The Final Victim(43)

They've arrived at the white-clapboard men's locker room complex. Royce holds the door open, then follows John into the welcoming blast of air-conditioning.

"You have no idea how anxious I am to get this whole renovation thing over with and move into the house," he tells John. "Especially now that-"

"Now that what?"

Royce hesitates. "You know… now that this whole tiling happened with her grandfather, and we have all these people staying with us."

They're in the locker room now; the place is bustling as always on a Saturday morning. Men linger in the dim, climate-controlled quarters, some chatting amiably in pairs and threesomes.

"Getting a little crowded over at Oakgate, is it?"John asks as he and Royce make their way past others in various stages of undress to two lockers at the far end, where they stashed their belongings earlier.

"It's not that…"

"What is it?"

Royce shrugs, conscious that others might be listening to their conversation. "Nothing, really. Nothing specific, anyway."

"You don't sound so sure about that. Did something happen?"

"I don't know." 'You don't know?" John echoes, glancing up at him over the door of his locker on the bottom row. "What do you mean?"

"Just… I think somebody might have gone through my stuff," Royce says in a low voice as somebody slams a locker door in the next aisle.

"What?"

"I don't want to broadcast it, okay?"

"Sorry, but I didn't hear you." Looking over both his shoulders, Royce sees several club members who are apparently absorbed in their own business.

He repeats what he told John, and his friend's eyebrows shoot toward his sweat-dampened forehead.

"Is something missing?" he asks Royce.

"I don't know. I couldn't tell. But everything in my bedroom drawers and closet was moved around, just slightly. Just enough so that I could tell somebody had gone through it like they were looking for something."

"Cash?"

"Who knows? I leave money in my pockets all the time. I wouldn't know if any was missing."

"What about Charlotte? Did somebody go through her drawers, too?"

"I have no idea. I didn't mention it to her," Royce confesses.

"Don't you think you should? What if one of her relatives is a kleptomaniac?"

"It doesn't have to be her relatives," Royce is quick to point out. "There's a housekeeper, and a nurse who comes in to take care of her aunt, and then there's her daughter-"

"You don't think her kid is snooping around your room?"

"No, but she has friends. Maybe one of them-"

Noticing a surreptitious glance from the towel-clad stranger standing a few lockers down, Royce breaks off.

He shakes his head slightly at John, to let him know that they're being overheard.

"Sounds like you'd better get moving, my friend," John advises, shaking his head as he strips off his tennis whites. "The sooner y'all get that house finished and get the hell back to Savannah, the better."

Royce nods. "My thoughts exactly. Just-don't tell Charlotte about any of this if you see her. Okay? She's got enough going on with losing her grandfather and-well, you know how it is. She's really stressed. I don't want to worry her about something like this."

"I don't blame you. But watch your step. I wouldn't leave anything valuable lying around that house. And I absolutely wouldn't trust anybody around there, including your wife's kid."

"Don't worry," Royce says with conviction. "I absolutely don't."

"I wasn't sure you were going to show up," Gib remarks lazily from beneath dark sunglasses, as Mimi hurries toward the shady bench in Reynolds Square, their designated meeting place. "I've been waiting more than twenty minutes and it's hot as blazes out here."

"Sorry I'm late. It took me longer than I thought to get out of the house."

"You mean, to sneak out of the house without your husband figuring out what you were up to."

She chooses to ignore that comment, as well as the tall plastic cup of sweet tea he offers as she sits down.

"I don't have germs, you know," he persists, prodding with the straw beneath his lips.

She pushes it away. "I'm not thirsty."

"Suit yourself." He shrugs and sips the tea, watching her. "You look tired, Mimi."

"I am tired."

"Not sleeping well these days?"

She shakes her head.

He shrugs. "Who is?"

"I don't know… You look pretty well rested."

She can't help but resent him, sitting there casually in his Tommy Bahama sport shirt and pressed khaki shorts, his shaggy blond locks carefully, stylishly tousled. Of course she can't see his eyes, but she'd be willing to bet there are no dark circles beneath them.

"Looks can be deceiving," he points out.

Don't I know it.

"So what can I do for you this fine morning, Martha Maude?"

"It's Mimi."

"You don't look like Mimi anymore. And you sure don't act like her."