The Final Victim(102)

But the detectives don't seem as convinced.

And now, with all this time to sit and think, Charlotte is starting to get paranoid.

What if it was Aimee? What if she's so bitter over the loss of her brother that she wanted to hurt her father?

No. I can't be that poor a judge of character, can I?

No. I can't be that poor a judge of character… can I?

Still…

What if Aimee really did use an old baggage tag, like they said?

But I know she was calling me from the airport. I heard it in the background. I heard the flight announcement. Delta Flight 6-

"Mrs. Maitland?" Detective Dorado strides through the doorway, sans Williamson. "I'm sorry to have left you here for so long."

"It's okay, I just-I really need to call home and let them know where I am."

"You should-and you should probably stay here until the storm is over."

"What?" she asks in dismay.

"It's getting pretty nasty out there-especially down off the coast. Williamson was headed down to Jacksonville to look up your ex-husband but he just called and said he had to get off the road." 'The storm started already?" She pushes back her chair. "I can't stay in Savannah. I have to go back."

He holds up a hand. "Before you do, you should know one thing about your stepdaughter."

Once again, a corpse is dragged from the cabin to the nearest pool of water, considerably deeper already because of the tropical rain.

There, Phyllida Remington Harper's headless corpse is unceremoniously deposited with a splash.

Her head was inadvertently nearly severed when she tried to bolt in terror as her throat was cut.

Her fault, not mine. I only meant to slash her throat.

After she stopped flailing and gurgling, the sharp chefs knife finished the job with a neat, satisfying slice through the remaining tendons and spinal cord.

Satisfying, yes, but I should have left her head dangling if only to save an extra trip through this godawful storm.

No rest for the weary. Not today.

It's probable that the gators will have disposed of the torso and limbs by the time the head is retrieved from the cabin.

But surprisingly, the snapping jaws have yet to appear when the return trip has been made. The gators remain submerged and the body is still there, bobbing in the storm-tossed water.

Maybe the lurking creatures are waiting for the storm to end before they surface. Who can blame them? The weather is getting nastier by the second.

This time, there can be no loitering to watch the gators do their grisly work. Not with the storm raging and so much going on back at the house.

"Goodbye, Phyllida dear."

With that, the disembodied head of the would-be Remington heiress is tossed like a bowling ball into the churning, gator-infested water.

Charlotte holds her breath, fearing whatever Dorado is about to tell her about her stepdaughter, trying to prepare herself for the worst.

"Aimee was telling the truth about being on that flight from New Orleans."

"Thank God." Charlotte releases the breath audibly, through puffed cheeks. "Oh, thank God," she says again.

Then, with a pang of guilt and a silent apology to Aimee for even considering the worst, she adds, "But I never really had any doubt."

Not really.

"We confirmed everything with the airline. She went through Atlanta, just like you said, Mrs. Maitland-and just barely made the connection to Savannah because the first flight was way behind schedule getting in and then back out of New Orleans. In any case, we tracked her all the way through, and her bag as well. She did check it. You were right about her being innocent all along."

Weak with relief, Charlotte manages to say only, 'Thank you."

I knew it… I knew Aimee could never hurt Royce. Whatever she blamed him for in the past, she loves him… I couldn 't be mistaken about that.

But Karen…

"Did you contact Royce's ex-wife?"

"No. We tried to find her in New Orleans, but there's no listing. We'll need to talk to your husband about her, and we'll need to get an address and phone number for her."

"I'll call you with it as soon as I get home."

"Actually…" Dorado gestures toward the door. "Let's call your husband right now."

"Do we have to do it this way? Over the phone? Please, Detective, he's recovering from a major trauma."

"And we're trying to investigate the source of that trauma." His voice is gentle, but firm. "Let's call."

"Aimee?" Royce calls from the parlor. "Aimee! What the heck was that crash?"

"I don't know," she calls from the far side of the house. "I'm trying to see."

It sounded as though one of the tremendous trees came down alongside the house. This storm is far worse than he had anticipated. And where on earth is Charlotte?

She should have been back from the grocery store hours ago.

This day has gone downhill fast, ever since he looked up and saw that lifeguard standing in the parlor.

He hears Aimee's hurried footsteps in the hall. "Did you find out what it was?"

She appears in the parlor doorway. "One of the live oaks right next to the driveway. It almost crushed Nydia's car and it took down some wires, too. I can't believe we didn't lose the electricity."