The Final Victim(100)

"So he visits her a lot?" Williamson asks, while Dorado jots down the flight information.

"He does now."

Too late, she realizes what she said.

"I mean, he does." She nods vehemently. "They get along very well."

"But there was trouble between them in the past?"

"Detective, my husband lost his son, Aimee's little brother, a few years ago. It just about ripped his family apart. He and his wife and daughter-well, they had to blame somebody. I know what that's like. Royce blamed himself. So did Aimee and Karen."

It's Williamson who breaks the uncomfortable silence.

"We'll need to check out your stepdaughter's alibi, Mrs. Maitland."

"It'll be our first priority," Dorado promises. "We'll make sure she really was on that flight. If she was, then you have nothing to worry about."

"She was," Charlotte tells him, lifting her chin resolutely.

But God knows she has everything to worry about.

Aimee… Karen… Vince…

They're going to put everyone who has anything to do with the Remington family under a microscope.

And God only knows what they're going to find.

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 lowlying 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.