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