The Final Victim(94)

The cabin's sturdy new door is still closed and padlocked, just as it was left in the wee hours Saturday morning…

And then there were two.

"Yoo-hoo! Ladies!"

Oh, wait, it's not good manners to neglect to knock before dropping in, so…

The rubber-grip end of the heavy flashlight beats a satisfying rhythm on the new door of the small brick house.

"Little pigs, little pigs, let me in…"

The key turns easily; the padlock falls away with a clanking sound. The door doesn't even creak as it swings open…

Yes, thanks to my expert installation job. You just never know what you can accomplish if you put your mind-

A wall of stench rolls out through the open door, so putrid that it makes crossing the threshold out of the question.

"Yoo-hoo… I said, little pigs, little pigs, let me in-though I think I've changed my mind."

No response.

The flashlight's beam arcs across the exposed brick walls, the doll furniture, the maggot-filled, eyeless carcass that used to be Pammy Sue. Then it falls on what looks like a heap of rags on the dirt-or rather, mud-floor in the far corner.

'You're supposed to say 'not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin.' What's the matter, did you forget your line? What kind of actress are you?"

Forget about staying outside. That isn't any fun.

It takes a moment, after crossing the threshold, to grow accustomed enough to the horrible odor to be able to speak without gagging.

"Pammy Sue? I hate to be the one to break it to you, hon, but you have terrible BO."

How satisfying that Pammy Sue, who was allowed to borrow Mama's fancy perfume any old time she wanted, now stinks worse than Pigeon Creek roadkill.

Yes, and how satisfying that I'm the one who has the fancy perfume now.

Real designer perfume from a department store cosmetics counter; not drugstore toilet water sold, along with bonus talc powder, in a cardboard gift box with a cellophane window.

But back then, Mama's drugstore perfume was the epitome of elegant femininity, and only Pammy Sue got to partake.

Aside from that one morning when you snuck into Mama's room before Sunday School and splashed some Eau de Something-or-Other behind each ear.

Bobby Lee Garrett, who was supposed to be impressed, didn't even notice. He was too busy gazing in blatant adoration at Pammy Sue as she handed out bible pamphlets.

But Mama noticed, afterward. Her pointy nose sniffed the air and her eyes, beneath a swoop of thick reddish bangs stranded with gray, narrowed in suspicion.

Naughty, naughty child… what have you done this time?

The punishment for perfume pilfering: being locked in the windowless woodshed overnight without food or water. Alone in the dark, listening to rustling vermin at your feet and overhead, feeling creepy-crawly creatures skittering over your skin without warning.

That was Mama's punishment for a lot of things.

And now, it's my punishment to dole out to those who deserve it.

Starting with Pammy Sue.

Too bad she can't stay here for much longer. Not in this heat.

Not if I have to come back here and catch another whiff of her.

"You're going to have to go soon, Pammy Sue. But first things first."

After a swift, hard kick, the pile of rags in the opposite corner squirms to life.

Phyllida Remington gazes up from the filth, blinking into the light.

Ah, Miss Beverly Hills is beautiful no more.

The artfully sculpted nose was shattered by the antique andiron she never saw coming at her.

Those surgically enhanced cheekbones are swollen purple and smeared with blackened streaks of dried blood.

And her blue eyes are round with fear, bewilderment and, most satisfying of all: horrified, shocked recognition.

CHAPTER 15
Monday morning, Royce is still sipping his steaming first cup of coffee, delivered with a plate of buttered toast and honey and a kiss from Aimee, when he hears the crunch of tires on the crushed-shell drive outside the parlor window.

From his propped-up position in the hospital bed, he can see an unfamiliar pickup truck with a dented fender pulling toward the house. Charlotte must have left the gate open again.

His first thought is that maybe she did it deliberately and that the truck might belong to the contractor. Royce had asked Charlotte to invite him out here to meet with them to go over the final steps for the Oglethorpe Avenue house renovation.

But he mentioned it less than an hour ago, when she was getting ready to leave to go to the supermarket. She didn't seem particularly enthusiastic about making the call and said she'll get to it later, when she has time.

Anyway, the contractor's pickup is red, and it sure as heck isn't this beat-up.

And, he sees now, there's a woman at the wheel-h just caught a glimpse of long blond hair and sunglasses before the truck disappeared from his sight range.

He hears it pull past the window toward the center of the portico before the driver cuts the engine. She must be a reporter. Damn.

He wonders whether Nydia has returned yet from her day off yesterday, so she can get rid of the reporter.

If not, I'm sure Aimee will welcome the pleasure, he thinks with a sly smile as he takes a bite of toast.

Through the screen, he can hear brisk footsteps crossing the drive, then tapping their way up the steps and across the flagstone.

The doorbell rings.