by Julie Miller
“Thank you.” She felt she owed Pearl for dredging up such an unpleasant memory. “I’d still be happy to give you that ride.”
“No thanks, hon. Tonight I feel the need to walk.”
Ginny headed the opposite direction. She climbed into her car and buckled up. Every time she took a step closer to Alvin’s killer, someone pushed her two steps back. She clasped her hands at the top of the steering wheel and rested her forehead there.
“Oh, Amy,” she breathed on a frustrated sigh. “Why couldn’t I have just been there for you that night?”
She had one more call to make. She knew she wouldn’t be popular when she phoned Sophie Bishop about Alvin’s personal belongings. But then, she was getting used to that.
Sitting up, she started the car and shifted it into gear. As she sat there waiting for another vehicle to pass, a whisper of cool air made the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. Taking care not to panic, she looked out at the sidewalk, thinking Pearl had changed her mind about accepting a ride. But the City Market had been abandoned for the night.
In her rearview mirror, she spotted the empty eyes of the Ludlow Arms looming behind her. Maybe it was the building itself that gave her the feeling of being watched.
She shook off the shiver running down her spine, dismissing the sensation as the fanciful imagining of a tired mind. She checked the mirror again, assuring herself that an old brick building couldn’t walk or talk or see.
Her gaze dropped to the back seat and her pulse stopped in her veins. “What the hell?”
She slammed the car into Park and scrambled out the door. In one swift sure move, she planted her feet on the pavement, unsnapped her holster and pulled out her sleek 9 mm handgun. She cradled the cold steel in both hands, willing the trembling in her fingers to subside as she crouched behind the relative safety of the door and scanned her surroundings.
Every ninety degrees she altered her stance so that she was always balanced, always prepared to strike. Pearl Jenkins had disappeared into the shadowy distance of the night. The neon archway that lit the entrance to the market during the day was a dark canopy above her. The businesses across the street had locked their caged facades and bolted their doors. The car that had passed her was a flash of red as it turned the corner, too far away to read the license plate.
Alone.
She was completely, utterly alone.
So who put the four-foot-long cardboard tube in her back seat?
You wouldn’t listen. The ominous warning had been scrawled with a faded black marker across the cardboard.
Ginny straightened her legs and forced herself to breathe normally, in and out through her nose. She turned and faced the silent menace of the Ludlow Arms and spoke to the two broken windows near the top. “I’m listening now.”
With habitual ease, she let curiosity outweigh her fears. Ignoring the scribbled threat, she holstered her weapon and opened the back door. With a handkerchief in hand to avoid damaging any fingerprints, she picked up the tube and peered inside the open end of the dusty cardboard cylinder.
“Blueprints.”
An odd warning. The first two messages had been anonymous, advising her to steer clear of the neighborhood. This one seemed to be inviting her right into the heart of downtown Kansas City.
The corner of the top sheet crumbled between her fingers as she unrolled the stack of drawings on the hood of her car. Though yellowed and faded, the label at the bottom of each page was clear: Ludlow Arms Hotel.
The obvious antique value of the blueprints registered along with the black X drawn by hand in the center of a sharp-cut rectangle. As she thumbed through the remaining prints, she found four more X’s.
That feeling of being watched crept along her skin once more. This time she didn’t hesitate to look up at the Ludlow Arms.
“So what are you trying to tell me?”
“I’M SORRY, ma’am.” The courteous voice clipped an impersonal apology. “But until the City Market fund-raiser ball is over tomorrow night, Ms. Bishop is not accepting any new appointments.”
Ginny changed the receiver to the other ear. “I’m asking for five minutes of Sophie’s time over the telephone, not a sit-down meeting.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman repeated. “I’ll give Ms. Bishop your number and the message that you called.”
“Fine, then. Goodbye.”
Ginny hung up the phone and took a bite of the apple she’d washed off in the sink. The tart crunch woke up her mouth and recharged her drained energy cells in a way her restless sleep and early-morning shower hadn’t.
“I’d bet you’d drop everything to talk to Brett, wouldn’t you, Soph?” She asked the question out loud, needing to hear a voice in the deafening quiet of her apartment.
The only person willing to talk to her this morning was Merle. She punched in the office number and carried the receiver over to the couch.
“Detective Banning.”
“Hey, Merle, it’s me again.”
His good-natured laughter eased the stiff tension in her. “What, fifteen minutes and you miss me already? There’s still no news about Charlie Adkins. I just talked to the director of the shelter to see if anyone visited or phoned Zeke and Charlie before they checked out yesterday.”
Ginny quickly swallowed. “And?”
“Phone call.” He was already a step ahead of her. “Don’t worry. The phone company’s running the number for me right now.”
“Good man.” Maybe there really was something in getting to know Merle better. They seemed more in tune with each other’s thoughts since she’d opened up to him about her relationship with Brett.
She chomped another bite of apple. Okay, so maybe lying to him about her engagement wasn’t exactly “opening up.” But at least they were negotiating the twists and turns of this investigation more efficiently than their previous cases.
Her extended silence prompted him to ask, “Did you need something else?”
“Yeah.” She swallowed and focused. Her mind seemed to stray whenever the topic of Brett or their engagement came up. “I wondered if the lab has finished running the tests on those blueprints?”
“They’re sending them over later this morning. No fingerprints, though. They’re analyzing the type of marker ink used. It’s not much, but it might give us something to go on.”
Ginny inhaled and caught her breath. “You didn’t tell Captain Taylor, did you?”
She knew she’d been asking a big favor when she instructed him to send in the blueprints without reporting the obvious threat attached to them. “The old man doesn’t know. He hasn’t been in yet this morning.”
Ginny relaxed enough to breathe again. “Thanks, Merle. I owe you one.”
“No sweat, partner.” She could envision the smile spreading across his sweet, trusting face. She almost smiled back. “Need anything else?” he asked.
“No. Thanks.” She hung up, wondering if she had ever been that young and innocent. Maybe. Once. When she still had a family. When her sister had been her confidante. When she still believed in love.
The echo of her own thoughts depressed her. “Get a grip, Rafferty,” she scolded herself. “You have a job to do.”
She cinched the belt around the waist of her robe and finger-combed her damp hair. Work was the answer. Work had always been the antidote to the emptiness in her life.
Tossing her apple core into the trash, she padded down the hall to her art room. Deprived of the blueprints, she’d sketched a rough drawing of her own.
Impressionistic shadings gentled the imposing lines of the Ludlow Arms. Concrete steps, brick facade, ribbons of lemon-yellow crime-scene tape.
She stood back and studied the unfinished painting. Had it been a clue or coincidence that those drawings had been included with the threat? Ginny suspected the former. The idea that someone had watched her closely enough to know when her back was turned so he could get into her unlocked car didn’t bother her half so much as knowing the answers
to her investigation had been placed in her hands—if only she could decipher what they meant.
She squeezed a dollop of black oil onto a palette, selected a brush and began dotting windows. Up a row. One, two, three, four. She stopped. The paintbrush hovered in the air above the fourth dot. The creative side of her brain shut down as the analytical side rifled through messages and observations, snatches of conversations and faces of dead bodies. Alvin Bishop. Zeke Jones. Amy.
Ginny squeezed her eyes shut and averted her face, trying to turn away from the crystal-clear memory of Amy’s perfect young face, framed in a coffin, devoid of color, devoid of life. A moan rose within her, an almost physical pain that squeezed up from her gut and choked her throat.
Suddenly, deep within her mind, the lights went out. The horrible darkness descended upon her. Closed caskets. Dirt above her.
The darkness she feared assailed her in varied, insidious ways. Whispered breaths lay in the shadows. A lover laughed. A trust was shattered. And then the lights.
Bright, blinding lights.
Ginny fought through the terrible darkness and pushed her eyelids up. She forced her way back into her tiny room. She breathed in deeply, welcoming the sting of paint fumes in her nostrils, waking her, bringing her back to the moment, back to the work at hand.
Back to the X she’d painted where the fourth-floor window should be.
“What the…?” Her shaking hand pointed straight to the X. She needed to see those blueprints again. She needed to know what the five X’s meant.
She needed to talk to Brett.
He could interpret the blueprints for her.
Brett could keep the darkness at bay.
“Damn.” Her heart skipped a beat as her overactive senses created a vivid image of the tall, dark man who pretended to love her. A picture complete with the sound of a deep, teasing voice, and the remembrance of a tough, tender hand gently caressing her cheek.
“Double damn.”
Ginny felt hot. She hated the instant leap her mind made to form Brett’s image so perfectly. She hated her body’s traitorous response to that image.
She quickly busied her hands by cleaning her brush. She tried to talk herself out of the mental and physical longing that consumed her. “It’s just an illusion,” she warned aloud. “Nothing with Brett is real.”
With ruthless focus, she turned her mind to the one task that could still distract her from this annoying obsession with Brett Taylor. Returning to the living room, she curled up on the couch and picked up Amy’s last three letters.
Sliding her thumb under the first flap, she opened it. Inside she saw Amy’s familiar flowery script. The i’s were dotted with hearts.
Dear Gin,
We’re going to do it. We’re eloping. We’re meeting the seventeenth and taking the bus to Las Vegas. We’ll have to lie low for a couple of months until I turn eighteen, but…
The passions of young love followed, along with the frustrations of parents who didn’t understand, the pleas of one sister to another to call or come home.
Make Mom and Dad understand. Mark says his dad will be no help at all. But he has a friend…
Brett.
Ginny nearly laughed out loud. Maybe it was impossible to escape thoughts of Brett. She rubbed her thumb against the sapphire adorning her left hand. After all, she’d shared a connection with him all these years. What if she had met him back then? Before she’d been disillusioned by love and trust. Before they’d both missed the chance to help two young people who hadn’t been able to help themselves.
She shut down the pointless speculation and picked up the next letter.
Gin,
Please call. I need to talk to someone.
Mark had a black eye last night. He says he wrecked his motorcycle, but I think his father did it. Mark won’t let me meet him, says it’s for my own good. I’m scared. He needs my help, but I don’t know how.
We’re serious about getting married. Mark gave me a beautiful silver bracelet as a symbol of our love. I thought a ring would raise too many questions, and Mom and Dad have already grounded me until my birthday. If they saw a ring, they’d lock me in my room and I’d have no chance of sneaking out to help Mark.
How did you get around all their rules when you fell in love?
Ginny choked down a surge of guilt and let the letter slide to her lap. Love? “I ran away to Europe.”
The only passion she’d ever felt had been for her art. Until she met Jean-Pierre in Paris. The dynamic, hands-on portrait instructor tapped in to more than her creative inspiration. He charmed his way into her innocent heart and untested soul. He taught her more than brushstrokes and shading. He taught her to overlook her shy inhibitions and give free rein to her emotions. He taught her about love and lust.
And humiliating betrayal.
The temperature in Ginny’s apartment dropped a good ten degrees. She rubbed at her upper arms, trying to find the warmth that eluded her.
She thought of Brett’s hands on her arms. A lifeline to warmth and strength. His gentle touch at the small of her back, his fingers at her elbow, his hand swallowing up both of hers. He gave so much reassurance, so much caring with a look or a touch.
She moaned aloud at the awful loneliness that consumed her.
A survey around her apartment revealed the pristine perfection in which she lived, the cold predictability of the life she had sentenced herself to. Amy had rushed headlong into love, willing to take chances. Able to risk facing tragic consequences.
Ginny might have taken off for Europe, but she lacked her sister’s brave heart. A sobering truth hit her square in the chest, weighing her down, trapping her in a cold, lonely lie.
She wasn’t afraid of Brett being a playboy or a flirt.
She was afraid of his laughter, his hugs, his kisses. She was afraid of needing him, wanting him.
She was afraid of falling in love.
Tucking the last unread letter into her purse, Ginny marched back to her bedroom. “Damn you, Brett Taylor.”
Love was a weakness, a setup, a guarantee of getting hurt. She’d already been hurt so much. Too much. She couldn’t allow herself to fall in love. She couldn’t afford to be that kind of fool again.
Repeating a mantra on the benefits of independence, she pulled on a pair of jeans and tucked in a blouse. She was threading her belt through her holster and cinching it at her waist when the telephone rang.
The phone beside her bed suffered the fury of all the emotions she’d tried to bury inside her. “Detective Rafferty.”
Her sharp tone reverberated in her own ears.
“Ginny?” Brett. His bass-deep whisper popped her defenses like a balloon. “Is this a bad time?”
She summoned the scattered remnants of her composure and threw up a makeshift wall of bravado against the lure of that mesmerizing voice. “I’m glad you called. I need you to earn your keep,” she demanded. “I have a set of blueprints I want you to look at. And I need you to talk to Sophie Bishop for me. She won’t return my calls…”
“Gin…”
“I need to ask her about a set of wind chimes. I think the bells…”
“Virginia.” The use of her full name stunned her into silence. Who was she kidding? She had no real defense against her feelings for Brett. “I’m sorry.” His voice sank to a low, guttural murmur. “I don’t even know if that’s your given name.”
“It is. I only heard it when I was in trouble, though.” Her cheeks heated with self-conscious awareness as she paused long enough to listen. She allowed herself a moment of curiosity. “Am I in trouble?”
A long-drawn breath that might have passed for a weary laugh answered her.
Curiosity gave way to concern. “Brett?”
“You’re not in trouble. Wind chimes, huh? I’ll phone Sophie.”
“No, wait.” She recognized the fading sound of his breathing as the intention of hanging up. The volume increased as he returned the receiver to his ear. “Why did you
call?”
His long pause made her wonder if he had hung up.
“To hear your voice.” Something hard and hurtful melted inside her at his throaty admission, taking with it the walls of loneliness she’d hid behind for so long. “I gotta go. I’ll call Sophie for you.”
“No.” But an ominous click disconnected her protest.
She’d missed something very important here. By attacking first, she’d denied him any opportunity to explain why he’d called. Maybe he’d found another clue about the Ludlow. Maybe he really had just wanted to talk. To her.
Maybe she really had no emotional self-preservation instincts after all.
She dug into her purse and pulled out Brett’s business card. She punched in his office number. After the first ring, his secretary answered.
“Brett Taylor, please.”
“He’s not in the office today, may I take a message?”
What was it with personal assistants this morning? Ginny bit her tongue. The woman was only doing her job. “I just spoke to him. Is he at a job site?” She added some leverage to her polite request. “This is his fiancée.”
“Ms. Rafferty? I’m sorry, I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Brett’s at the hospital. St. Luke’s.”
Ginny’s heart plummeted to her toes. Another collapse at the Ludlow? A stray wrecking ball knocking some sense into his handsome hard head? She struggled to put professional detachment into her next question. Her ragged whisper hardly qualified. “Was there an accident?”
“Oh no, he’s fine. But his father, Mr. Taylor, had a heart attack early this morning. If you need to get a hold of Brett, I could page him at the hospital. Ms. Rafferty?”
The receiver hit the cradle before Brett’s secretary finished her offer. Answering a very different call from a place deep inside that wasn’t as immune to big hearts and broad smiles as she’d like to think, Ginny grabbed her jacket and purse, and ran out the door.