The Final Victim(55)

"Good mornin', Honey Buns. How's Jed today?"

"Still asleep. He had another restless night" And so did I.

"I lit a candle for him down at church this morning." Maude's eyes remain fastened to the screen even as she holds out her arms for Cameron. "Where's my precious grandson? Come here to Granny, sugar, and let me give you some lovin'."

"Is there coffee?" Mimi asks, placing her son in her mother's embrace.

"Is the sky blue?"

She glances out the window above the sink, framed by limp, once-white curtains trimmed with red rickrack. Today, it is."

"Gonna stay that way till about noon, accordin' to the weatherman."

Mimi crosses to the counter, and the electric percolator her parents received as a wedding shower gift three decades ago. Her mother has used it faithfully every morning, but Mimi wonders now how much longer it can possibly last without Daddy here to tinker with it the next time it goes on the fritz.

Behind her, Cameron squeals, "Bob!"

"Bob?" Maude bounces him on her lap. "What does that mean?"

"He wants to watch Bob the Builder. On TV. It's his new favorite show."

"I thought you didn't like him to watch television."

"I don't." I didn't. But that was before I needed to distract him from the misery our lives have become.

"When is it on?"

"It was starting when we left home just now, and I promised him he could finish watching it here."

"Oh, all right, sweet pea. Let Granny change the channel for you."

"You don't have to do that, Mom." Mimi pours steaming coffee into a chipped mug from the plastic drying rack beside the sink.

Using the remote to change the channel, much to Cam's delight, Maude says, "I was just watchin' the news, but all that's left now is the sports and your daddy is the only one who liked to watch that part. I just like the news. Have y'all seen what happened in Savannah?" She rises from the chair and sets Cam on it, in front of his program.

"No, what happened?" Mimi turns to the refrigerator for creamer:

Thus, her back is turned to her mother when Maude informs her, "Charlotte Remington's husband was shot right on Oglethorpe Avenue last night. You must know her, don't you? From when you used to run around with that Remington boy? What was his name? I know it was Gilbert, after his daddy and Grandaddy, but what did they used to call him again?"

Gib.

"I know Charlotte-I mean, I knew her a long time ago." Ignoring the other question, Mimi lifts the carton of half-and-half from the shelf with a trembling hand. "I don't know her husband, though. Is he…?"

"Serious condition in the hospital is all they're sayin' on the news."

"Do they say who shot him?"

Maude shrugs. "It's just like those snipers that go around shootin' up cities up North. Can't believe it's startin' down here."

"I can't, either." Mimi fumbles for a spoon in the drawer, then stirs her coffee so violently that it spills over the top of the mug.

"Everybody always thought those Remingtons had it all," Maude muses, stooping to pick up a little truck from the collection of toys she purchased at yard sales and keeps in a plastic laundry hamper for Cameron. "I'm startin' to think all they really have is a whole lot of money. I wouldn't trade places with any one of 'em. How 'bout you?"

"Of course not," Mimi murmurs, watching her son happily grasp the used toy in his chubby little hands.

Tucked into the pocket of his lightweight black-wool dress pants, Gib's cell phone rings just as he reaches the Bryan Street parking garage where he left his rental car the night before.

He contemplates not answering it, hardly in the mood to talk after the night he just had.

But curiosity gets the better of him and he reaches for the phone to see who's calling.

The number on the caller ID screen isn't local, and it takes Gib a moment to place the area code.

Oh. California.

He flips the phone open. "Yeah, Phyllida."

"Where are you?"

"Why?"

"Because I want to send you flowers," is the sarcastic response. "What do you think? For one thing, it's Sunday morning and I'm assuming you never came home last night and I have no idea where you are."

"Save the worrying for your kid, Phyll. I'm a big boy. Sometimes these things happen."

"Trust me, I'm not all that worried about you right now, Gib. But I need you to get back here as soon as you can, and…"

"And what?" he asks edgily when she trails off.

"And I hope you can account for every second of the last twelve hours."

"Why?" he asks, his heart pounding.

"Because somebody shot Charlotte's husband."

Pacing the narrow aisle between two short rows of uncomfortable chairs, Charlotte instantly recognizes the slender young blonde who bursts into the private surgical waiting room, pulling a rolling suitcase.

Royce's daughter.

At last

"Charlotte Maitland?"

"That's me. You must be Aimee."

"Yes." Her stepdaughter rushes over to her, grabbing her in a tight embrace.