The Final Victim(10)

Growing up, Phyllida couldn't help envying her Southern cousin. But not so much for their grandfather's attention. Nor for demure Charlotte's natural grace, hen genuine kindness and goodness… nor for the feet that she always seemed to do and say the right tiling without even thinking about it.

No, more than anything else, Phyllida was jealous on Charlotte's effortless beauty. Even as a child, she was lithe and long-limbed, with wavy black hair, porcelain skin, and unusual purplish eyes fringed with thick, dark lashes. She even inherited the "Remington chin," the same distinctive, comely cleft shared by Grandaddy and some of her ancestors, whom she's seen in old family portraits.

Today, Charlotte's striking face and figure remain unenhanced by cosmetic surgery-unlike Phyllida's.

But in the end, none of that matters, does it? In the end, everything equals out.

Phyllida has plain-old blue eyes, not aquamarine like those of her brother, father, and grandfather, nor Liz Taylor-violet like Charlotte's. She considered-and dismissed-the notion of wearing colored contacts, despite how authentic-looking they are these days. But thanks to Dr. Zach Hilbert of Beverly Hills, Phyllida is now easily as stunning as her East Coast cousin.

And Charlotte will be entitled to the same third of the family fortune Phyllida and Gib will get. No more,no less.

Financial fair-mindedness was a proud trait of Grandaddy's, and always had been.

Phyllida's father had always assured her of that. Grandaddy deplored his own father's decision to cut his daughter out of his will. Great-Aunt Jeanne got nothing; Grandaddy got everything-on the stipulation that he not leave a penny of it to his sister upon his death.

So Grandaddy's estate would be divided equally between his two sons, Gilbert Xavier III-always called by his nickname, Xavy-and Norris.

Nobody ever dreamed that neither son would outlive the father.

Now, presumably, what was meant to belong to Phyllida's father and his brother will be divided equally among their heirs.

Presumably.

Of course it will, Phyllida assures herself, watching her toddler's little chest rise and fall rhythmically in the questionable old crib.

In just a few days, when the will is read, she'll find herself tens of millions of dollars richer.

Then, to hell with the acting career, Hollywood, even Brian.

For once in her life, Phyllida Remington Harper will have everything she wants. Everything she needs.

But for now, there's nothing to do but bide her time in this spooky Southern relic of a house.

*

The huge plantation house kitchen reportedly once had a dirt floor and a fireplace big enough to walk into It's obviously been remodeled many times through the years. Royce doubts, however, that it's been touched in the last couple of decades, other than to add a fairly up-to-date dishwasher and wedge a microwave into a nook on the soapstone countertop.

Having spent the last few months pouring over design catalogues in the midst of redoing their new house in Savannah, he finds it fairly easy to identify each of the other upgrades with the era in which it was done.

The painted white cabinets with glass-front doors and fold-down ironing board have to be from the twenties. The enormous black cookstove is Depression era And the floor-black-and-white tile set in a checkerboard diamond pattern-is as blatantly 1950s as a tuna casserole served by June Cleaver in a bib apron.

Retro style is all the rage in the Maitlands's social circle, but here at Oakgate, everything-including the appliances-is the real deal.

Standing at the vintage farmhouse sink, Royce pours his wife's untouched sweet tea-a remnant of her well loved, late-afternoon ritual-down the drain.

"Better run some water," a voice says behind him, startling him so that he nearly drops the glass.

He turns to see the Remingtons's longtime live-in housekeeper standing in the doorway that leads to the maids' quarters off the kitchen. "Nydia! You scared me."

Her staccato laugh is free of mirth.

She's one tart old biddy, Royce thinks every time he finds himself interacting with her.

To Nydia's further discredit: she has a disconcerting way of slithering up behind a person when they least expect it. This isn't the first time she's caused Royce to jump out of his skin.

"Did you think I was a ghost, Mr. Maitland?"

"Of course not." But you do look like one, he can't help noting.

Nydia is a wisp of a woman, prone to wearing pastels, and her short hair and uninteresting features are as pale as the tiresome grits she dishes up every morning. Royce has no idea how old she is; she's one of those people who could be in her fifties or in her seventies, but is most likely somewhere in between. He does know she's been with Charlotte's grandfather since his children were young.

"Some people think this house is haunted," she comments, taking the glass from his hand and opening the dishwasher.

"Do you think it's haunted?"

"By the living as much as the dead," is her strange, prompt reply.

He waits for her to elaborate.

She doesn't, forcing him to ask, "What do you mean by that?"

Having placed the glass on the top rack, she closes the dishwasher in silence and turns to the sink, brushing him aside.

She turns on the water.

When she speaks, it's only to say, "Tea stains this old white porcelain, you know, Mr. Maitland."