The Final Victim(12)

"Not all of us," Aunt Jeanne said darkly.

Taken aback, Charlotte laid a hand on her aunt's black crepe-covered shoulder and said gently, "We're all upset over Grandaddy's death, Aunt Jeanne. What are you talking about?"

The old woman seemed as though she was about to elaborate. Then, glancing around the room at those nearest, albeit not necessarily dearest, to her late brother, she shrugged. "Never mind."

Now, Charlotte hesitates slightly at the base of the stairway that leads to the third floor.

Maybe she should go on up for a few minutes, just to see how Aunt Jeanne is. And perhaps, to have her decipher that cryptic remark.

But Royce is waiting downstairs. And she might be a bit hungry after all. She hasn't eaten since she picked at her dinner last night Charlotte continues along the hallway with its painted white wainscot, toward the remodeled master suite Grandaddy insisted she and Royce occupy during their stay. He said he preferred the smaller guest suite down the hall, anyway. That bathroom, he pointed out, had a bigger, deeper tub.

Grandaddy always did enjoy his nightly baths. He said they were a reprieve from daily stress, the one place he could ever truly relax in preparation for the ever-elusive full-night's sleep.

How ironic, Charlotte can't help thinking, that he had his fatal heart attack in the midst of an evening soak. If he had been anywhere else, somebody might have found him and helped him before it was too late.

But his body, like the water, was long cold by the time Nydia stumbled across him the next morning.

Charlotte pushes away the grim memory. Passing Lianna's closed door, she stops briefly and calls her daughter's name. No reply.

The television is on, probably tuned to MTV or one of those reality programs she's always watching. Pressings her ear against one of the door's thinner inlaid-wood panels, Charlotte can hear background hip hop music and kids' voices whoo-hooing. "Lianna?" she calls again. Nothing.

Shaking her head, she proceeds down the hall, telling herself it's for the best. She isn't in any frame of mind to wrangle Lianna's latest mood.

As she turns down the narrower corridor that leads; to the largest of the second-floor guestrooms, the one she shares with Royce, she sees a whisper of movement out of the corner of her eye.

Or maybe she just thought she did, because the hallway is empty. And chilled.

Oddly chilled, given the midsummer season and the lack of air-conditioning.

"Grandaddy?" Charlotte calls in a whisper, standing absolutely still. No reply. Of course not. Her grandfather is dead.

But she can't help wondering if Gilbert II, like other Remingtons before him, will continue to haunt the halls of Oakgate for years to come.

*

Catching a flicker of movement below, Jeanne leans closer to the window…just in time to see something dart into the shadow of a live oak at the front of the house.

Not something.

Someone.

Jeanne watches intently as the figure makes its way from tree to tree, away from the house.

Whoever it was seems to have just come from the house, and clearly doesn't want to be seen leaving.

Why not?

Does anybody know that that person was here? Or did they sneak in as furtively as they're now sneaking out?

"Jeanne? I'm back."

Startled by the cheerful singsong voice behind her, she realizes that Melanie, her home health care worker, has returned to the room.

Pushing aside her curiosity, Jeanne carefully reverts to her usual blank, wandering expression, taking up the charade once again.

CHAPTER 2
Approaching the nineteenth-century ramp that leads from Bay Street, Savannah's historic wide boulevard, to tourist-crowded River Street a story below, Charlotte finds herself reminded of the Long Island Sound beach she visited decades ago.

The sun was hot that day and the water still, lapping gently at the shore. She waded in barefoot to walk the length of the beach in ankle-deep water, as she often did back home. But here, there was no stretch of smooth, surf-washed sand. Beneath the water's surface lay a jumble of pebbles and rocks that made each step a precarious balancing act.

From a distance, the ramp to River Street is similarly misleading. It looks like a regular cobblestone path from afar, but is constructed of seashells and apple-sized rocks that jut irregularly from the mortar like clenched fists bent on toppling unwary pedestrians.

Tonight, Charlotte, in strappy high-heeled sandals, is wary of twisting an ankle as she walks down, clinging tightly to Royce's arm.

"Watch your step," he says needlessly.

She is, literally. Picking her way along, she keeps her) eyes focused on her feet.

"Can you imagine having to run for your life on this surface?" she finds herself asking Royce.

"Run for your life?" He tightens his grip on her arm. "Why would you be running for your life?"

All right, it was an odd thing for her to say. For some! reason, the image just popped into her head. And now that it's there, she can't seem to make light of it.

"I just mean, it wouldn't be easy if I had to," she tells Royce.

"Well, you wouldn't have to. I'd scoop you up and carry you away from whoever was chasing you."

"Who would be chasing me?"

"I don't know… a pack of ardent male admirers?"

She looks up to find him smiling at her-and promptly stumbles over a rock.