He didn’t actually look any better, aesthetically. His face and body were still covered with the dried crusts of the pox blisters. But there were no fresh ones, no more of the little yellow bubbles that had been appearing in inexorable succession for the last four days, only to break and crust over.
“Hey, I think you’re getting better!”
“Can we go to the park?”
“No, not yet.” Ginny was alarmed. She hated being house-bound, but she feared the police even more. Clearly, having Will well would present a whole new set of problems. “When your mom calls I’ll ask her if we can do anything different. But for now we’ll just take it easy and finish getting well. See, the chicken pox haven’t gone away yet.”
Will looked somberly at his arm. “Mommy says I have several hundred chicken poxes.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Then he smiled that enchanting small-boy smile that had been so rare the last few days, and changed the subject. “I’ll build a house for Kakiy!”
“How?”
“From blocks!”
“That’s a great idea!” She went up with him to his room and got him settled to his task, then went back to the study to work on her math assignment. It was hard to concentrate, though. Partly it was because Will kept interrupting, wanting to know if Kakiy needed a bathroom in his house (no, said Ginny, just a corner for his litter box), or if he needed a window (sure, he likes to sit on windowsills). But the biggest problem was her own dark thoughts. Fear of the police who were searching for her. Worry that Mom and Dad would figure out who Maggie was, and be heartbroken. Anger at Maggie, and love. Jealousy of this family, and yearning for her own. For Mom and Dad. And disappointment. For years she had hungered to know the truth about her background; and Maggie had given her truth, unstintingly. But Ginny’s image of herself, nobly accepting her mother’s misfortunes and forgiving her heinous sins, had not come to pass. Maggie—perversely, inexplicably—refused to be ashamed. Claimed to love Ginny even while she admitted she would do it again. That made her sins even more heinous, right? At any rate, Ginny could not forgive.
She wondered again if it was some fault in herself. She had dreamed of great sins or great misfortunes, of degeneracy or tragedy. Genetic wickedness that would account for her own defiant feelings, genetic misfortunes that would account for her inability to live up to Mom’s dreams for her, or to her own dreams. Wickedness and misfortune she had lived with, in fancy. She had been ready to forgive.
But instead she had found talent and brains and compassion, a close good-humored family, song and laughter. Her genes were the genes of Ph.D.s, engineers, professors, mayors. Good-bye to bad blood. Good-bye to all those possible mothers: the prostitutes and murderers, the rape victims and drug addicts and fallen princesses, who had accompanied her through her follies and rebellions. They had been an ever-changing yet constant explanation and solace. She missed them. She was ready to cry with vexation at having lost her dear little fellow travelers so suddenly.
Poor Alice. Poor Ginny.
She had been staring at the same math problem for five minutes. In commemoration of her prostitutes she had pulled in a D on the first quiz. A D for the daughter of an engineer and a statistician.
“Oh, God, who am I?” she murmured. After all this pain, she still didn’t know!
“You’re Ginny Marshall,” said Will’s voice.
She turned in surprise and looked at him, a small and scabby and cheerful boy. A future statistician or doctor or mayor. Or actor, in his case. She pulled herself together. “Yes,” she said, considering, “but I was asking God.”
He giggled. “I’m just Will.”
“So you are. Come on, little brother. Lunchtime.” She stood up.
“But I need Kakiy so he can see his house.”
“Oh, is it finished?”
“Come see!”
She admired Will’s construction, then suggested having a sandwich.
“But I want Kakiy to see it!” he said.
“Okay, but I don’t know where Kakiy is right now. How about lunch first? Then nap. Then you can put Kakiy in his house.”
Miraculously, he agreed, and chatted with her pleasantly over cheese sandwiches and apples. The surface of her life was certainly a lot nicer when Will was healthy. But underneath she was floundering more than ever. She had lost all her excuses, but had not found a direction.
And that was why, when Will stretched out contentedly on his bed for his nap, telling himself the story as he turned the pages of a Dr. Seuss book, Ginny gave up on the math and did a lude. Just for a break, she told herself, just a respite from these awful thoughts. Will is okay now. And it’ll be worn off by the time he wakes up and Sarah comes home. She sat in the corner of the sofa in the study, fingers tingling, smiling dreamily at the rows of math books on the shelves. Pretty soon she couldn’t see the titles very well anymore, and she floated peacefully above her confusions and worries, gliding toward a dreamless sleep.
Except that after a time there was a noise somewhere, something she should pay attention to. Annoyed, she held her hands to her ears, but when she dropped them the noise was still there. It was important. What? She tried to stop floating, to listen.
Her name. “Gin-nee!” A small voice. Well, she’d answer later.
Again. “Gin-nee!” It was important.
She had to stop the noise so she could float again.
She stood up, bumped into the door, straightened again, and looked out at the unsteady hall. One foot forward, then another. The next doorjamb lurched toward her.
“Gin-nee!” It was louder now.
She stumbled into the room and looked around. Her eyes weren’t working very well. Nobody was there in that blurry room. It was very cold.
“Gin-nee!” There was a whimper this time, too.
She looked toward the sound. The window was open. Have to close it. Cold. She started toward it and fell on the bed, giggled, struggled up, reached the window, and stumbled again.
“Ginny, help me, okay?”
Her abused eyes managed to focus a little. Gloomy brightness outside. Tree, gold-edged leaves, like her tree upstairs. Branches. Will. Silly Willy.
She laughed. “Whasha doing, Will?” Her tongue wasn’t working very well either.
“I wanted to get Kakiy.”
“You look shilly!”
“Help me, Ginny.”
She frowned. He looked frightened. Not silly.
“Come here, Will.”
“I can’t. Help me, okay?”
“Okay.” Confidently, she started out the window toward the tree. Her muscles seemed to go their own way. She stumbled, flailed, caught the frame before she fell through. For an instant panic cut through the blurriness, and a bit of her mind suddenly grasped the situation.
Little Will was somehow stranded in the tree, frightened, clinging to a high broad branch, pleading for help.
And she, his caretaker and sister, was stumbling about in the window frame below. Stoned. Mindless. Zombied out.
“Buck Landon, right? I’m Aggie Lyons, fromNew York Week.”
Buck had emerged with a swarm of young football players from the high school gym. He’d slowed and dropped his book bag. Now he paused, hand on his back pocket, and looked at Aggie. From where Rina sat in the passenger seat of the Camaro, parked a few yards away, she could see that his hair was still damp from the after-practice shower.
“Yeah?” Buck said. Chip had paused with him, Rina saw, but their teammates had moved noisily on to the cars left in the parking lot.
“We talked a minute on the phone. I’d like to ask you a few more questions,” Aggie said.
“You’re a reporter? See, I’m not supposed to talk to reporters.”
“Just a few questions.”
“He means like no comment,” said Chip.
“No problem.” Aggie smiled sweetly and gave Buck a friendly slap on the back. “I’ll just tag along, write an eyewitness account.”
“You’re Congressman Wilson’s son, right?” Aggie reached into her bag and pulled out her notebook.
“Hey, no comment from me either!” Chip stepped back with an apologetic glance at Buck. “Buck, I better fade. See you at the usual place later.”
“Yeah.” Deserted, Buck stared after Chip a moment, then back at Aggie. “Really, I can’t talk to you.”
“No problem. Mrs. Marshall and I will just tag along, as I said.”
“Mrs. Marshall?” For the first time Buck noticed Rina in the Camaro. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Marshall.”
“Hi, Buck.”
“I didn’t know that you—see, I’m not supposed to talk to reporters.”
Aggie had been watching Buck’s teammates. Most had piled into cars and were pulling out of the high school lot. “You’re going somewhere now?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m going—” He glanced at Rina again. “Well, you know. Home.”
“Okay. See you later.” Aggie got into the Camaro and turned the ignition.
“You usually don’t give up so easily,” Rina observed.
“Nobody’s giving up,” Aggie informed her. She had not put the car into gear, but was sitting, watching Buck. The teenager had hurried across the lot to his car, fumbled in his back pockets a moment before finding his keys in his front pocket, and was now steering for the exit. It wasn’t till he had slowed to pull out onto the highway that he seemed to realize the Camaro was right behind him.
He put on a burst of speed and changed lanes twice, but Aggie kept up easily. When they reached Monroe Boulevard, Buck turned left, as he should have, and drove sedately home.
Aggie didn’t follow him into the looped drive, but went up the other arm, so that he couldn’t continue around and out again. Their cars met nose to nose, and all three of them got out together.
“Mrs. Marshall, see, I’m not supposed to talk to reporters,” Buck said in some desperation.
“I know, Buck. But Aggie thought you might know something that would help bring Ginny back.”
“It’s about Ginny?” Uneasy, he looked around at the trimmed hedges, the porch, the lawn, as though help lurked there. His hands seemed shaky. “Well—okay, come in. Maybe Mom’s here.”
But when he unlocked the door and they entered the spacious hall, the only person who answered his call was Maria. The maid nodded politely to Aggie and Rina, her broad brown face unsurprised, and hung their coats in the closet. Buck kept his jacket on. Aggie was already on her usual whirlwind tour of the living room, looking over the furniture, the draped windows, the Braque over the fireplace.
“Mom’s not around?” Buck asked Maria.
“She said she’d be back before dinner.”
“Okay.” He followed Aggie into the living room and dumped his book bag on the leather sofa. “I guess it’s okay to talk about Ginny.”
Aggie turned from the painting. “It’s Mr. Spencer you’re not supposed to talk about, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And the police questioning you about his death? You’re not supposed to talk about that?”
“Who told you—” He looked accusingly at Rina. His hands were definitely shaky.
“Your mother told me, in fact,” said Aggie easily. “She came in to tell Mrs. Marshall you were being questioned. I happened to be there too.”
“Oh. I see.” He licked his lips.
“Well, let me ask about Ginny then,” said Aggie. “What do you know about why she disappeared?”
“Nothing! Honest! I told Mrs. Marshall, she didn’t say a thing to me about going away!”
“How did her scissors get into your car?”
“God, I don’t know! She must have dropped them—hey, wait!” Buck looked at Rina in frowning alarm. His hands were clenching and unclenching. “Her scissors—I mean that’s something I’m not supposed to talk about.”
“Oops. Sorry,” said Aggie.
“Buck, listen,” said Rina urgently. “It’s part of why Ginny’s staying away. If we can figure out how those scissors got into your car, we’ll be halfway toward finding out who killed Mr. Spencer! And then she can come home!”
But Buck had stopped listening. His eyes were on Aggie, who had quietly pulled an envelope from her bag. She opened it and nodded.
“They’re all here, Buck,” said Aggie, dangling the envelope by its corner.
“How did you—” He stared at her, fists clenched.
“I picked your pocket back at the gym door. Where did you get them, Buck?”
His mouth worked a moment before he said, “From a guy.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t say.”
“Is his name Dr. Landon?”
“No!” Buck looked around the room, panicked.
“What’s his name, Buck?”
“It’s not my dad! This guy—he doesn’t tell his name. The guys call him Shorty.”
“Shorty. Uh-huh.” Aggie dropped the envelope on Buck’s book bag next to her on the sofa. “Buck, it turns out to be hard to talk about Ginny without bringing in other things. She’s under suspicion, because her scissors—”
“Listen, I’m under suspicion too, and I didn’t do anything! It was my car! But I don’t know how the damn scissors got there!” Buck kneaded his thighs with his fists. “And I’m not supposed to be talking to you!”
“Hey, don’t get upset. You don’t have to talk to me. We can wait till your mom gets back and talk to her.” Aggie lounged back in the sofa, stretching her arms expansively along the back. “Or we can talk to your dad. Maybe they can help.”
“No, look, you can’t—don’t bring them into this.”
“Up to you, Buck.”
Rina sat on the arm of the sofa and stared at the envelope Aggie had dropped on the book bag. “Buck, this Shorty. Is he from Philadelphia? Is Ginny there because of Shorty?”
“No, Mrs. Marshall, she’s not much into—” He licked his lips again, as though his brain weren’t working despite his obvious agitation. “Well, maybe—I mean, I don’t know where she is.”
“Did she talk to Shorty? Would he have done anything to her? Sent her anywhere?”
“No! I mean, I don’t know.”
“Rina—” Aggie cautioned.
But Rina felt that at last she had a real clue. She leaned forward eagerly. “This Shorty. Where can I find him?”
“Rina, for God’s sake, back off! He’s not going to tell us about his connection!” Aggie said.
“But it’s just to find Ginny! He thinks a lot of Ginny, he says!” Rina turned back to the boy. “Buck, tell me how to get in touch with Shorty. I just want to find Ginny! When you need him, how do you reach him?”
“He, uh—look, I have to go to the bathroom.” Buck started for the hall.
Rina sprang from the sofa arm and grabbed his arm. “How do you reach him?”
“The, uh, the record store in Eastland mall.” He shook her off and bolted up the carpeted stairs.
Aggie was standing beside her now. Rina turned, excited. “Aggie, let’s go! This man Shorty might be able to say where she was Thursday!”
“Take it easy, Rina.” Aggie was watching the stairs. “You know it won’t be that simple. You don’t just walk up and ask for a drug dealer, the way you ask for a shoe salesman. Not even at the mall.”
“Oh. Yes.” That was a problem. “And I’m just an average middle-aged woman, I don’t look like one of his customers,” Rina said, discouraged.
“Actually, you probably do.” A grim smile flicked across Aggie’s face. “But even if you find him, you won’t get anyone like Shorty to tell the police anything.” She started up the stairs.
What she said was true, Rina realized with sinking heart as she followed. Even if they overcame all the obstacles and found Shorty, he’d have no reason to cooperate, and plenty of reason to avoid the police. And it wouldn’t help Ginny much either to tell them that sh
e might have been with a drug dealer. Still, this was the only new direction they’d found, they had to follow it.
At the top of the stairs the hall branched right to the rooms over the dining room and kitchen, and straight ahead along the wing of the house that led away from the street. Aggie went straight, glancing in the open bathroom door and continuing to the last room. The door was barely ajar. Aggie pushed it open and paused.
There was a quick gasp from within.
Rina peered around Aggie. It was clearly the master bedroom. Champagne-beige carpeting, expensively textured pale walls, four big beds—no, only two, one of the walls was mirrored and reflected the two beds. It reflected a wide teakwood double bureau too, and it reflected Buck, bending over the bureau but looking back at Aggie with a stricken look. The middle drawer was half open. Rina could see piles of satin and lace in it. In his hand Buck clutched a bunch of champagne-colored, large-cup bras.
Aggie swept across the room, grabbed the drawer he was trying to push closed, and peered in. “My oh my, what a lot of pretty pills! It’s a regular cornucopia in there,” she said, and was back at the door before Rina had quite seen that the boy’s fists were tightening and his teeth clenching. Aggie said, “It’ll only make things worse if you hit us, Buck. They’re already asking if you’re violent, right? If you do anything else—”
The boy stopped, arms falling, the bras dangling from his fist like a wilted bouquet.
“Fine,” said Aggie. “Okay, we’re leaving now.”
She closed the door and propelled Rina briskly back down the stairs. By the time they reached the hall, Maria had reappeared to help them quietly with their coats. Her broad-boned face showed no emotion except patience.
“Thanks, Buck! See you later!” Aggie waved at the stairs.
Rina looked up. Buck stood on the landing, relaxed now, but a frown on his face. She raised her hand halfheartedly, then followed Aggie to the car.
As they backed out to the street, she said, “Aggie, Rosamond must know, don’t you think? Wouldn’t she notice that he was hiding things in her own drawer?”
“That he was hiding things?” Aggie looked at her in surprise. “Rina, for God’s sake! When are you going to learn that not all mothers are as good as you?”
Bad Blood (Maggie Ryan Book 8) Page 23