The Final Victim(7)

But they all showed up for the funeral, and this is their house as much as anyone's-or so they seem to believe.

As the Remington homestead, Oakgate at times accommodated several generations of extended family. But for the better part of the last decade, only Grandaddy and his younger half sister, Jeanne, have remained in residence.

They were joined several months ago by Charlotte, Royce, and Lianna.

The Maitlands could have rented a place while their new home in Savannah was being remodeled. But Grandaddy invited them to stay here, Royce thought it was a good idea to save money, and Charlotte reluctantly agreed.

Now Grandaddy's gone, and moving on won't be as; simple as Charlotte had anticipated.

As she crosses the second parlor toward the large hall that runs through the center of the house, she can't help but notice that every time she thinks she's moved out of Oakgate, the old place sucks her back in.

Almost like the relentless grasp of a rip current at sea.

No, she admonishes herself, startled by the bizarre comparison.

Not like that at all.

Oakgate is just a house.

Just an inanimate pile of bricks and tabby and wood. It holds no power; it isn't dangerous.

Nor is it deadly.

Yet an odd chill of foreboding seems to follow Charlotte as she moves through its eerily still entry hall today, along with the flinty gazes of Remington ancestors forever caged in gilt-framed portraits.

Hearing footsteps approaching the second floor, Phyllida Remington Harper braces herself for yet another intrusion.

First came her husband, Brian, changing from his dark suit to a pink polo and madras slacks, and gathering the golf clubs he insensitively remembered to pack for this funeral trip back East.

"You won't mind if I hit the links, will you, Phyll?" he asked, and didn't wait for the reply.

Shortly after his departure came the housekeeper's knock and the inquiry about whether Phyllida and her son planned to eat dinner this evening here at Oakgate or elsewhere.

Elsewhere?

As if there are dozens of restaurants in this godforsaken place. One would have to go down to the southern end of the island to find a decent meal, or even the closest grocery store, as Phyllida pointed out to Nydia. With a sleepy, out-of-sorts toddler to care for and nary a nanny in the house, that's out of the question.

Nydia conspicuously avoided the unspoken invitation to babysit Wills for the evening-not surprising, since she never did seem to have a way with children. Phyllida distinctly remembers being intimidated by the woman's unyielding austerity whenever she and her brother visited, and finds it hard to believe that Nydia actually had a hand in helping to raise Daddy and Uncle Norris after Grandmother Eleanore died.

Soon after Nydia left the room, Phyllida's brother barged in to "catch up." Ah, Gib, with his swaggering comments, nosy questions, and barely gratuitous attention to his only nephew, who now lies sleeping in the ancient wooden crib across the room.

All right, not ancient. Charlotte claimed to have used it whenever she visited Oakgate when her own children were young. But safety standards have changed. For all Phyllida knows, the rails are far apart enough for little Wills to get his blond head stuck.

Being a responsible parent, unlike Brian, she doesn't dare leave the room. Not even for a moment.

Yes, she's a prisoner here; prisoner in an over-furnished, overly fussy cell awash in cherry antiques, Waverly wallpaper, and Laura Ashley linens. The room was once part of the much larger one next door, now occupied by Charlotte's daughter, and the dividing wall is thin. She can hear every word that's said in there, and no doubt vice versa.

Which means she can find herself serenaded, and not just by music, at all hours. Currently, Lianna's television is blasting some MTV show with a rap soundtrack. The throbbing bass grew so loud earlier that Phyllida tapped on the wall.

Lianna did turn it down that time. But not much, and subsequent knocks have yielded no response.

Yes, this is far from her favorite guest room in the' house.

She and Brian spent their wedding night in the more spacious, elegant quarters down the hall.

But Charlotte and her husband occupy that room now, and apparently have for quite some time. Lianna's is the second-best location, a corner room with a private bath and fireplace, still spacious despite having been divided years ago.

Phyllida is hard-pressed to keep her envy at bay. Not that she wants to spend any more time in the dreary old mansion than is absolutely necessary. But it would have been nice to have seen more of Grandaddy in his final days.

At least, that's what she told Charlotte this afternoon, after their grandfather was laid to rest alongside his wife, Eleanore, and generations of Remingtons in Oakgate's cemetery.

"You're lucky, you know," she told her teary-eyed cousin. "I hadn't even seen Grandaddy in ages." Not since her wedding, in fact, three years ago. "I hope he knew how much I missed him. I think about him all the time."

Well, not all the time.

But she did, occasionally, think about her grandfather.

More often, she'd be willing to bet, than her brother ever did.

Leave it to Gib to show up at Oakgate mere minutes before the funeral started, with a mountain of luggage in the limo, requisite blonde on his arm-he apparently still dates only blondes-and chip on his shoulder.

Her brother never did get along with their father's side of the family. He preferred to mingle with the maternal Yankee relatives.