Читать книгу Dangerous Secrets - Lyn Cote, Lyn Cote - Страница 11

March 7

Monday evening after work, Sylvie and her dad, Milo, reluctantly climbed up the steps to Ginger’s apartment over Sylvie’s store. The sheriff had said that he was done with this crime scene. Shirley and Tom were still dealing with too much—the loss of Ginger and the aftermath of the break-in at their house. So Sylvie and her father wanted to save Ginger’s parents the burden of cleaning up the mess and packing up their daughter’s things and putting them away. But Sylvie’s mind kept going back to Ben. Had he run away yesterday? Or had someone taken him away?

The studio apartment was in shambles, books on the floor and Ginger’s possessions strewn over the hardwood floor. “What should we do first?” It was all too much. She swallowed down her worry and sorrow, but the effort cost her. She felt like a rag doll minus her stuffing.

“Ginger didn’t have time to eat anything, did she?” Milo asked.

“I don’t think so. But I know right before we took off that evening, she dropped off a small plastic bag of groceries she’d picked up.” Sylvie’s throat tightened and she couldn’t say more. Just thinking about the last fun evening with Ginger was like shards of glass penetrating her heart.

“Sweetheart, why don’t you check the kitchen to see if anything needs washing up? I’ll start cleaning in here.” Her father’s voice lacked its usual exuberance.

Sylvie wandered into the small alcove kitchen and glanced around. Nothing was on the counter or in the sink. She opened the refrigerator. Inside, a plastic half gallon of milk was a third full. And a peanut butter jar’s lid was cockeyed. She lifted the jar and unscrewed the top. A generous dollop had been dug out and evidently eaten. A jar of strawberry jam had been similarly treated. A loaf of bread had been opened and not closed tightly.

She stared at the peanut butter jar in her hand, its nutty scent strong. That last night of her life, had Ginger had time to make and eat a peanut butter sandwich? Especially after all the Chinese food they’d consumed that evening? In view of Ginger’s love affair with peanut butter and strawberry jam—perhaps.

Sylvie’s mind felt mired, sluggish. Suddenly she didn’t have any strength in her legs. She sat down at the tiny table beside the kitchen window and buried her head in her hands. Ginger, I can’t believe you’re gone.

Sylvie lost track of time. Finally, she realized that her father was speaking to her. She looked up.

“Sylvie, what’s wrong?” Her dad made a face. “I mean besides the obvious.”

Her lower lip trembled as she held out the peanut butter jar. Maybe it was just her grief, but the small inconsistency had unnerved her.

Milo frowned and took the jar from her. “What’s the matter?”

“Did Ridge say anything about Ginger eating peanut butter that night?” she replied, making her voice stronger. “I mean, did she make herself a sandwich and then someone surprised her? Did the deputies help themselves to her food? I wouldn’t think so, but…” Ginger, oh, Ginger, who did this to you? Why? “I…this just doesn’t make any sense.” She rested her head in her hand.

“I’ll call the sheriff.” Milo did just that. Then, closing his cell phone, he sat down across from her. “He says Ginger had eaten but he couldn’t remember if peanut butter had been found in…” Her father’s voice faltered. “Anyway, he saw the milk and bread in the fridge but it hadn’t been touched. After dusting the containers for fingerprints, they left everything undisturbed.”

“Did he say anything about the search for Ben?” She had to say the words though she knew Keir would have called them had there been any news.

Her dad shook his head.

“This doesn’t make any sense.” She covered her face with her shaky hands. “I just can’t think tonight.” Where would Ben have run to? “Let’s get this over with, Dad.” She heaved herself to her feet.

All the tragedy, all the mystery seemed to be chipping away at reality. She felt thinner, less substantial than the night she’d welcomed Ginger home. She drifted back into the main room of the small apartment which her father had put back in order. He followed her and then halted, his hands at his hips. “There wasn’t much to put back into her suitcases. She hadn’t really unpacked.”

“Last fall she left stuff in her closet, I think,” Sylvie muttered. “I mean, summer clothes and things she didn’t need in Alaska.”

“I don’t think we need to dig into that yet. Let’s just shove her luggage and stuff up into the attic. No one’s going to want to rent this apartment for a long time. When a suspicious death takes place somewhere, people get spooked. They shouldn’t, of course, but superstition still holds power over some.”

He was right, of course. But perhaps summer people who hadn’t known Ginger wouldn’t care. Milo and she worked together silently packing up the final few things that Ginger had pulled from her suitcases—before falling or being pushed to her death. That her brilliant cousin should be dead so tragically young reminded Sylvie of the research Ginger had spent the past winters collecting.

Enmeshed in the web of grief and worry, Sylvie looked around for Ginger’s laptop with its smooth black nylon case. It contained all her files. Sylvie had seen it in Ginger’s car that night Ginger and she had gone out. “Where’s Ginger’s laptop? I want to contact her professor. Perhaps someone can use Ginger’s research for their thesis or dissertation. Ginger would hate to have all her work go to waste.” She gazed around at the suitcases and duffels. In vain.

“Did we mention that to the sheriff?” her father asked. “Everything was such a shock—I didn’t even think about her laptop.”

“I didn’t, either. But maybe they took it away as evidence.” Sylvie went around the room, looking underneath furniture and behind doors and in the one closet. But of course neither the sheriff nor Ginger would put the laptop under a piece of furniture. Her brain must be unraveling. “Do you think that Keir did take it with him?”

Her father pulled out his cell phone and called Keir at home. “Sorry to bother you again, Keir,” her father started his question. After a brief conversation, Milo looked at her. “He said they did not find a laptop, which Shirley had reported as missing. Not in her apartment nor in her car. I told him we would check the attic again. Then he told us to lock up tight and go home. He’ll come and look everything over one more time tomorrow morning.”

Her father reached up and pulled down the attic hatch and an accordion flight of narrow steps unfolded.

Someone above exclaimed in surprise.

Sylvie and her dad exchanged glances. With sudden relief, they knew who had been eating Ginger’s food. “Ben!” her father shouted up. “Come down the steps, please.”

Within moments Ben’s worried face looked down at them in the low light.

“Ben,” her dad said, his voice softening, “come down and help us put Ginger’s stuff up in the attic. Then we’ll talk.”

Ridge sat at his parents’ kitchen table alone. Since the soap operas were over for the day, his mother had already gone to bed. His dad was watching some sports event from somewhere in the world brought to him on the cable TV. The British voice of the broadcaster and distant fans cheering contrasted with Ridge’s solitary vigil, awaiting news of Ben.

Ridge was tired, bone tired. He’d driven all over town and most of the county yesterday and today. He’d called Ben’s teacher here and she’d helped him contact all the students from Ben’s class at school. None of them had seen or heard from Ben since school on Friday afternoon.

Ridge was sure that Ben had run away, not been grabbed. But where would he run to? Why hadn’t he guessed that the boy might do that? Why am I surprised? Nothing ever goes right when I come back to Winfield.

Images of Ginger, Sylvie and his brother, Dan, at the same age as Ben flitted across the screen of his mind. The three were not connected in reality, but were tangled in the twisted knot of his dissatisfaction and loss.

He rose and poured himself another cup of the strong coffee from the percolator. It nearly burned his tongue, so he blew over the dark surface. He’d called the military school and left a message on their answering machine that Ben might not be able to come to school until Tuesday. What if they wouldn’t wait? What if they gave the opening to the next kid on the list?

He sipped the bitter brew. His mind tried to take him back to Ben’s mother and father. How had it happened that his two best friends could end up causing him such pain? Ridge resisted. No more unproductive trips down memory lane.

All I’ve done, it seems, since I came to Winfield is give people bad news. I didn’t think Ben wouldhate the idea of military school. Why didn’t I realize he might become attached here? The answer to that is easy. I thought he’d be happy to get away from my parents’ house.

The phone rang. He picked up. The words he heard did not make him happy. But at least one mystery was solved.

He didn’t bother to tell his dad that he was leaving. He merely put down the coffee mug and pulled on his winter coat. He hurried out to his SUV.

Sylvie opened the door and let Ridge into her apartment above her dad’s bait shop. His face revealed a mixture of strain and frustration. She touched his arm, asking him silently to pause, to moderate his anger.

His eyes connected with hers and a hint of chagrin shaded his. But he didn’t pull away from her touch.

She tightened her grip, aware of the latent strength in him. “Ben is very upset,” she whispered, “please be kind.”

Ridge grimaced. “I know he’s had a rough time,” he muttered, “but I need to get him established somewhere permanent, away from my parents. He will do better that way.”

There was much that Sylvie could say to this. But she merely gestured him inside. She hung up his coat on one of the pegs by the door. They turned to the table where her dad and Ben sat, waiting.

“I don’t want to go to that school,” Ben insisted, his face flushed.

Ridge waited until Sylvie also sat down at the table and then he eased down, facing Ben. “I know you’re afraid of going to a new school again—”

“I’m not afraid,” Ben objected. “I just like it here.” He glanced at Milo. “I don’t want to leave Winfield.”

Sylvie sat praying for God to open Ridge’s mind and heart. Even when he was upset and she was in disagreement with him, he drew her to himself, compelled her to notice him. Long to be nearer to him. It would have been easier on her if he’d left with Ben as planned.

“Ben, you haven’t even seen the school,” Ridge coaxed. “It’s really a good place. I’m just trying to get you settled somewhere….” He paused. “We’re all tired and it’s past your bedtime, Ben. Let’s go home, okay?”

Sylvie appreciated Ridge’s attempt to reassure Ben and she knew from his perspective that he was trying to do what was best for Ben. But he was wrong.

Ben bolted from the room. Milo rose and followed him.

Ridge had started to rise, but Sylvie pressed her hand on Ridge’s forearm to stop him from following her dad. This time her touch connected her to him in a new way. Vibrations of both his strength and his vulnerability flowed from him up her arm.

“Ridge, let my dad talk to him.”

“Ben is not your responsibility.” He slipped away from her touch. “He’s mine. But I don’t seem to know how to connect with him. I only want to see him settled and doing well. There’s just too much uncertainty in my lifestyle. He needs stability.”

She let her hand fall; their vibrant connection severed. Why did he always pull away from her? She nearly asked him, “Why did Ben’s parents choose you as Ben’s guardian?” But she held the words in. Ridge was a good man, but he had no experience as a father. And he had lost his own family for all intents and purposes. Sylvie watched Ridge struggle with this letdown, this failure of his carefully laid plans. She lowered her gaze, not knowing what to say to make him understand Ben.

Then she recalled what she’d told the sheriff. “Ridge, Ginger’s laptop was missing. Did Shirley mention that to you?”

“Yes, we’re looking for it.”

Milo returned to the kitchen. “Ridge,” he said in a very low tone, “I left Ben working on tying fishing flies. I wanted to ask you something. If we could find a place for Ben here, could he stay in Winfield until the end of the summer?”

Ridge’s expression stiffened. “Ben’s my responsibility.”

From under her half-closed eyes, Sylvie discerned offended pride as it flickered over Ridge’s distinctive features.

“Ridge, it’s hard for a kid to change schools in the middle of a year. Why not let Ben finish out the year here? I think I may have a solution.”

“What are you thinking?” Ridge asked.

“Why not let Rae-Jean go to Shirley?” Milo asked. “And Ben comes here.”

“At a sad time like this?” Ridge sounded uncertain.

“Having someone to take care of would help Shirley. I know my sister.”

Ridge shrugged. “Okay. Ask.”

Milo lifted the receiver of the kitchen wall phone and dialed a number. “I’m sorry to bother you so late, Tom.”

Sylvie listened to the brief conversation, carried on in a low voice Ben couldn’t overhear. And every word her father spoke made her love him more than she already did.

He hung up the phone. “Tom and Shirley will keep Rae-Jean with them. Ridge, we have room for Ben now. May he stay with us?”

Sylvie held her breath. Ridge, please.

“You’re very good. Both of you.” Ridge rose with obvious fatigue and lack of enthusiasm. “I just thought Ben needed a long-term solution. But I’ll think over your offer and we’ll talk tomorrow, okay? I’ll be taking Ben home now.”

A gloomy Ridge and a dejected Ben left almost immediately. Sylvie and her father stood, looking at the closed door for a long moment. Then Milo put his comforting arm around her shoulder. “Ridge is making a big mistake if he takes Ben away now.”

Another in a long line of mistakes, Sylvie added silently. Was there any way to make Ridge see sense about Ben?

“Let’s go to bed,” her dad said. “I’m about to fall asleep on my feet. And we’ll still be settling Rae-Jean and her baby in here tomorrow. It will be an adjustment for both of us having an infant in the house.”

She nodded and he walked her to her bedroom door where he pecked her cheek good-night. Lord, wake Ridge up and let him see Ben as a gift, not a burden.

March 8

Late Tuesday afternoon, Sylvie paced the floor of the new clinic in Washburn. Her aunt Shirley was in the examination room with the nurse-practitioner who was examining Rae-Jean’s baby girl, little Hope. What could go wrong next? Rae-Jean, looking exhausted and weak, had arrived home and Sylvie had put her to bed immediately.

And then she and Aunt Shirley had rushed the obviously very congested baby here. Just over five pounds in weight, tiny Hope had been born three weeks premature and was so fragile. And they still didn’t know how the child would be affected from Rae-Jean’s drug abuse the year before.

Then Aunt Shirley came out with the baby in her arms and smiled. “We just need to get a couple of prescriptions filled. And to pick up some camphorated oil.”

Sylvie sighed with relief. Rae-Jean had a bad cold, too, and needed their attention.

A half hour later, Shirley parked in front of Milo’s Bait and Tackle Shop. Two police cars were parked there. “Oh, no,” Shirley moaned.

Sylvie knew just how her aunt felt. She was beginning to cringe at the sight of police vehicles. With a sinking feeling, she unhooked the baby from the car seat in the rear passenger compartment. And then both women hurried up the few steps to the shop. Milo, wearing a khaki quilted vest, met them at the shop’s entrance.

“Dad, what’s happened?” Sylvie asked, while Shirley cradled the blanket-shrouded baby close to protect her from the biting wind.

“I went to pick up a few groceries. While I was gone, someone got into our apartment and struck Rae-Jean from behind and knocked her out.” Disbelief and anger colored each of his words. He took off his glasses to rub his eyes.

Sylvie shook her head as though trying to deny what had happened.

“Where is Rae-Jean, Milo?” Shirley asked, patting the fussing baby in her arms.

“That deputy, Trish, has driven her to the E.R. in Ashford. I don’t think she’s hurt except for a lump and a bad headache.”

The sound of footsteps sounded from above and then Ridge was there in front of them. “The sheriff would like you to come upstairs, please.”

Ridge’s unexpected presence jolted Sylvie’s already jangled nerves. “You didn’t get to take Ben to that school, did you?” His stark expression caused her to step back from him.

“I hadn’t come to a decision yet,” Ridge replied, shivering once from the cold. “Ben’s in school today. Please, you need to come upstairs and look over your apartment.” Without a further word, he turned and motioned them to precede him upstairs.

As she passed within inches of him, Sylvie could think of nothing either comforting or persuasive to say.

The sheriff was waiting for them in the kitchen. “Whoever broke in and struck Rae-Jean didn’t have as much time to tear your place up as Ginger’s apartment and your house.” He nodded toward Shirley.

“You think there is just one person doing this?” Sylvie asked the sheriff. The unreality of someone breaking into their home and for an unknown reason was obviously shaking Sylvie’s peace apart. “Is it just one person who is looking for something? But what?”

Keir shrugged, his features set in grim lines. Ridge stood at his side, reflecting the same mood in his expression and stance.

Sylvie wrapped her arms closer around the baby.

“Something will break,” the sheriff said with what sounded like forced confidence. “This doesn’t appear to be the work of a professional and he is bound to slip up, leave something behind. And we’ll get him.”

Shirley sank onto one of the kitchen chairs and unwrapped the thin blanket over the baby’s head. She held the baby girl close and kissed her downy forehead. “What could they be looking for? And why? Oh, Lord, help us.”

Sylvie’s spirit echoed the despairing cry of Shirley’s heart.

Keir asked Sylvie and Milo to make a cursory examination of places where they kept their extra cash and few valuables. Nothing was found missing and this didn’t lighten the pervasive gloom. The sheriff asked them to wait downstairs in Milo’s shop. But before she could comply, the kitchen phone rang. Sylvie picked it up and heard a voice over the line. “A lady is here who wants to dicker over the price of a book, one of the collectible editions of Georgette Heyer.”

In her current mental fog, it took a few moments for Sylvie to understand who, where and what was happening. It was Shirley’s neighbor Florence Levesque, who was watching Sylvie’s shop for her today. “Florence, I’ll come right over.” She turned to Milo and Shirley and said, “I’ll be right back.”

When she walked outside, Ridge hailed her from the bottom of the steps, “Where are you going?”

“To my shop. Florence is there with a customer.”

Ridge caught up with her. “I’ll come with you.” Without preamble, he continued as they walked side by side, “Do you have any idea at all of who might have done this?”

“None.” Why was he coming with her? In spite of her limp, she found herself walking faster than usual in the brisk winter wind.

“Since I can’t take Ben myself, I’ve decided I’m going to call a friend of mine in the Milwaukee Police Department and ask him to meet the bus from northern Wisconsin tomorrow. He can take Ben to the school. I don’t know when I will be able to get away from this case. And I’ve got to get Ben to that school.”

She cast him a scorching glance. “You’re out of your mind,” she declared, patience gone.

Ridge looked shocked. “What?”

“If you think that you can put Ben on a bus in Ashford tomorrow morning and that when it reaches Milwaukee that night, he will still be on it, you are out of your mind,” she repeated.

Ridge made a sound of disgust. “You’re right. I must be crazy to even think of doing that.”

Most shops on the side street where they walked had been closed until spring. She had the haunting sensation that she was trudging through a ghost town with Ridge. The icy wind battered them, swirling particles of dry snow around their ankles. Her hip ached from the cold and her indignation at his blind spot was fueling her weariness.

Suddenly she yearned for hot sun, green leaves, white sailboats on blue water and tourists shoulder to shoulder on this empty street, laughing and calling to each other. The fact that there was no escape, no way to leap ahead to the future where all the present problems and mysteries were solved sparked her temper.

She stopped and faced him. “You can’t be any more frustrated than I am. I’ve lost Ginger. Some crazy person is going around tearing my family’s houses apart searching for something. We don’t know what that something is or how far they will go to get it. I mean, will they kill someone else?”

Before he could answer, she went on, feeling the tide of frustration roiling, frothing inside her. “And now Rae-Jean has been attacked. Just dealing with Rae-Jean coming home from prison with the baby would have been enough. You think you have problems? Both sides of my family are going through terrible times. You only have Ben to worry about and you seem totally unwilling to spend any time with the boy and be concerned about his problems.”

“I have no experience with kids. But I’m trying to do the best I can. I wanted to get him settled so that he could have an easier time of it.”

“Or maybe you could have an easier time of it? What is it about Ben that most makes you want to get rid of him? Is it because he’s the same age as Dan was when he died?” she challenged him. Then that alarmed feeling shook her, warning her that she had gone too far.

Ridge made no reply. But he pulled away and began stalking the last few yards to the corner across from her bookshop.

She hurried after him; her hip faltered. She slipped on a patch of ice. And fell down hard.

Ridge turned back. “Are you all right?” He reached down to help her up from the icy pavement.

“I’m fine, but ashamed of myself.” Her face blazed. She was usually so careful not to fall in order not to aggravate her damaged hip further. And usually so careful of others’ feelings. “Ridge, I’m ashamed of myself for my anger at you. But I’m so concerned about Ben and his needs.” She couldn’t look him in the eye. “He’s so fragile at this time.”

Ridge drew her to her feet. One of his hands cupped her neck under her collar. The satiny fabric sensitized her neck or was it that his hand was only a millimeter from her skin?

“Don’t give it a thought.” His voice was still rough, but diffident. “After the past five days, neither of us has any patience or nerves left. And I don’t seem to be making a lot of good decisions about Ben.” His other hand pressed against the small of her back, drawing her closer to him, evidently keeping her steady. “With all that’s happened over the past few days, it’s a wonder we’re still in our right minds.”

“Maybe I’m not,” she teased a bit, trying to make up for goading him, striking him when he was already down. “I’m so sorry, Ridge,” she whispered.

Regret again triggered the tears that had hovered just a breath away from the moment she’d found Ginger dead. “I’m so sorry—” she blinked away the tears “—I just wish I could help you. Help Ben…Help you see that he has needs and feelings and…” All the emotions of the day, of the week overcame her. And then her head was resting against his chest again. The wool of his coat rasped her cheek.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. But he held her close. And that was what she needed now. No one had held her like this for a very long time. As winter dusk turned the sky to pewter, the last of the day’s wind continued to flog them. His nearness began to settle deep into her, soothing all of the ruffled edges that the last few days had caused.

Finally his voice came soft and low. “Sylvie, there is a reason that all this happened. Something that Ginger said or did or saw made her a target. Someone knows that Tom and Shirley were her parents and that you were her cousin and close friend. So both your houses were places that she might have visited the night she came home.”

“Or that she might have stayed last fall when she finished her summer here and left for Alaska again?” She looked up.

“That’s right. These three places—her apartment, her parents’ home and your apartment—all were places she would have been last summer.” His voice gained momentum. “What happened to Ginger last summer that would have carried over until now?” He stepped away from her.

She sensed him reestablishing his distance from her. Their moment of closeness was over. “But why would someone wait until now? Wouldn’t it have been easier to investigate, search these places, especially Ginger’s apartment, after she left for Alaska and before she came home?”

“Good point. But it leads nowhere.” He dropped his hands from her.

Bereft of his touch, she said, “I still think we need to find out what her surprise was. Maybe she told someone else around here. Maybe someone she knew met her when she came to town and told her something.”

“A better point.” His businesslike manner had returned, searing their connection. “We’ve asked that anyone who has information about Ginger’s movements the night she came home to come forward. No one has but you.”

“But if they have a guilty secret, they wouldn’t come forward,” she said, reestablishing her independence, too. She couldn’t let herself depend on Ridge. His stay here would be fleeting. “Because they would still be looking for whatever she had that they want…”

“Yes, and we don’t know what that is. But can you think of anyplace in Winfield or nearby that she frequented last summer that might be a hiding place for something important?” He studied her as though he could summon the answer from her with a word.

Blocking Ridge out so she could concentrate, Sylvie closed her eyes and tried to think. Ginger had worked the excursion boats that toured the Apostle Islands. That led nowhere. She shook her head.

“Can you think of anywhere that she stopped before she came to you that first night?”

Sylvie replayed in her mind the evening with Ginger and then the night she and her father had found Ben in Ginger’s attic. The peanut butter that Ben had eaten—yes. “Groceries. She had bought groceries.”

“Groceries? You mean the ones in Ginger’s fridge?”

“Yes.”

“I thought one of the deputies, that young one, Josh, told me you’d put those groceries in the fridge.”