The Final Victim (30 page)

    The three of
us
?

    Does
she
have to eat with them, too?

    "I'm really not hungry,"
Lianna
says, folding h arms across her chest.

    "I'm not either, but we have to eat," Mom tells he "And you can get to know Aimee. You always said you wanted a sister."

    "I never said that."

    Mom gives
her a
look that says
don't be rude
. Now she looks more like her usual self-the self she's been lately, anyway.

    
Lianna
feels more like her usual self when she insists, feeling ornery, "Well, I didn't."

    "You did. Maybe you don't remember." Mom laughs the nervous laugh she does whenever
Lianna
is embarrassing her in front of someone. "When you were little, it's all you used to talk about. You wanted me and your father to have another baby, a girl, so that you could have a sister."

    "I don't remember that."

    No, all I remember
is wanting
my big brother back
.

    
Lianna
looks away, toward the collection of antique dolls that line a bookshelf, and blinks annoying tears out of eyes.

    But her mother is reaching out to touch her chin, forcing her to turn her head back.

    "What?" she asks, humiliated to be caught crying, especially in front of an outsider.

    To her credit, Aimee has drifted closer to the door again, and seems to be caught up in examining the fringed shade of an old lamp.

    "Come on downstairs for dinner," her mother says in that kind tone again. "I want to spend some time with you. I've missed you all day."

    
I've missed you, too
,
Lianna
thinks sadly.
And for a whole lot longer than just a day
.

    The police station is bustling on this summer Sunday evening.

    Mimi waits to speak to the jolly-looking desk sergeant, meanwhile nibbling her lower lip so fiercely she tastes blood.

    Finally, it's her turn. She gives her name, feeling as though she's going to faint any second.

    "How can we help you, Mrs. Johnston?"

    "I need to speak to, um, somebody.
About a case."

    "About a report you filed?"

    "No…"

    He waits. Beneath brows raised in obvious question, his eyes are kind.

    Nonetheless, she's paralyzed with fear, barely able to draw a breath.

    This is it.

    If she reveals anything to the police, she'll officially be involved. She doesn't need this complication in her life. Not right now.

    But what else can she do?

    Run out of here?

    What if the sergeant comes after her, demanding that she talk?

    Come on. That won't happen.

    He doesn't even know which case I mean
.

    All right, so she can probably get away, if she flees the station right now, and nobody will ever be the wiser.

    But how will she be able to live with herself?

    
You won't.

    Besides, don't you remember what he did to you?

    Don't you remember that day in the dormitory at
Tellfair
Academy?

    Yes.

    She remembers.

    
Sorry,
Gib
, she thinks now, steeling her nerve,
payback can be a real bitch…

    And so can
I
.

    She leans toward the officer and confides, "I have some information about the shooting last night on Oglethorpe Avenue."

    "Goodness, I'm so smart to have thought of picking up this hand truck at Home Depot the other day, don't you think? Oh, I forgot… you can't say anything.
For a change.
Well, silence is golden, as Mama used to say. Shoo!"

    Another pesky insect is buzzing around the corpse lashed to the hand truck as the tires become bogged down, once again, in mud.

    "Shoo… go away."

    It takes a good five minutes to free the cart and its grisly cargo. The process entails repeatedly swatting at insects and juggling the flashlight from hand to hand, accidentally dropping it, several times, into the muck.

    At last, the cart is on its way again, following the now-familiar path through the marsh, well lit by the flashlight's glare.

    The brick cabin isn't all that far from the main house, really-but it remains as much a world away now as it did back in slavery times. God forbid the
Remingtons
find it necessary to associate with the household help.

    "Here we are, home sweet home… what do you think? Oh, I keep forgetting… you can't tell me what you think anymore. Well, that's a darned shame but I have to say it was inevitable."

    The handcart drops with a thud beside the old brick doorstep. The flashlight's beam pivots wildly over the darkened landscape, the flashlight itself clenched ear to shoulder, leaving both hands free to work the padlock.

    
"Yoo-hoo, ladies, I've brought a visitor, just like I promised."

    
At that, the corpse is cut loose from the hand truck and dragged over the threshold.

    Rigor mortis has set in; it takes quite a bit of effort to get it propped just right in the place of honor at the small table, positioned between the redheaded doll and the brunette. The blond doll sits across, seeming to stare at the newcomer, whose wide green eyes are frozen in an expression of eternal horror.

    "It's like looking into a mirror, isn't it
Pammy
Sue? Oh, wait… there are two
Pammy
Sues now. And isn't it ironic? Neither of you can say a word!"

    Laughter fills the old cabin.

    But with it drifts the echo of a long ago voice.
Mama's voice, scolding.

    
You naughty, naughty child.
What have you done?

    But Mama isn't here. She can't be here. Mama is dead.

    The flashlight's beam bounces around wildly, revealing one reassuringly empty corner after another.

    "See?
Nobody here but me.
And you,
Pammy
Sue.
One, two,
Pammy
Sues."

    
Another wave of hysterical laughter.

    Then the flashlight bounces from the redheaded doll to the brunette. "Oh, no, I didn't forget. You're both here, too. Now we can have our little doll tea party. Just like old times."

    The tea set, delivered to the cabin on an earlier trip, is retrieved from its shopping bag and lain out on the table. It's the one that was purchased two decades ago at the Pigeon Creek five and dime, an extravagant birthday gift for
Pammy
Sue.

    Those familiar green eyes seem to be following the action with unnerving intensity, almost as though they recognize the childhood relic.

    But that's ridiculous, of course. They aren't really watching.

    
Pammy
Sue is dead. She can't see any more than she can speak.

    
Which is why I get to do all the talking from now on.
And that's just fine with me.

    "Oh, look… one of the cups is chipped. How on earth can that have happened? Oh, wait, I remember!"

    Yes, it happened on
Pammy
Sue's birthday, when she left the room to get her favorite doll, leaving the tea set spread out on the kitchen table. It was so pretty, the white china sprigged with little pink roses. It must have been expensive.

    
I never got such an expensive, beautiful birthday gift in my life. Not in
that
life, anyway
.

    That was why it was so tempting, that day-
Pammy
Sue's birthday-to snatch the nearest cup. It was hurtled to the floor in a sudden burst of rage, so hard that it should have smashed into tiny shards.

    But it didn't. It hit the edge of the thick braided rag rug and bounced gently onto the linoleum.

    Only a sliver of porcelain splintered off the rim, so.
slight
a break that
Pammy
Sue didn't even notice it when she came back into the room with her doll.

    And when she finally did see the chipped spot, days later, she thought she must have done it herself somehow.

    
Stupid, stupid girl.

    "Here you go." The chipped cup is placed in front of the corpse. "You won't mind. You probably won't even notice."

    What fun this is. Just like old times.

    "All right, now, we'll have to pretend there's tea in the cups." The little china spout is positioned over each of the four rims and the pot is tilted as if to dispense its steaming beverage. "And we'll pretend there are cookies on the plates, too… what's that,
Pammy
Sue? You don't like to pretend?"

    
Silence.

    
Of course.

    
Because
Pammy
Sue can't speak.

    And she can't see.

    Really, she can't.

    
But I can't help it.
I need to make sure…

    
Rage sweeps in, the same as it did on
Pammy
Sue's long ago birthday. This time, it's a little silver teaspoon that is snatched abruptly from the table.

    Then the corpse is grabbed roughly by its blond hair, now matted with coagulated blood.

    The edge of the spoon is jammed into the socket beneath
Pammy
Sue's motionless right eye. It gouges mercilessly, in a seemingly futile effort until suddenly, the eyeball is severed.

    Ah, there.

    The gory orb plops, oozing, onto a small china plate. Its counterpart follows after another brief struggle with the spoon.

    Then the corpse is returned to its position and the plate is set in the middle of the table like a gruesome centerpiece.

    '’There… I'm afraid we're all out of cookies, but here's a delicious treat just for you,
Pammy
Sue. Go ahead, dig in. I'm sure you won't mind if I don't stay… I've got to be going now, before somebody misses me. But I'll be back soon for another visit. I promise."

    First thing Monday morning, Charlotte finds herself facing Detectives Williamson and Dorado once again.

    But this time, it's on her turf: in the second of the double parlors at
Oakgate
, with the doors closed.

    And this time, Aimee is at her side.

    When the detectives showed up unannounced, Charlotte was just about to leave for the hospital with her stepdaughter.

    They initially asked to speak to Charlotte in private. She quickly spoke up and told them she would feel more comfortable with her stepdaughter there.

    "Aimee should hear anything y'all have to say-Royce is her father. She flew in yesterday from New Orleans and she's as concerned as I am."

    To her relief, and frankly, her surprise, even Williamson didn't oppose her request.

    "Do you know who did this?" Charlotte asks the foment they're all seated-on a cluster of circle-backed nineteenth-century chairs upholstered in yellow silk; Williamson's ample girth overflowing beneath the wooden arms on either side of his.

    "Not yet" He doesn't elaborate.

    Frustrated, Charlotte snaps, "Well, what
did you find
out?"

    
And why are you here? Don't you realize that I have to get back to my husband's bedside?

    Dorado takes over. "Mrs. Maitland-and Miss Maitland, is it?" At Aimee's nod, the detective goes on, "Have y'all been here all night?"

    "Ever since we left the hospital at around seven," Charlotte tells him, bristling at the question. Surely he doesn't consider her a suspect at this point, does he?

    "Can you just tell us what you did here, and who all was in the house?"

    Suppressing a sigh, Charlotte recounts the evening step-by-step: she talked to her daughter, spoke to the, housekeeper about dinner,
then
took a shower while Aimee settled into
Grandaddy's
room with Nydia's assistance…

    
"Nydia?
She's the housekeeper who let us in just now?" Williamson interrupts, jotting something on his pad. 'The one you mentioned yesterday when we asked; who was living in the house?"

    "Yes." 'We'll want to talk to her."

    "Fine, but I don't know what she can possibly tell; y'all."

    Keeping her gaze focused on the pair of antique andirons at the far end of the room so that she won't have to look at Williamson, Charlotte goes on with her; account of last night. She fails to mention that Nydia was silently disapproving when Charlotte asked her to; put fresh sheets on the bed; clearly, she doesn't think anybody should be moving into the room so soon after
Grandaddy's
death.