The Final Victim(11)

Royce steps back, watching her wash it away, wondering if he should press her on that cryptic comment about the house. She's lived here for decades. She must know many things he doesn't.

Before he can speak up, she turns off the water, dries her hands, and faces him once again, dour as usual.

'There. A place for everything, and everything in its place."

"I was about to put away the glass and rinse the sink when you came in," he is compelled to inform her.

"I'm sure you were."

No, you aren't. You don't trust me, and you don't think I belong here, Royce thinks, not for the first time.

He can't help but notice, as he also has before, that Nydia owns the only pair of blue eyes he's ever seen that aren't the least bit flattering. They're close-set and' small, the washed-out shade of the sky on a halfhearted summer afternoon, with a smattering of lashes the color of fresh corn silk.

What a far cry from Charlotte's rich, purply-indigo irises fringed by lush, dark lashes.

"Where is Ms. Remington?" Nydia inquires, as if she's read his mind.

He suppresses the urge to remind her that it's Mrs. Maitland now, not Ms. Remington, and has been for over a year.

"She's upstairs changing. We're going out to dinner."

"I was about to heat some soup for Mrs. Harper and the little boy."

And she's none too pleased about that, judging by her tone.

"What about you?" he asks, determined to be civil. "Did you eat?"

She shakes her head. "I'm fine."

"Can we bring something back for you from town?", he offers generously. "Pizza? Some pecan fried chicken?" Sugar for that lemon you appear to have swallowed?

"No, thank you."

Not only doesn't she trust me, Royce notes uneasily, taken aback by her utter lack of warmth, but she doesn't like me. Not at all.

Well, that's fine. The sentiment is definitely mutual.

He can feel her gaze following him as he leaves the room, and finds himself wondering if he should mention her to Charlotte later. Hired help, after all, is dispensable-especially now that the master of the house is gone. There's no reason in the world that Nydia should stay on at Oakgate. He and Charlotte and Lianna are capable of taking care of themselves for the remaining time they're here, and Jeanne has her visiting nurse…

Well, he won't bring up the idea of firing Nydia yet to his wife. It's too soon, her grief too raw. The last thing he wants is to upset her by suggesting any sort of change at Oakgate.

He'll take her out for a nice dinner, just the two of them, and do his best to get her mind off her sorrow.

That, Royce concludes, is all a loving husband can possibly do at a time like this.

As she walks up the curving staircase and crosses the wide balcony toward the second-floor guest bedroom wing, Charlotte considers what will become of Oakgate- and Great-Aunt Jeanne-now that her grandfather is gone. Obviously, the place will have to be sold. She certainly has no desire to go on living here, and she doubts her cousins would want to-or that Aunt Jeanne would expect to.

The plantation and the paper mill were strictly Grandaddy's, inherited from her greatgrandfather, the first Gilbert Xavier Remington. Aunt Jeanne, the product of Great-Great-Grandmother Marie's shameful liaison with another man, received nothing.

Jeanne never married, and barely made a living as a bookkeeper in Savannah. She used to live in an apartment located, ironically, in one of the grand historic district mansions the Remingtons used to frequent. It, like Jeanne Remington herself, had discreetly fallen from grace over the years.

Grandaddy took her in years ago when her mental health began to fail just as their mother's had. He personally hired the finest visiting nurses available to care for her and made sure that her substantial medical and financial needs were met.

Charlotte assumes he would have expected his grandchildren to do the same after his death. She has' no problem with that, though as the lone heir still living in Georgia, she can't possibly have Aunt Jeanne living under her own roof once Oakgate is sold. It's really time for her to have full-time care, and be surrounded by people her own age.

There are plenty of nice nursing homes in Savannah. Charlotte and her cousins will just set up her aunt in one of them, and she'll be sure to visit her often.

She's family. I have to keep her in my life, no matter what, she tells herself. No matter how challenging it is, or how much time she has left.

It's impossible to tell how long poor Aunt Jeanne will outlive her half brother. She's suffered from dementia for years, though she still has startlingly lucid moments!

Charlotte uneasily recalls the most recent of them.

This morning, Aunt Jeanne was transported by the creaky old elevator to the first floor where the rest of the family was assembled for the memorial service. It was an unusual occurrence, as the elderly woman rarely leaves her third-floor quarters.

But today, she seemed to know precisely where she was and who was around her. She even called several of the visiting Remingtons by name. The wrong names, in some cases, but at least she wasn't staring vacantly into space or hurtling angry accusations.

When Reverend Snowdon arrived he bent over Jeanne's wheelchair, clasped her gnarled hand, and said, "I'm so sorry, Miss Remington, about your brother's death. I know how difficult this loss is for y'all."