The Final Victim (22 page)

    If all goes according to plan, Jed will be reading
Mike Mulligan
to his son for years to come.

    "How are we all doing today, guys? Or should I say
ladies
?"

    One by one, the flashlight's beam illuminates three faces framed by nylon hair.
One blonde, one brunette, one redhead, all of them grinning.

    "No wonder you look so happy. You must know that you're going to be getting some
compan
-"

    An ominous rattling in the shadows over by the fireplace cuts the word short.

    A swing of the flashlight reveals the source: a large diamondback rattlesnake is clearly visible on the mud floor.

    "Did you know, ladies, that some of the largest rattlesnakes in the country live out here on
Achoco
Island? That's right. They're a protected species out here."

    The reptilian intruder slithers its way closer.

    "Protected means you aren't allowed to kill them."

    The snake weaves its way through the maze of tiny chair and table legs, its menacing rattle reverberating in the small cabin…

    
Until its head is neatly sliced off with a blade it never sensed coming.

    "But sometimes, you have to kill them anyway."

    The snake's body ceases to writhe as its head is kicked aside, to rot in a far corner.

    "And sometimes, it's sad to say, it's exactly the same way with people."

    
Hmmm…

    Charlotte steps back to examine the parallel stripes of paint she rolled on the bedroom wall, careful not to spill any on her pale-yellow linen sleeveless shift and white sandals. Had she realized she'd be doing more than just shopping for paint, she would have left the shorts and T-shirt on.

    It was Royce's idea to haul the samples over to the house when she couldn't make up her mind, after stops at the hardware and tile stores. Once they got here, of course, they got caught up in countless details.

    Royce wanted to
remeasure
the master bathroom to make sure they'd have enough
tile
for the back-splash.

    Then he decided to install the new switch plates they'd just picked up, not trusting the workers to figure out which styles went in which rooms.

    While she was waiting for him to do that, Charlotte started lining the cupboard shelves
withi
the cute contact paper they'd just bought. Naturally, he would end up helping her, insisting on measuring each shelf precisely and cutting each piece himself with a razor blade he had to keep changing because it kept getting gummy with the paper's backing.

    She should probably respect his perfection-and she usually does-but she never expected them to be here into the night. She's tired and hungry and rapidly losing interest in anything related to home decor.

    Just when they were ready to leave an hour ago, the sky opened up in a late-day thunderstorm. They came up here to kill time, and the next thing Charlotte knew, Royce was caught up in something all over again.

    Still, she tries to keep her irritability at bay, remembering that Royce was exceedingly patient with her in the hardware store. He was even more patient at the tile place, where he allowed her to spend an hour going back and forth among three kinds of marble for the backsplash around the new
clawfoot
tub.

    When she finally made her decision, he decided to buy it and haul it back here himself, rather than wait for the contractor to do it.

    'The fewer steps we leave to him, the less chance for further delays," he pointed out. "This way, they can get the installer here with a wet saw first thing Monday morning."

    "What do you think?" she asks her husband now, as she tilts her head to look at the shades of paint.

    Royce looks up from the box of tumbled marble squares he's been counting. "Very good, honey. I think you're great at making nice, straight lines."

    She grins. "I mean, what do you think of the colors? Which do you like better?"

    They're different colors?"

    "One is antique blue, one is colonial blue." 'They both look plain-old blue-blue to me," he says with a shrug, and goes back to the box of tiles.

    "You're a lot of help," she grumbles good-naturedly, and steps away from the wall, around both roller trays and a stack of sample-sized paint cans on the floor, to get a better look.

    "Is there going to be enough
tile
?" she asks now, hoping they aren't going to come up short.

    "
Shhh
, you'll make me lose count again."

    "Sorry."

    She crosses all the way to the far side of the room, coming to a stop beside the window overlooking the street. From here, the blue paint stripes really do look identical.

    Oh, well.

    Maybe she'll be able to tell which she prefers tomorrow, with natural daylight coming in.

    Right now, there's only the light from a bare bulb protruding from the ornate plaster medallion in the middle of the ceiling, where a light fixture will hang- which they really do need to pick out before this weekend is over, according to the message the general contractor left earlier on her cell phone's voice mail.

    There's so much to do before the renovation can be completed. Mostly just finishing touches, but they combine into a series of daunting tasks.

    Today, despite her physical exhaustion and all she's been through this week, Charlotte welcomes the distraction.

    Still, she wonders in retrospect if they would have taken on the project had they known how complicated and drawn out it would be. She might have been content to buy a newer home, outside the historic district, in the suburbs, maybe.

    But there was something about this house, an original Greek Revival that was later remodeled in the Second Empire baroque style. Its architectural quirks appealed to her, even in its former state, with peeling paint, broken windows, and overgrown shrubs.

    There was a time, at least a decade before Charlotte's own childhood, when the historic district was riddled with such neglected places. Then
came
the revitalization that transformed the mansions, one by one, to their former glory.

    This frame structure on East Oglethorpe Avenue was one of the last historic homes in the district to have escaped preservation-or the wrecking ball. Its longtime owner had been placed in a nursing home years ago and refused to sell, clinging to the hope that she would go home again one day. That wasn't to be.

    The owner's sole surviving heir, a distant cousin living in Chicago, couldn't wait to wash his hands of the place. Charlotte and Royce snagged it for a song-only to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on the renovation.

    Not that it matters, in the big picture.

    They can afford it.

    
Especially now, she thinks, her heart sinking as she remembers the inheritance.

    What she and Royce spent on the house is a tiny percentage of the fortune she's about to receive from
Grandaddy
.

    She again considers, and quickly dismisses, her husband's suggestion that she give away two-thirds of the money to her cousins.

    She hasn't come up with a likely motive for Gran-daddy's decision, though she spent most of yesterday combing through his papers, searching for a clue.

    
Nothing yet.

    But sooner or later, something is bound to turn up.
And until it does…

    
Don't worry,
Grandaddy
. I won't give away your money to anybody who doesn't deserve it.

    
"Hey. You've reached Vince's cell phone. Leave me a message, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

    
Lianna
ends the call in frustration, unwilling to leave yet another message for her father, who is apparently missing in action.

    He called this afternoon to say he was looking at a couple of commercial real estate properties in Brunswick, but would be by later to take her to dinner.

    "I made a reservation for us at a nice upscale place," he told her. "It's called the Sea Captain's House. Ever hear of it?"

    
"Oh, yeah."

    The Sea Captain's House is the fanciest place on the island.
Lianna
has eaten there lots of times with her mother and Royce, but never with her dad. It killed her to tell him she couldn't go because she was grounded.

    Naturally, he wanted to know what she'd done to deserve that.

    When she told him, all he said was, "Well, that's your mother's rule and you have to live with it"

    But she could tell he thinks Mom is too strict She was about to ask him to intervene on her behalf when he said, "Listen, it wasn't easy to get that dinner reservation, so… You won't care if I go myself, will you?"

    "Of course I won't care," she said, masking her disappointment "I just wish I could have seen you tonight that's all."

    "I'll come by and visit after dinner, okay?"

    But here it is, long after dinner, and he has yet to appear. Nor is he answering his cell phone. In fact it must be turned off, because it goes right into voice mail every time she calls the number.

    Missing her own cell phone,
Lianna
replaces the receiver in its cradle on the wall opposite the kitchen sink.

    It wouldn't be so bad if this old house at least had a cordless phone she could carry back upstairs to her room, not to mention more than just three phone jacks in the whole place.

    One is located in the kitchen, one in the far parlor, one in the second-floor study. All of them have old-fashioned telephones with curly cords, which
makes
it very difficult for a person to carry on a private conversation.

    At least the house is pretty deserted tonight, with Mom and Royce still out. That jerk
Gib
has gone off somewhere, too. She assumes
Phyllida
is in her room, watching television-
Lianna
could hear it through the door when she passed. As for Nydia, she must be in bed asleep, because there's no sign of light or sound from the maid's quarters adjacent to the kitchen.

    Now would be a good time to try and reach Kevin again, she decides, glancing at the stove clock. She tried him earlier, but he didn't pick up his phone, and when she tried him at home one of his brothers said he was out.

    "Do you know where he is?"
Lianna
asked him.

    "Nope, do you?"

    "Um… Do you know when he'll be back?"

    "Nope, do you?" The guy laughed and hung up.

    What a loser.
Lianna
isn't particularly anxious to talk to him again.

    Maybe Kevin's working down at the Mobil station tonight. He isn't allowed to take phone calls on the job.

    If she had her cell, she could text message him.

    Maybe she should go look for it in Mom and Royce's bedroom…

    But even if she finds it, she doesn't dare use it. Knowing Mom, who seems to think she's working for the CIA these days, she'll probably check the records when she gets the bill next month.

    She picks up the phone again and dials the number for Kevin's house.

    The same brother picks up the phone.

    "Is Kevin there?" she asks tentatively.

    
"Nope.
Who is this, his girlfriend checking up on him or something?"

    "Actually, yes it is," she finds herself retorting. "Have him call
Lianna
when he gets home, will you? Oh, and tell him not to use my cell number. Just call
Oakgate
."

    There's a moment of silence.

    Then Kevin's brother says, "
Oakgate
? You mean the Remington place?"

    "That's the one."

    
"Yeah?
Who are you, the maid's daughter or something?"

    She contemplates that.

    It's not like her mother doesn't already know she was seeing Kevin. And it's not like she's ashamed of
it,
or anything like that. Still,
Achoco
Island is like a gossipy small town, and she isn't exactly anxious to broadcast their relationship. That's bound to happen if the
Tinkstons
get wind of it.

    "Yeah," she says, "I am. Just have
him
call, okay?"

    Gone is the slightest bit of interest from his brother, who hangs up with a brusque, "Whatever."

    Kevin probably won't even get the message, she thinks with a sigh.

    "Done counting yet,
hon
?" she asks Royce, giving up on the paint selection for tonight. "I think we should go down to River Street and get some fried oysters and beer."

    He holds up a finger. "…
fifty-
six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight…"