The Final Victim (34 page)

    "My mother would probably spoon-feed me Gerber strained peaches from a little jar if she had her way,"
Lianna
retorted.

    Aimee laughed. "Parents are tough, aren't they? I'm twenty-five and my father still calls me 'Baby Girl.' Order what you want. I just can't believe they really serve fried chicken at this hour."

    Aimee just ordered a cup of coffee, saying she never eats breakfast. "If I did, I'd look like… well, like her," she said with a tilt of her head toward the large woman adding napkins and condiments to her loaded tray of chicken and fries.

    
Lianna
told herself that that was really mean, even though it was the kind of thing her friends would say, and she would giggle at.

    The truth is
,
she doesn't want to like Aimee. She never wanted a sister, older or younger, step or otherwise, no matter what her mother likes to think.

    Now, with Devin apparently waiting for her to go into detail about Aimee, she just shrugs and asks, "Are we going inside, or what?"

    
"Nah.
My mother and Ray are still sleeping. They were out late at some party, and I bet they're really hung-over. Let's just get out of here."

    
Lianna's
first thought is that her mother probably thinks she's spending the day safely at Devin's house.

    Her next thought
is,
who cares what her mother thinks? If she was so eager to unload
Lianna
for the day that she doesn't even remember she's been grounded, that's
her
problem.

    "Where do you want to go?" she asks Devin.

    "Do you have any money with you?"

    Aimee asked the same thing, just before she pulled up at Devin's.

    When
Lianna
said no, she reached into her purse and pulled out a couple of twenties. "Here," she said easily. "Take it. You know… in case you and your friend want to do something later."

    "Like what?"

    "Like go to a movie, or shopping, or something. I don't know
,
what do y'all usually do when you hang out?"

    Wondering again if she was being baited by a nosy stepsister on behalf of a nosier mother,
Lianna
just shrugged.

    But she took the money with mumbled thanks.

    When she nods, Devin decides, "We'll go to the mall, then. I need to get some stuff for school."

    "It doesn't even start for weeks."

    "Whatever. It's an excuse to buy new clothes, right?"

    
Lianna
grins.
"Right."

    "Your mother's not going to show up here looking for you any time soon, is she?"

    
"No way.
She's going to the hospital. Trust me, she won't even think about me for hours."

    "That's great."

    
Yeah
,
Lianna
thinks, following Devin back down the steps to the street
.
Just great
.

    Tyler closes the door to Gilbert's private study with a quaking hand, trying not to remember what transpired the last time he crossed this particular threshold, with Silas Neville on his heels.

    He pauses to gather his composure before turning to face his late friend's grandson.

    
Gib
has taken a seat-or rather, collapsed-on the couch across from the antique desk where generations of Remington men have conducted their very successful business dealings.

    Never, Tyler thinks, would any of them have imagined that one day, the lone remaining Remington son-the only hope for carrying on the family name-would be sitting here accused of an unthinkable crime.

    Tyler can't help but acknowledge the bitter irony: After the extraordinary lengths Gilbert went to in order to preserve the legacy, this young, cocky successor has seemingly destroyed the whole damned thing.

    He knew plenty of brash young men like
Gib
Remington in his days at Telfair Academy.
Arrogant offspring of wealthy families, believing that the rules didn't apply to them.
They started out breaking curfews.

    Some-like, perhaps,
Gib
Remington-went on to break laws.

    
I was one of them
, Tyler thinks, a wave of nausea swishing through his gut.

    But that was long ago.
Too long ago to dwell on now-or here.

    This is about a new generation-not the Telfair Trio.

    
Gib's
face is drawn; he's obviously quite shaken.

    "Is there anything you want to tell me?" Tyler studiously avoids Gilbert's tidy desk as he pulls a chair adjacent to the couch and sits down to face his would-be client
Gib
shrugs, refusing to meet his gaze. 'Just that I
haven't
done anything wrong."

    Tyler nods. It's not as though he expected a confession. He crosses his legs and leans forward, his chin resting on his fist as he studies
Gib's
face.

    If he subscribed to the theories of
Lavater's
physiognomy, as some trial lawyers-and, subconsciously, jurors-do, he would deem
Gib
Remington innocent just based on his looks. With that shock of blond hair, wide-set eyes the shade of a summer sea, and strong jaw, he's a mirror image of his grandfather at that age, right down to the cowlick. In other words,
Gib
, like Gilbert before him, is the polar opposite of the beady-eyed, unshaven caricature of a criminal.

    
So what does that tell
you
?
Tyler
asks himself wryly.

    All right, then, when it comes to nonverbal indications of possible guilt, he's far better off considering demeanor-and
Gib's
is telling, particularly in response to the next question.

    "You might as well tell me now: is there any chance at all that those detectives are going to turn up anything of interest when they search your room?"

    
Gib
doesn't reply, but the answer is plain to see in a pair of fists that clench and unclench in his lap.

    Then he looks up, but not at Tyler-and not in resignation.
Gib's
gaze shifts directly toward the window, where a slight breeze stirs sun-dappled boughs. "Why are you here, Mr. Hawthorne?"

    Irritated by the indolent tone-or perhaps, by the realization that it echoes
his own,
and Gilbert's, in their own youthful era of entitlement-Tyler snaps, "Well, it's not because I have ESP, that's for damned sure. You heard what your cousin told the detectives in there, didn't you? She called me."

    "No, I mean, why did you agree to come rushing right over here? You're Charlotte's lawyer, not mine."

    "No, I'm not her lawyer, either. I'm your
Grandaddy's
lawyer."
And his oldest, most faithful friend,
dammit
.

    "As you may recall," Tyler can't resist adding with a tinge of sarcasm, "I represent his estate."

    
"Which he didn't leave to me."

    "
Which has nothing to do with this.
" Tyler deliberately inserts a significant pause before asking, "Does it?"

    "No!"
Gib
raises a hand to thrust his blond cowlick farther away from his forehead, a gesture Tyler noted repeatedly in his office last week, as the tension mounted after the will was read.

    But
Gib's
current level of stress doesn't necessarily mean he's guilty. Anybody would be uptight under these circumstances, Tyler acknowledges.

    Nor has
Gib
Remington been formally accused of any crime… yet.

    "Do you want me to leave?" Tyler asks, entirely poised to do so. "I'm not about to waste my time here, or yours."

    "With any luck, this is going to turn out to be a waste of everyone's time," is the surly reply.

    Tyler uncrosses his legs and begins to stand.

    "Wait!"

    The word is spoken sharply-almost desperately.

    He looks at
Gib
to see a row of perfect teeth-professionally
whitened,
no doubt-descend over his lower lip and bite down, hard. When they lift, a bead of blood appears.

    Then, for the first time,
Gib
Remington looks Tyler in the eye.

    "Don't go," he says heavily. "I think I'm going to need you."

    Charlotte leans in the doorway of
Gib's
room,
arms folded across her middle in as laid-back a posture as she can manage. Inside, she's a mess, her thoughts racing with possibilities she never before would have willingly entertained.

    She watches the detectives seize stacks of carefully folded clothing from his drawers, tossing them on the bed. They do the same with the contents of the small closet, not pausing to remove them from their hangers. Each garment is thoroughly examined, creases and pockets and shirt cuffs checked, before it is unceremoniously tossed to the floor.

    
Gib
would be cringing, Charlotte thinks
,
if he could see this.

    Hopefully cringing only because of what they're doing to his cherished wardrobe, and not trepidation over what they might discover.

    She breathes an inner sigh of relief when half a dozen pairs of shoes are swept up from the closet floor, their soles scrutinized before they're tossed into a heap in the corner.

    
Gib's
brown Italian-leather
Dopp
bag is emptied on the floor, with a cursory inspection of his toiletries. Charlotte doesn't miss the snorts and derisive comments from the macho cops about the many hair products "pretty boy" uses.

    A more thorough perusal is made of the contents of
Gib's
matching leather jewelry case. Charlotte's pulse quickens, as she waits to see if the heirloom cufflink's missing partner will turn up.

    It doesn't.

    Furniture is pushed and pulled from place to place, draperies yanked from their rods, the rug rolled, lifted, propped upright in a corner. The bedding is
removed,
the mattress patted and probed, then slid away altogether and leaned against a wall.

    
Poor
Grandaddy
must be turning over in his
grave
,
Charlotte
thinks, shifting her weight but not her gaze as the men inspect the box spring. Thank goodness they're almost finished in here, and so far, nothing- 'There's a slit in this cover. Look at this!" Dorado plunges a hand through the box spring's gauzy lining and pulls something out.

    In the immediate flurry of activity around the bed, Charlotte can't see the object, but whatever it is seems to be incriminating.

    A swift, further probe into the hole in the box spring yields several other items as well.

    Steeling herself in dread, she stands on her tiptoes to look over Williamson's imposing shoulder to see what the fuss is about.

    In that instant, her worst fear materializes.

    Lined up on the floor as a police photographer snaps pictures from every angle are a pair of muddy brown dress shoes and a rumpled, yet still-starched white dress shirt, one French cuff still studded with an unmistakable heirloom platinum cufflink-the other empty.

    "Here, Royce…" Leaving his left elbow in Aimee's capable grasp, Charlotte releases his right and scurries ahead to shove the coffee table away from the couch in the front parlor. "Sit right here."

    Royce groans slightly as he lowers himself, with his wife and daughter's help, into the cushions. 'That's better."

    Charlotte and Aimee exchange a worried glance. Maybe it is too soon for him to be home from the hospital, less than a week after his ordeal began. They both thought so, especially since the old elevator at
Oakgate
stopped working sometime this week. It would have come in handy, getting him to and from the second floor.

    But Royce was determined to get out of there regardless, and the doctors agreed to release him Friday afternoon, just in time for the weekend.

    Longing for privacy, what with the media going crazy over the scandal of
Gib's
arrest, Charlotte nevertheless can't help being jittery about the prospect of caring for Royce at home. She wanted to hire a full-time visiting nurse, but Royce wouldn't hear of it.

    "I'll be good as new in a couple of days," he proclaimed heartily.

    
That bravado disappeared somewhere during the painstaking journey through the gathering dusk, up the front steps and across the portico.

    Charlotte and Aimee both urged him to agree to let them bring a wheelchair along, but Royce is determined to go on his own steam from here on in.

    Thank goodness Aimee has agreed to put her resume and post-graduation job hunt on hold for a while longer, to stay and help. As she pointed out to Royce, she's an RN now. Who better suited to handle the task?