Dangerous Secrets

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.