardiness is altogether something else.
And I'm no fool.
Complications are escalating like the wind speed off the ocean. There's only one thing to do: eliminate them, step by step.
First things first.
Time to do away with Miss Beverly Hills. It shouldn't take long-and she'll make some hungry gator a nice, filling lunch, just like Pammy Sue did. It didn't take long after she was dumped in a shallow pool for the snapping jaws to emerge and devour her fetid remains. Lingering in the marsh to witness that frenzied feast was almost as gratifying as it would be to watch Pammy Sue the all over again.
In the end, there was nothing left of Mama's golden girl. Nothing at all.
Too bad alligators don't eat radios.
It, too, will have to be hidden… again.
The first time, it was to prevent Charlotte from taking it to a repairman who would open it up, undoubtedly see that it had been immersed in water, and tell Charlotte that was why it had stopped working.
Who knows what conclusion she might draw from that? 'She's smarter than she looks-unlike her West Coast cousin.
Hmm… maybe the radio can be weighted with a rock and sunk in the marsh on the way to the house.
That will have to do. The important thing is to get back to Oakgate before the storm's full fury descends.
A dank sea breeze incessantly rustles the palm fronds and moss-clotted foliage overhead, and the rain is picking up along with the wind. The sky has turned an ominous yellow-black over the Atlantic to herald the arrival of Tropical Storm-or perhaps it's Hurricane, by now- Douglas.
Ah, yes… the professional chefs knife is even more effective at clearing away troublesome vines than the utility knife was.
It will have to be thoroughly cleaned of blood-not to mention furtively sharpened-before it's been returned to the kitchen drawer back at Oakgate. Just in case.
In case, say, somebody would like to prepare a fancy French seafood recipe…
Or if a good, freshly whetted blade is needed for some altogether different purpose.
"So, like, he just called me to say that there's this really bad storm coming," Lianna tells Devin, practically whispering into the telephone receiver.
"Right. My mom is freaking out. Tropical Storm Douglas."
"Whatever… he has to work now because all these people are gassing up their cars to leave the island… so he said forget it and let's do it tonight instead."
"Where would you even go?"
"He said we could just, you know, hang out in his car, but…"
"What, you don't want to? That sounds romantic. Especially in a storm."
Lianna hesitates. "I don't know. I just don't know if I believe him."
"About what?"
"Having to work. Even though I could hear, like, all this noise in the background…"
"What did it sound like?"
"Like he was working at a gas station in the rain."
"Yeah, well, that doesn't mean anything," Devin says dismissively. "When my dad was having his affair before my parents split up, he used to make all these bogus staged calls to my mom to cover his butt. Like, he'd say he was calling from the car, stuck in traffic, or from the airport or something, and he wasn't. It just sounded like it because he was using this software-download service on his cell phone to make it sound like he was calling from somewhere else."
"You're kidding."
"Nope. I checked it out myself, actually, a while back. Before I figured out that now that my dad's gone and my mom's in charge, I can pretty much do what I want anyway. But if I wanted to come up with a good lie and cover my butt with fake background noise, I easily could, and Kevin could, too."
"So you think he's lying, too?" Lianna asks, incredulous that he would go to such lengths to make her think he's at work.
"I wouldn't be surprised."
"So what should I do?"
"Meet him tonight and call him on it. That's all you can do." 'Yeah, or not show up," Lianna says, glancing toward the window as the panes rattle in the wind. "Hey, the weather does look pretty bad. Did you say this is a hurricane?"
"Nah, just a tropical storm. At least, so far. My step-dad says it's no big deal. Trust me, it isn't." 'Yeah, well, you're up in Savannah. I'm stuck out here on this stupid island. I swear, I can't wait until we move back to the-"
There's a booming crack and then a deafening crash outside.
"Did you hear that?" she asks Devin. "God, it sounds like a gun just… Devin? Devin?"
The phone, Lianna realizes with a sickening feeling, has gone dead.
* * *
Waiting in the windowless interrogation room at the police station, where the detectives abandoned her ages ago with a promise to be back shortly, Charlotte is growing increasingly claustrophobic.
Her cell phone doesn't work in here, and she really should call home and let them know where she is. They must be getting worried, especially if that storm is still blowing in. It might even be starting to rain already; it could take her longer than usual to get back.
On top of that, most of the groceries she bought are going to be a total loss, sitting in the back of the SUV in the warm parking garage.
She supposes she could have stashed them in the fridge at the new house, conveniently located just down the block. But that would have meant setting foot in there again, and she isn't ready to do that. She couldn't even bring herself to drive down Oglethorpe Avenue to get here, instead going out of her way to avoid it.
She checks her watch again, wishing the detectives would at least stick their heads in, so that she could ask if she can leave the room to make a call.
Then again, she's almost afraid to call home, especially knowing that Aimee might pick up.
Of course Charlotte doesn't believe Royce's daughter, of all people, had anything to do with the shooting…
But the detectives don't seem as convinced.
And now, with all this time to sit and think, Charlotte is starting to get paranoid.
What if it was Aimee? What if she's so bitter over the loss of her brother that she wanted to hurt her father?
No. I can't be that poor a judge of character, can I?
No. I can't be that poor a judge of character… can I?
Still…
What if Aimee really did use an old baggage tag, like they said?
But I know she was calling me from the airport. I heard it in the background. I heard the flight announcement. Delta Flight 6-
"Mrs. Maitland?" Detective Dorado strides through the doorway, sans Williamson. "I'm sorry to have left you here for so long."
"It's okay, I just-I really need to call home and let them know where I am."
"You should-and you should probably stay here until the storm is over."
"What?" she asks in dismay.
"It's getting pretty nasty out there-especially down off the coast. Williamson was headed down to Jacksonville to look up your ex-husband but he just called and said he had to get off the road." 'The storm started already?" She pushes back her chair. "I can't stay in Savannah. I have to go back."
He holds up a hand. "Before you do, you should know one thing about your stepdaughter."
Once again, a corpse is dragged from the cabin to the nearest pool of water, considerably deeper already because of the tropical rain.
There, Phyllida Remington Harper's headless corpse is unceremoniously deposited with a splash.
Her head was inadvertently nearly severed when she tried to bolt in terror as her throat was cut.
Her fault, not mine. I only meant to slash her throat.
After she stopped flailing and gurgling, the sharp chefs knife finished the job with a neat, satisfying slice through the remaining tendons and spinal cord.
Satisfying, yes, but I should have left her head dangling if only to save an extra trip through this godawful storm.
No rest for the weary. Not today.
It's probable that the gators will have disposed of the torso and limbs by the time the head is retrieved from the cabin.
But surprisingly, the snapping jaws have yet to appear when the return trip has been made. The gators remain submerged and the body is still there, bobbing in the storm-tossed water.
Maybe the lurking creatures are waiting for the storm to end before they surface. Who can blame them? The weather is getting nastier by the second.
This time, there can be no loitering to watch the gators do their grisly work. Not with the storm raging and so much going on back at the house.
"Good-bye, Phyllida dear."
With that, the disembodied head of the would-be Remington heiress is tossed like a bowling ball into the churning, gator-infested water.
Charlotte holds her breath, fearing whatever Dorado is about to tell her about her stepdaughter, trying to prepare herself for the worst.
"Aimee was telling the truth about being on that flight from New Orleans."
"Thank God." Charlotte releases the breath audibly, through puffed cheeks. "Oh, thank God," she says again.
Then, with a pang of guilt and a silent apology to Aimee for even considering the worst, she adds, "But I never really had any doubt."
Not really.
"We confirmed everything with the airline. She went through Atlanta, just like you said, Mrs. Maitland-and just barely made the connection to Savannah because the first flight was way behind schedule getting in and then back out of New Orleans. In any case, we tracked her all the way through, and her bag as well. She did check it. You were right about her being innocent all along."
Weak with relief, Charlotte manages to say only, 'Thank you."
I knew it… I knew Aimee could never hurt Royce. Whatever she blamed him for in the past, she loves him… I couldn 't be mistaken about that.
But Karen…
"Did you contact Royce's ex-wife?"
"No. We tried to find her in New Orleans, but there's no listing. We'll need to talk to your husband about her, and we'll need to get an address and phone number for her."
"I'll call you with it as soon as I get home."
"Actually…" Dorado gestures toward the door. "Let's call your husband right now."
"Do we have to do it this way? Over the phone? Please, Detective, he's recovering from a major trauma."
"And we're trying to investigate the source of that trauma." His voice is gentle, but firm. "Let's call."
"Aimee?" Royce calls from the parlor. "Aimee! What the heck was that crash?"
