The Final Victim(24)

Oakgate's closets, attic storage room, and cellar are as cluttered with antique appliances as they are with family secrets.

But the weapon of choice was right out in the open, and carefully, deliberately, chosen.

After it served its purpose, Gilbert Remington II's prized radio was carefully replaced on the mantel, right out in the open where it has always been.

Such a shame, in a way, that the delicious irony was lost on the victim. The old man never knew what hit him.

Neither, should the time come, will anyone else who dares to get in the way.

PART II

THE SECOND VICTIM

CHAPTER 4
"It's just that I missed you while you were gone, and you've only been back twenty-four hours," Charlotte wistfully tells Royce, opening the top drawer of her bureau. "I wish you could come with me today, that's all."

"I wish I could, too." He vigorously rubs a towel over his shower-dampened hair. "We could play footsie under Tyler's conference table while the will is being read."

She can't help but smile at that. "Yes, and I wouldn't feel so uncomfortable around my cousins if you were there."

The weekend, her first without Grandaddy, was a difficult one-especially with Royce gone, her cousins here, and Lianna more remote than ever. Charlotte did her best to keep it together, even spending two full days at the beach with Phyllida and her son while Brian and Gib were out golfing.

But it was nerve-wracking for her in the end. Every time the lifeguard blasted a whistle, or little Wills tried to squirm out of his mother's arms in the surf, Charlotte endured a stab of uneasiness.

And it isn't as though she and her cousin have much in common. Phyllida's world seems to revolve around die gym, shopping, filling out preschool applications for Wills-reportedly a complicated, competitive process-and occasionally going to an audition.

Several times, Charlotte welled up with tears over their grandfather, but she kept her grief hidden behind her sunglasses, knowing its intensity isn't shared.

It isn't that Phyllida and Gib didn't love Grandaddy. Of course they did, despite their apparent indifference. Although disconcerted, Charlotte has repeatedly assured herself of that. They just aren't as emotional as she is, that's all. They haven't lost all that she has.

She was relieved when Royce got home early Monday morning, his flight right on time, as he had promised. He even took the day off, and they spent most of it at their new home in Savannah, checking on the progress of the renovation. The contractor and Royce seem satisfied that they're on track again, but the job isn't going quickly enough for Charlotte.

And she doesn't want to go without him today.

She removes a new package of pantyhose from her drawer. Ordinarily she doesn't wear stockings; she hates the constricting feel on her legs. Now, she's forced to don them for the second time in a week. The funeral, of course, was the other occasion.

Oh, Grandaddy.

"I'm sure it'll be fine. Your cousins seem nice enough," Royce points out, oblivious to the tears welling in her eyes as he stands before the full-length mirror to expertly knot his tie.

She swallows the lump in her throat. '’They might seem nice, but I keep feeling like they resent me-and Lianna, and you, for that matter."

"Me?" he echoes incredulously.

"I think so." She sits on the edge of their bed and gingerly pulls the dark stockings up her legs.

"Why would they resent me?"

"Who knows? Because you get to sleep in the nicest guest bedroom? Or because you've spent more time with Grandaddy than they have these past few years?"

"Oh, come on. It isn't as if your grandfather and I ever went palling around together, Charlotte. In fact, I'm not all that convinced he even liked me."

"He did," she assures him, standing and smoothing her tailored navy blue skirt over her legs. "He's gruff with everybody, even me. I mean, he was."

She pauses to regain her composure. There are those tears again, ever ready to spring to her eyes and spill down her cheeks. She probably shouldn't have worn mascara today. "But if he didn't like you, Royce," she goes on, "he'd have let me know about it."

"I wouldn't be so certain about that."

She shakes her head. "Are you sure you can't cancel your meeting and come with me?"

"I wish I could, but this could be a major new corporate client for me."

"Yes, but after today…" She trails off, but he must know what she's dunking. After today, they'll be millions of dollars richer. The income from his computer-consulting business will be even less necessary than it is now.

"It isn't about the money for me, Charlotte," he reminds her. "I love what I do, and I'm good at it."

"Of course you are. I didn't mean-"

"I know you didn't." He smiles as if to show her that his pride isn't wounded.

"Nothing is going to change, Royce. After today. I remember what we said about tucking it away and going on. So don't worry."

"I'm not worried."

Then why, Charlotte can't help but wonder as a nagging uneasiness takes over, am I?

"How about a little more pudding, Jeanne?" Melanie asks. "It's tapioca. You love tapioca."

Jeanee hates tapioca, but what does it matter? They've been bringing it to her for years, assuming she enjoys it because she eats it all.