The Final Victim(89)

Maude Gaspar has been a godsend these past few days, keeping her grandson happily occupied so that Mimi can attend to Jed-and the newly complicated matter at hand.

I have to speak to Gib's cousin, she thinks resolutely, watching Jed's chest rise and fall in reassuring cadence. The second Mom gets here tomorrow, I'm leaving her here with Jed and Cam and going straight over to Oakgate.

She's never officially met Charlotte Remington Maitland, but she used to see her at the beach when she was a lifeguard. She remembers watching the beautiful and sophisticated Charlotte in admiration as she sat reading in the shade of her beach umbrella. She remembers wondering if it was hard for her to be on the beach at Achoco, after losing her son in that awful drowning accident there.

She remembers, too, daydreaming about what it would be like to be a Remington herself.

As if Gib ever would have married the likes of Mimi Gaspar.

Well, thank goodness he didn't want me, she thinks now, acknowledging what's become of her former boyfriend.

She shudders and pushes away the very thought of him, as she has all week, not even wanting to acknowledge Gib Remington's role in her past-let alone hers in his apparently dismal future.

But that hasn't stopped her from reading the papers. Not this time.

There's been no mention of the tip that led to Gib becoming a suspect in the first place, thank God.

The accounts are full of background about the illustrious family, with details about every player-from Royce Maitland's twenty-five-year-old daughter, Aimee, rushing to his bedside from New Orleans to Gib's sister, Phyllida, age respectfully omitted, and referred to as a Hollywood starlet, though there's never any mention of which films or TV programs, exactly, she has starred in.

There is, of course, plenty of media speculation about what could have driven the disgraced scion to such violence.

But Gib is no longer the family member who is most important to Mimi.

Nor, at the moment, is the secret that is far more likely to destroy what is left of her husband's life than to save it.

Charlotte is the only Remington Mimi is interested in contacting.

First thing tomorrow, she promises herself again, wishing she didn't have to wait that long. But she can't leave Jed here unattended, no matter how pressing her need to get over to Oakgate.

It's all right. Tomorrow will be here before you know it.

It has a way of doing that lately, she thinks grimly, wondering why time seems to stand still only when you long to savor precious moments. These last few weeks have flown by, each day seeming to alight fleetingly before being swept away, like the rapidly flipping calendar pages in a silent movie scene depicting the swift passage of time.

Yes, tomorrow will dawn all too soon, Mimi tells herself, brushing away the tears that spring to her eyes.

I just have to ask Charlotte what she knows about her mother… and just hope it's not too late.

Gib is lying.

Tyler is certain of it.

Alone with his client at last, he looks Gib in the eye. "Let me make one thing clear. Your grandfather is the only reason I'm even here in the first place. He was a close friend of mine throughout my life."

"I realize that." Gib's tone is sullen.

Standing over him, Tyler slaps his hands, hard, on the table and lowers his face to Gib's level. "If I'm going to even consider being remotely involved in your defense from here on in-and I'll say right now that it isn't looking likely that I am-you're going to tell me everything you know about your grandfather's death. Got it?"

"I'm not going to say anything to you that I didn't already say in front of them," is the wrathful response, as Gib jerks his head in the direction of the door through which the two detectives had just departed. 'This whole thing is bullshit."

"Watch your tongue," Tyler says sharply.

To his credit, Gib apologizes.

"I hope you know that I'm this close to walking out of here." Tyler presses his thumb and index finger together and thrusts his hand into Gib's face.

"Please don't." Slumped in his seat, appearing more exhausted than dejected, he tells Tyler, "I just can't believe they're trying to pin this on me, now, too."

"Who?"

"The detectives, who else? Just like they planted those shoes, shirt, and cufflink in my room."

Tyler says nothing, having heard that ludicrous claim repeatedly ever since Gib's arrest.

He again hears an echo of his own voice, so long ago.

I don't know how the cigarettes got into my room, Headmaster Swift. I didn't put them there.

I don't know how the answer key got etched onto my desk, Mr. Anderson. Somebody in another section must have left it there.

"My grandfather had a heart attack," Gib goes on, gazing at the Persian carpet. "We all saw the autopsy report."

"And we all know that cardiac arrest can mask other things." At least, they know that now, thanks to Williamson's ever-informative spiel.

"We also know"-as Williamson also pointed out- "that bodies can be exhumed for a number of reasons, not the least of which is suspected murder."

Gib's head is still bent. He doesn't flinch. It's impossible to gauge his reaction to that news, but Tyler would stake a hefty bet that there was one.

What Gib doesn't grasp-but what Tyler has come to realize, having spoken with the detectives prior to the confrontation-is that Williamson and Dorado are operating purely on a hunch.