The Final Victim(57)

CHAPTER 9
'Jeanne?"

It takes her a moment to wake from a sound sleep. When she does, she opens her eyes to find Gilbert's housekeeper standing above her bed.

It's late morning-she can tell by the angle of the light coming in the bull's-eye window above her bed.

"I'm sorry to wake you, but I thought you should know."

"Know what?" Her brain still fuzzy with sleep, she sits up, rubbing her eyes.

"Mr. Maitland was… injured last night In Savannah."

"What happened to him?"

Nydia hesitates.

"Was it a car accident? Is he all right? Was Charlotte with-"

Jeanne closes her mouth abruptly, remembering belatedly not to appear too lucid, even in front of Nydia.

The housekeeper seems to falter a bit-unusual for her-before admitting, "It wasn't a car accident. He was shot by a sniper."

Jeanne gasps in horrified dismay. "No! Oh, no. Charlotte…?"

"She was with him, but she's fine. And Mr. Maidand is in surgery, from what I understand."

Jeanne nods, pressing her fist against her quivering mouth.

"I just thought you should know." Nydia turns to leave.

"Thank you. Will you… tell me how he is? When you know more?"

"Of course."

Jeanne watches Gilbert's housekeeper make her exit She waits until the door closes at the foot of the stairs before slipping from beneath the covers.

It takes a minute for her bare feet to grow accustomed to standing. Gradually, the circulation returns to her wobbly old legs beneath the cotton summer nightgown, and they feel sturdy enough to carry her across the room, careful not to let the floorboards creak.

At the bureau, she opens the top middle drawer and reaches beneath the stack of handkerchiefs, the shawl, the journals and photo album.

Taking out the locked wooden box, she sets it on the bureau top, and glances over her shoulder as if she's going to find somebody watching her.

There's nobody up here, Jeanne, don't be silly.

Nobody but the ghosts… And they know all about this.

They know everything.

Jeanne reaches into the lace-edged neckline of the nightgown and retrieves a long gold chain that once belonged to Mother. Dangling from it are a locket that contains a picture of Marie Remington in her youth, and a small silver key.

With a quivering hand, Jeanne removes the chain from her neck and inserts the key into the lock on the box.

She opens the cover and glances down at the contents.

This, too, belonged to her mother.

This small pistol with the mother-of-pearl handle that was Marie Remington's protection-and may prove to be her daughter's salvation.

"I can't believe this is happening," Aimee says yet again, as she and Charlotte wait side by side for word about Royce.

Dry-eyed at last, Charlotte nods, too numb to say much. She just wishes the nurses would come and tell her something about Royce's condition, but there's been no word for quite some time now.

"I can't believe just a few hours ago I was happy-go-lucky, hanging out in New Orleans with my friends." Aimee pronounces it the same as Royce does, like a true native: N'Awlins. Her accent is even thicker than his-of course, since she still lives there.

With her mother.

Charlotte wonders idly whether Karen, Royce's ex-wife, is aware of what happened. Not that it matters. They're never in contact, as far as she knows.

But if something violent ever happened to Vincent, she would want to know. He's the father of her child.

Surely Aimee told her mother why she was leaving town abruptly.

"I'm just glad you found a seat on a plane," Charlotte tells Aimee. "I was worried you wouldn't be able to, on a weekend."

"After I got your message last night, I went straight to the airport. But I missed the last flight that could have possibly connected to Savannah before this morning. I was in such a panic. I called the main line for the hospital a few times during the night, but nobody would tell me anything. It was horrible." She buries her face in her hands, sounding as though she's on the verge of breaking down in sobs.

"I'm sorry." Charlotte wishes she felt comfortable enough to just reach out and give Aimee a reassuring hug.

But it might not be welcome now that their initial, emotion-driven physical contact has been broken.

For all she knows, Aimee resents her father's second wife. She wouldn't be the first stepdaughter to feel that way. And she's certainly capable of resentment, considering that she refused to speak to her father for so long after her brother's death.

But when Aimee looks up at her again, Charlotte sees immediately that there's nothing but genuine concern in her gaze. Her eyes, Charlotte notices, are a beautiful shade of light green, not brown like Royce's. She must have inherited them from her mother.

Charlotte rarely gives Royce's first wife much thought, but for the second time in as many minutes, she finds herself wondering about her. Wondering if she's as beautiful as Aimee, if she has the same willowy build, fair hair, and tawny complexion…

"I need to get a hotel. Is there one near the hospital?" Aimee asks, curing into Charlotte's thoughts.

"Not right here, no… But there's a beautiful Marriott right down on the River Walk, though. Your dad and I…"