The Final Victim(49)

One is located in the kitchen, one in the far parlor, one in the second-floor study. All of them have old-fashioned telephones with curly cords, which makes it very difficult for a person to carry on a private conversation.

At least the house is pretty deserted tonight, with Mom and Royce still out. That jerk Gib has gone off somewhere, too. She assumes Phyllida is in her room, watching television-Lianna could hear it through the door when she passed. As for Nydia, she must be in bed asleep, because there's no sign of light or sound from the maid's quarters adjacent to the kitchen.

Now would be a good time to try and reach Kevin again, she decides, glancing at the stove clock. She tried him earlier, but he didn't pick up his phone, and when she tried him at home one of his brothers said he was out.

"Do you know where he is?" Lianna asked him.

"Nope, do you?"

"Um… Do you know when he'll be back?"

"Nope, do you?" The guy laughed and hung up.

What a loser. Lianna isn't particularly anxious to talk to him again.

Maybe Kevin's working down at the Mobil station tonight. He isn't allowed to take phone calls on the job.

If she had her cell, she could text message him.

Maybe she should go look for it in Mom and Royce's bedroom…

But even if she finds it, she doesn't dare use it. Knowing Mom, who seems to think she's working for the CIA these days, she'll probably check the records when she gets the bill next month.

She picks up the phone again and dials the number for Kevin's house.

The same brother picks up the phone.

"Is Kevin there?" she asks tentatively.

"Nope. Who is this, his girlfriend checking up on him or something?"

"Actually, yes it is," she finds herself retorting. "Have him call Lianna when he gets home, will you? Oh, and tell him not to use my cell number. Just call Oakgate."

There's a moment of silence.

Then Kevin's brother says, "Oakgate? You mean the Remington place?"

"That's the one."

"Yeah? Who are you, the maid's daughter or something?"

She contemplates that.

It's not like her mother doesn't already know she was seeing Kevin. And it's not like she's ashamed of it, or anything like that. Still, Achoco Island is like a gossipy small town, and she isn't exactly anxious to broadcast their relationship. That's bound to happen if the Tinkstons get wind of it.

"Yeah," she says, "I am. Just have him call, okay?"

Gone is the slightest bit of interest from his brother, who hangs up with a brusque, "Whatever."

Kevin probably won't even get the message, she thinks with a sigh.

"Done counting yet, hon?" she asks Royce, giving up on the paint selection for tonight. "I think we should go down to River Street and get some fried oysters and beer."

He holds up a finger. "… fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight…"

"Sorry," she says again, trying to be patient She can't help feeling vaguely uneasy, though, and anxious to get the heck out of here, at least for tonight The house is so different by day, its tall windows flooding the place with light Now those same windows are foreboding black rectangles and the high ceilings trap eerie shadows, especially without lamps and fixtures to brighten the large rooms.

It doesn't help that it's so darned stuffy in here, she thinks, and the whole place smells strongly of paint fumes and sawdust The house is sealed shut; the construction guys blast the central air when they're working, then turn it down before they leave.

"Do you think I should open this?" she asks Royce, examining the latch on the newly installed window. "Just to get some ventilation while we're here?"

He shakes his head, still counting. "Almost done," he murmurs. "Hang on. Sixty-three, sixtyfour…"

Restless, her stomach rumbling, Charlotte perches on the freshly sanded built-in seat beneath the window. She presses her nose against the glass to shut out the glare of the room behind her so she can see out The pavement is shiny from the storm earlier, and glistening puddles pool in the street along the gutter on the far side, near Colonial Park.

Why the heck do toe have to live across from a creepy old cemetery?

That was Lianna's first-and predictably dour-question, when they initially brought her to see the house.

Because live neighbors are noisier and a heck of a lot more trouble, that's why, was Royce's easygoing response.

Now, as Charlotte peers into the night she decides Lianna might have had a point The cemetery might resemble a beautiful park by day-indeed, it was long ago designated one by the City of Savannah-but at night, the place is definitely creepy.

Along the black wrought iron fence that marks the perimeter, tufted palm trees rise like towering sentinels amid leafy oaks whose boughs weep silvery Spanish moss. Within the fence lies the seemingly infinite stretch of granite slabs. Some seem to glow an eerie white in the moonlight, others lean at awkward angles, seeming to defy gravity. The whitest, most tilted stones mark the graves of Savannah's earliest-and most illustrious-residents.

Okay, so an eighteenth-century burial ground doesn't exactly provide a picturesque view from the master bedroom.

Throw in a little midnight mist, or creaking branches and a scary thunderstorm, and Charlotte can imagine being too spooked to go to bed in her own house, night-light or no night-light.