by Lyn Cote
Keir cleared his throat. “We’ve gone over your place thoroughly.”
“What was taken?” Milo asked.
“Nothing obvious.” Keir held out Tom’s wallet and Ridge set the small wooden jewelry box on the table in front of Shirley. “Both of you,” the sheriff continued, “please check these out and tell me if you are missing anything.”
Tom stared at the wallet and then opened it. He pulled out the pastor’s check and then counted the bills. At the same time, Shirley opened and closed all the tiny drawers in the jewelry box. Both of them looked up at the same time. “Nothing’s missing,” Tom said.
“Same here,” Shirley agreed.
Ridge felt like throwing something fragile at the wall just to hear the sound of something, anything, breaking. None of this made the least bit of sense, but all of it was keeping him just where he didn’t want to be. Wait until his boss heard this development. He’d insist Ridge stay put. And to make matters worse, he found himself glancing once again toward Sylvie’s cap of shining hair.
“Let’s drive you to the house, then,” Keir said, “and you can look around and tell us if anything is missing.”
“But we didn’t leave valuables at home when we left for our winter break,” Shirley objected. “We have a safety-deposit box in a bank in Ashford. If they didn’t take Tom’s wallet or my few pieces of Black Hills Gold, there isn’t anything of value in the house.”
“Are you sure?” Ridge asked, hoping they’d recall something. Wintry wind gusted against the large front windows overlooking the waterfront.
“We lost nothing of value,” Tom said with finality. “Winfield doesn’t have much crime, but we didn’t want to leave any temptation for anyone—”
“That’s right,” Shirley agreed again, “especially after everything that happened to Rae-Jean last year.”
The two of them couldn’t have said anything that Ridge wanted less to hear. How am I going to get Ben to that school by Sunday, by tomorrow night? Outside the windows, the implacable frozen expanse of the shore of Lake Superior stretched far north on the horizon.
“This couldn’t have anything to do with Rae-Jean coming home this week, could it?” Milo asked.
“I don’t see how,” the sheriff responded. “Her supplier is in prison for a nice long sentence for dealing. And he’s not the kind of person anyone would miss. At least, that’s my take on it. Did Rae-Jean ever stop by your place last year?”
“No,” Tom said.
“So the idea that someone might be looking for a stash of drugs at our place is foolish,” Shirley said, seconding her husband.
“Well, sometimes drug users do really stupid things,” Keir said. “Let’s go. I want you to walk through the house with me just in case you can pinpoint what someone took or might have been looking for. It might be something without obvious value to me.”
Tom and Shirley, with Milo along for moral support, left with Keir. Ben stayed at the table. Sylvie closed the door behind them against the icy wind winnowing up the stairwell. Ridge stared across the kitchen at Sylvie. In spite of himself.
Sylvie felt a sudden relief when Tom and Shirley left. She’d been holding it together for their sake. Now she sank down at the table and bent her head in her hand. Tears slid down her cheeks. Still mindful of Ben and Ridge, she wept quietly so as not to upset either male with out-of-control sobbing. She was very aware that Ridge had been keeping his eyes on her since he entered. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It’s been a very rough day.” And it might become rougher. What does Ridge think is going on here?
Ben tentatively patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry your cousin died.”
Sylvie caught his hand and squeezed it. “Thanks, Ben.” Remembering his recent loss, she smiled tremulously at him. “I’ll be fine. I just wish this all hadn’t happened. Why don’t you go turn the TV on? It’s time for that show you like on Animal Planet.”
Ben looked relieved and left the room. Soon they heard the noise of the TV.
She looked up at Ridge. “What’s going on here?” she asked in a low voice so Ben wouldn’t hear.
Ridge sat down as if suddenly drained of energy. “It’s all screwy. We can discover no motive at all for Ginger’s death. We don’t even know if her death was somehow accidental or premeditated murder.”
“What does that mean?” Sylvie asked, watching the way his strong hands folded into fists. This isn’t your fault, Ridge.
“She might have surprised someone going through the apartment and they might have hit her or knocked her down the stairs.”
“But what could anybody be looking for?” Sylvie asked, not bothering to ask why they would accidentally kill Ginger and then shut her eyes. None of this made any sense. “My aunt and uncle and Ginger aren’t wealthy or into drugs. So what else is there to find in their homes?”
Ridge made a sound of disgust. “Well, that’s the crux of the problem, isn’t it? What is there to commit murder for in Ginger’s apartment?”
Ridge always cared so much. He’d been away for years yet Ginger’s death was obviously infuriating him.
“I’ve been thinking and thinking. The only thing that I keep coming back to is that when I left her that night—” Sylvie strengthened her self-control, tightening her quivering lips “—Ginger said she was going to have a wow surprise for me in the morning.”
“She did?” Ridge shook his head and leaned forward. “What do you think she meant?”
“I asked her if it was going to be an engagement ring.” She studied his hands, so powerful-looking with blunt fingertips. Who had done this and unknowingly taken on this formidable man as an adversary?
“A ring? From whom?”
“I knew she’d been dating a young assistant professor in Alaska.” Sylvie sighed. Her conversation with Ginger just three days before felt like a million years ago. “But when I guessed that he’d popped the question, Ginger only giggled and said that I’d see tomorrow. Her surprise was going to knock my socks out of the park.” Sylvie couldn’t help half smiling over Ginger’s playing with words. That had been part of her.
“We didn’t find an engagement ring among Ginger’s belongings,” Ridge said. “And I don’t see anyone ransacking an apartment for an engagement ring that an assistant professor could afford.”
“And he didn’t come to the funeral,” Sylvie added, feeling doors slamming inside her, closing out her cousin’s young life. “The very next day after we found…after Ginger’s death, I called her professor, the one who was overseeing her research, and told him to pass the news around that Ginger had…had died. They sent flowers, but—” Sylvie lifted her eyes to Ridge’s dark somber ones “—the assistant prof didn’t show up here. If he’d proposed he would have come, wouldn’t he?”
“You would think so.” Ridge’s usually businesslike face twisted with evident dissatisfaction and he switched topics. “Tomorrow is Sunday. I’m going to take the day off and drive Ben south to his school.”
“No,” Sylvie objected before she could stop herself. “Ridge, I really think that military school for Ben right now is ill-advised. I know you didn’t ask my opinion, but this just doesn’t feel right.” Impetuously she reached over and laid her hand on his arm. Trying to sway him somehow.
He turned away and her hand fell. “Sylvie, I don’t know why Ben’s parents put me down as Ben’s guardian. They never asked me and if they had, I would have suggested they choose someone else. My lifestyle—”
Sylvie didn’t know Ben’s parents. Ben’s father and mother had been college friends of Ridge’s who had died in a boating accident the year before in Green Bay. “Then leave Ben here. Maybe he can do some good. Maybe his presence will goad your parents into starting to live again.” She hadn’t meant to say that. She looked down, not wanting to meet Ridge’s gaze. “Sorry,” she whispered.
“To shake my parents out of their apathy, it would take something more on the order of an atomic bomb.” Ridge’s voice was bitter. “I know you m
ean it out of goodness, Sylvie. But even after eighteen years, my parents are still just breathing, just existing. Ben has been with them for months. Do you honestly see any change?”
She couldn’t lie. “No. None.”
“They don’t want him in their house. They ignore the kid. If they can help it, they don’t even look at him. That can’t be good for him.”
Suddenly chilled, Sylvie folded her arms around herself. Maybe they didn’t want Ben because he was the same age as Dan had been when he died.
“Hey—” Ridge touched her shoulder but briefly “—this isn’t your fault. Thanks for befriending Ben. And I’ll consider letting Ben come to spend a few weeks in the summer with you. If you still want him.”
“I do.” She looked up into Ridge’s dark, dark eyes, seeing the regret, the uneasiness there. She smoothed her hand over her shoulder where he’d touched her.
“And don’t worry about Ben,” Ridge said gruffly. “He’ll be safe, well fed and they have a counselor on staff and he knows that Ben recently lost his parents. It’s really a good place for Ben to be right now.”
She nodded, unconvinced. But Ridge was Ben’s guardian. She wasn’t. I’m turning this over to You, God. If You have a better plan for Ben, You’ll have to put it into motion. I can’t do anything. And on top of everything else, she had Rae-Jean coming home on Monday.
March 6, Sunday
In the crisp morning light, Ridge raced up the steps to Milo and Sylvie’s apartment. He pounded on the door. His pulse throbbed at his temples.
Sylvie opened it, dressed in her Sunday best. “Ridge, what’s wrong—”
“Is Ben here?”
“Here? What’s happened?” she asked, stepping back.
Ridge came inside, shutting the door against the cold wind. “I got up to drive Ben to the military school and he wasn’t in his bed.”
She goggled at him. “What?”
“He’s run away. Did he come here?”
“Of course not,” Milo answered from the table where he sat with coffee and hot oatmeal. “We’d have called your parents’ house if he’d shown up here.”
“What about Sylvie’s store? Does he know how to get in there?”
“He knows where I keep an extra key behind a loose piece of siding to the right of the door,” Sylvie admitted.
Ridge turned immediately and headed out and down the steps.
“We’ll be at church if you need us,” Milo called after him.
Ridge didn’t bother to reply. This was all I needed.
THREE
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.
<
br /> “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.