The Final Victim(35)

Well, good for the old geezer, getting regular action at his age. That's more than anybody can say about Gib at the moment.

It's been over a week since Cassandra took off, meaning it's more than a week since he's been with a woman.

He actually called her in Boston to see why she'd left, hoping he might be able to persuade her to come back, at least for the weekend.

No such luck.

Her reason: Sorry, Gib, funerals and families just aren't my thing.

Yeah, like funerals and families are his thing? Anyway, she knew why they were coming down to Georgia. She didn't have to accept his invitation to come down here with him-not that she was entirely sober when she did. And not that they had known each other for twenty-four hours at that point, having met in a bar at Logan Airport after getting off separate but equally turbulent flights home to Boston.

She claimed to be returning from a business trip-not that there was anything remotely corporate about her skimpy outfit.

Then again, he told her the same thing. But at least he looked the part, in his custom-made suit and silk tie.

He was well into his second Dirty Martini-his mind filling with significantly dirty thoughts as his hand made its way from Cassandra's arm to her bare knee-when his cell phone rang with the news about Grandaddy.

He didn't cry.

It was a call he'd been waiting for. He knew it would eventually come. He just didn't know exactly when, or who would make it.

As it turned out, it was Charlotte, and she sounded pretty broken up over Grandaddy's death.

Gib tried to at least sound sorrowful, but it was hard for him to carry on much of a conversation with the noise in the lounge and the announcements over the airport PA system. In the end, he simply told her to hang in there and promised her that he'd catch the next plane down to Savannah.

"What happened?" Cassandra asked when he hung up, watching him quickly drain what was left of his drink.

So he told her.

He wasn't entirely serious when, fueled by too much gin, he asked her to come to Savannah with him.

Nor was he entirely surprised when she said, "I might as well-my bag is already packed and I really don't have plans for the weekend."

Several hours and several cocktails later, they were landing in Savannah. Cassandra didn't bat an eye when he suggested that they spend that night in a hotel and wait until the next day to go to his family's place.

That was some night. The room had a king-sized bed, a Jacuzzi, and a dazzling view of the riverfront. Not that Gib and Cassandra spent much time looking out the window.

Too bad about her. Really, it is. She was Gib's kind of woman.

At this point, however, pretty much any halfway attractive female would be his kind of woman… She might not even have to be a blonde.

"So how do you know about Grandaddy and Nydia?" he asks his sister, his curiosity piqued.

"I overheard a couple of his old cronies talking about it at the funeral. They said she was probably in the tub with Grandaddy when he had his heart attack. That she was why he had the heart attack, actually."

"No way." Gib finds it hard to imagine a skinny, housefrau like Nydia nude, giving anybody a heart attack… not in a good way, anyway.

Still, maybe there's some truth to the theory. After all, Nydia is the one who found his body…

"We need to call Mother, Gib," Phyllida says, effectively curtailing his titillating thoughts.

"Mother? Why?"

"Because she's counting on this money as much as we are. She doesn't want to live with Aunt Rosemary the rest of her life, and work in some store waiting on people who used to be her friends."

"I know, and she won't have to. We're going to contest the will. Why upset her?"

Phyllida shrugs. "I just think she needs to know."

No, you just need to go crying on her shoulder, as usual, he thinks, aggravated.

"Don't tell her, Phyll. Don't."

He can tell by the look on her face that she isn't planning to heed his warning. God, she's as pathetically needy now as she was when they were growing up. She always ran to their mother with the slightest problem, whining and wailing for attention.

She always got it, too.

Mother might have coddled his sister, but she admired and respected Gib. He's always been content in that knowledge.

And he sure as hell isn't going to burst her bubble now.

"Don't tell Mother," he tells Phyllida one last time. "I mean it."

"Well, I definitely think we should confront Charlotte about Grandaddy when she comes home, Gib."

"About him getting it on with the housekeeper?" he asks facetiously, just to get on her nerves.

"About the will!" Phyllida is suitably exasperated. "Don't you think we need to talk to her?"

"Not really." He paces across the room, then back again. "What do you think she can possibly tell us?"

"Who knows? We need to put her on the spot."

"Frankly, I'd rather avoid her for the time-"

Gib stops pacing abruptly, struck by something that hadn't occurred to him until now.

He was wrong earlier.

Charlotte isn't necessarily the only person who benefits from the changed will.

"Kevin, I'm totally serious. Cut it out."