The Final Victim (39 page)

    "No, really, let me get it ready. That way, your visitor can move right in there this morning."

    "You mean Aimee?"

    Nydia nods.

    Charlotte shakes her head in response, rifling through her recipe cards with growing irritation.

    Earlier this week, the woman also wanted to move Aimee into
Gib's
vacated, ransacked premises-and would have probably transferred her things single-handedly if the police hadn't cordoned off the room and asked them to leave it untouched for the time being.

    Sensing she's about to get an argument now, Charlotte informs Nydia firmly, as she plucks the recipe card from the box and slams it closed, "I'd hate to make Aimee move now that she's settled in. And the room she's in"-
your
grandaddy's
room
, Nydia's disapproving look reminds her-"has its own private bathroom."

    
Yes.
The bathroom where he died
.

    The unspoken words dangle between them as Nydia says only, "Your grandfather's things are still there. I never had the chance to clean them out before she showed up."

    She says it with a deliberate emphasis on the pronoun, as though Aimee has no right to be here… and, come to think of it, as though it's up to Nydia, and not Charlotte, to go through
Grandaddy's
possessions.

    She supposes the housekeeper does have a certain proprietary sense, having lived here since before Charlotte was even born. Still…

    The woman is household help, not family.

    "I'll go through
Grandaddy's
things after Aimee leaves," she tells Nydia, a bit coldly.

    
And Aimee, by the way, is family.

    Before Nydia can comment, she adds, "Nobody's going to disturb anything in the meantime, so don't worry."

    The housekeeper meets her gaze head on. "I would hope not," is all she says, before turning back to the sink.

    Charlotte sets the recipe card on the counter, consults it, and opens the cupboard door to check for dried tarragon.

    "Can I help you find something?" Nydia asks, startling her, having come up right behind her.

    "Tarragon… Do you know if we have any?"

    "No, I don't. Why don't you let me check?"

    Sensing that the woman's offer stems more from reluctance to see her precious cupboards disturbed than from genuine helpfulness, Charlotte says, "Never mind:"

    Forget about checking for the herbs and spices she'll need. Unwilling to spend another moment in Nydia's company, Charlotte lakes her coffee and her purse and leaves the room.

    The housekeeper usually isn't this unpleasant-but
then,
Charlotte usually doesn't deal with her at this hour. Maybe she, like
Lianna
, just isn't a morning person.

    No problem. Charlotte can buy everything she needs at the supermarket, including the herbs and spices. Fresh would be better anyway.

    The longer she takes to shop and drop off the radio after church, the better the chances that Nydia will be gone for the day by the time she gets back.

    She moves quietly through the house to the closed French doors to the parlor, where Royce is still asleep.

    Darn it. She should have thought to get the radio from the mantel before she went to bed last night, so she wouldn't have to disturb him. Why didn't she do that?

    
Because you were too caught up in having Royce home to give anything else, including
Phyllida
, a second thought.

    Again, she wonders whether her cousin made it home to California, and why she didn't at least say good-bye before she left. True, they aren't on the best of terms after all that's happened, but
Phyllida
must know Charlotte doesn't hold her responsible for her brother's actions.

    Gib.

    Even now, after all these days, she still can't quite grasp the enormity of what he did. Every morning, the shocking truth settles over her anew, like an ill-fitting uniform you can't wait to strip off when the day is done.

    She supposes she'll get used to the idea that the enemy was lurking under this very roof-behind the mask of a loved one, no less.

    Crossing the threshold into the parlor, she finds the heavy amber-silk draperies still pulled across the lace curtains, to block out the morning light.

    When her eyes have grown accustomed to the dim interior, she glances toward the hospital bed on the far    side of the room, in a nook beside the window. Royce is there, his mouth thrown open, obviously in a deep sleep.

    After crossing the carpet on tiptoe, Charlotte realizes she'll need to tuck her car keys into her purse to free her hands for carrying the radio.

    Unfortunately, she misses the zippered pocket, and the keys plummet to the floor. Of all the luck, en route, they strike one of the antique brass andirons with a deafening jangle.

    Gasping in dismay, Charlotte swivels her head to look at Royce.

    He doesn't even appear to have moved a muscle.

    Panic overtakes her as she remembers the sight of
Grandaddy's
corpse, looking as though he had fallen sound asleep in the tub. In fact, she had almost convinced herself that Nydia was hysterical over nothing, jumping to conclusions…

    Until she touched his skin and found it as cold as the bathwater and hard as the porcelain tub.

    
Heart pounding in dread, she walks over to Royce.

    
No,
she thinks.
This can't be happening.

    I can't lose him now, after everything.

    Slowly, she reaches for his hand, exposed on top of the sheet.

    Thank God, she thinks as her fingers graze her husband's unmistakably warm flesh.

    He doesn't even flinch as she gives him one last, firm stroke, just to be sure.

    Aimee was right, she thinks, amused as she goes back to retrieve the keys. That painkiller he's on is good stuff. A freight train could roar through here, and it probably wouldn't even wake him.

    On her key ring, the plastic frame that holds the Grand Canyon photo of
herself
and Royce has cracked.

    Taken aback, Charlotte sees that a jagged line now appears to divide it in half, right between their smiling faces, almost as if it's a harbinger to…

    No. Don't be ridiculous. Nothing is going to happen to Royce.

    Anyway, the whole picture is an illusion in the first place: artificial backdrop, smiles, and all. They'd had a rare argument shortly before it was taken. Over what, she can no longer remember. It doesn't matter.

    She gives her sleeping husband one last, grateful glance. He's going to be fine.
Really.

    "I won't be gone long," she whispers. "I love you."

    Now she just needs to grab the radio, dash back to the kitchen for the recipe card, which she forgot on the counter, and be on her way.

    There's just one problem.

    The spot in the center of the mantel…

    The spot where the radio sat for decades in its place of honor…

    
Is now conspicuously empty.

    After a quick, fruitless search of the room-indeed, the entire first floor-Charlotte, dumbfounded, concludes that her
Grandaddy's
radio seems to have somehow vanished altogether.

    With little to do each day but observe his own droughts,
Gib
has grown to loathe Detective Williamson.

    Dorado is tolerable-you get the feeling that he's at least human, that you might actually like him under regular circumstances. His partner, however, is thoroughly abrasive in every possible way.

    Thus, when
Gib
is summoned to face him in a window-less room no different, really, than a jail cell, it's all he can do not to-

  
 
What? Spit in his face? Give him the finger?

    Yeah, that'll go over big.
Especially with Tyler here.
Gib
can't help but notice that the lawyer seems to be growing less benevolent with every passing day.

    In fact, this morning, Tyler sits, arms folded, as though he's waiting impatiently for the detectives to begin… or end, so he can get on with his day.

    He also refuses to meet
Gib's
eyes.

    That isn't a good sign.

    
Gib
assumes they're all here for another attempt at plea bargaining. If so, they're wasting their time.

    "We have a few more questions for you, Remington," Dorado informs him, and something in his tone warns
Gib
the case has taken a turn. For better or worse, he isn't certain. But he senses that there's been a new development.

    His brain is immediately fraught with possibilities- and fear. Still, he's careful to maintain an utterly blank facade, lest the circling predators sniff blood in the water.
Gib
knows now, from experience, that they will feed off the slightest hint of vulnerability.

    What the hell is going on?

    Did they do another search of his belongings?

    Did they look more closely at the items in his
Dopp
bag?

    Could they possibly have found the contents of the receptacles disguised as a shaving cream can and hair product?

    
No!
Of course not.
If they didn't find it the first time, they aren't going to keep going over and over the same evidence
,
Gib
reminds himself.

    Still, it takes every bit of his concentration to keep from betraying his foreboding as Williamson says, "We're not going to beat around the bush with you, Remington."

    
Gib
shrugs, even as a shrill voice in his head shrieks,
They '
ve
found it. They know everything.
You 're
fried.

    "I'm going to ask you a straightforward question, Remington." Williamson leans forward, his voice menacingly low, "And I want a straightforward answer. Got it?"

    
Gib
nods, holding his breath, reminding himself that this whole nightmarish situation is getting blown out of proportion.

    
Seriously, it's not like I've been accused of murder.

    But Williamson's next words make quick wreckage of that particular thought, hitting
Gib
like a cyclone.

    "Where were you on the night your grandfather died?"

    Royce sighs, watching Charlotte once again look at the empty spot on the mantel, almost as though she expects the missing radio to have miraculously materialized there.

    "Charlotte, there has to be a logical explanation for this," he says gently, and not for the first time since he woke from a sound sleep to find her moving the couch to search behind it.

    "I know there is."

    He can't help but say, "I promise that the house being haunted by your grandfather's ghost isn't it."

    "I know it sounds cra2y…" She smiles sheepishly, turning away from the mantel to return to his bedside. "It's just that when it wasn't working, I thought maybe it 1 was because
Grandaddy's
spirit did something to it."

    "
Which makes a whole lot of sense.
" He returns her smile to show that he's teasing.

    "Royce, don't laugh at me."

    "I'm not laughing, honey. I'm just trying to convince you that somebody-a human being in this house- must have moved the radio.
Or taken it."

    "Who would possibly do that?"

    "Think about it, Charlotte. Who do you think?"

    She shrugs. "I've already checked with Nydia and Aimee. I know
Lianna
couldn't have had anything to do with it…" She gives a purposeful nod, and he can tell she hasn't let go of his earlier insinuation about the pain medication.

    This probably isn't a good time for him to mention that he's noticed the supply seems to be dwindling. He'll bring it up later, when she isn't as distracted.

    'The only other person in this house is Aunt Jeanne," Charlotte points out, "and unless she told her nurse to come down and grab it, she's out of the question."

    "Maybe she did just that."

    There's a long pause.

    "Why would she?"

    
Why? Because she's a
nutcase
,
is what he wants to say.

    But he opts for the more sensitive, "You know she's not exactly of sound mind. Why does she do or say anything?"

    Charlotte shrugs again. "I'll ask her nurse tomorrow. She doesn't come on Sundays, and there's no use asking Aunt Jeanne directly."

    "I don't think that matters," Royce says meaningfully.

    His wife raises a brow. "Why?" 'Think about it, Charlotte. You forgot about one other person who's been in this house."