“What took the sheriff so long? Why did they spend so much time in her apartment?”

Uneasiness twitched through Ridge. He didn’t want to face this.

“Ridge?” Sylvie prompted. “You’re frightening me. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Ginger’s death has been deemed suspicious.”

“Suspicious?”

“Her apartment had been ransacked.”

“You mean someone broke in? Maybe you’ve got it wrong,” Sylvie said.

Why couldn’t she just accept what he said? “Ginger’s eyes were closed,” he snapped.

“What does that mean? You’ve not making sense.”

“It means after Ginger fell someone was there and shut her eyes. It was no accident.”

LYN COTE

now lives in Wisconsin with her husband, her real-life hero. They raised a son and daughter together. Lyn has spent her adult life as a schoolteacher, a full-time mom and now a writer. Her favorite food is watermelon. Realizing that this delicacy is only available one season out of the year, Lyn’s friends keep up a constant flow of watermelon gifts—candles, wood carvings, pillows, cloth bags, candy and on and on. Lyn also enjoys crocheting and knitting, watching Wheel of Fortune and doing lunch with friends. By the way, Lyn’s last name is pronounced Coty.

Lyn enjoys hearing from readers, who can contact her at P.O. Box 864, Woodruff, WI 54568 or by e-mail at l.cote@juno.com.

DANGEROUS SECRETS
Lyn Cote

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal.”

—Matthew 6:18–20

“For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs.”

—1 Timothy 6:9–10

To Eunice, Ed and Jeanine,

thanks for a great summer!

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

PROLOGUE

March 1

She’d managed to climb in a rear window, her heart pounding with fear and exertion. Had anyone seen her? At this time of night in this little burg? She doubted it. Standing in the apartment lit only by her flashlight and thin moonlight coming through the windows, she laid her flashlight on the floor. Where should she start looking? It had all seemed so easy when the idea had first come to her.

She approached a built-in bookcase. As she reached up to remove the books from the top shelf, it began. The wall in front of her eyes started to undulate as if an earthquake were taking place. Then the floor beneath her feet began to ripple. She staggered and caught hold of the bookcase, cursing.

And then she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Or was that just part of the flashback, too?

ONE

March 2

Sylvie, I am going to wow you with a big surprise tomorrow! What could Ginger’s wow surprise be? This question kept bobbing to the surface of Sylvie Patterson’s mind—interrupting her work. She sat at her PC near the front of her store, My Favorite Books, answering customer e-mails.

Last night Ginger, her favorite cousin, had blown into Winfield, intending to spend the next two months in her apartment above Sylvie’s bookstore. Just a few years younger than Sylvie, Ginger would be busy “polishing” her dissertation on Alaskan whales. Last night Ginger, with her long, curly red hair and golden freckles, had been more effervescent than usual.

And in just a few more minutes, Sylvie would close up shop and find out what Ginger’s big secret was.

The little bell on her shop’s door jingled and cold air swished inside. In the off-season, Sylvie didn’t usually look up from her monitor to see who’d come in. But today it might be Ginger.

She glanced up. Not Ginger.

Ridge Matthews looked back at her. He stood there against the wall, which was lined with shelves and shelves of books.

Waves of recognition on so many different levels undulated through her. So much history lay between them. A tide of remembrance billowed in the conscious silence between her and Ridge. Ridge was still tall but not too tall, still broad-shouldered, and still possessed the same dark brown, nearly black, very serious eyes. Only a few glints of gray in his short-cropped hair reminded her that eighteen years had passed since he’d been a year-round resident of Winfield.

“Sylvie,” he acknowledged her with the grave voice he’d acquired that awful summer night eighteen years ago.

“Ridge,” she returned the greeting and forced a smile. She rose, holding out her hand. I’m surprised to see you, Ridge, but not unhappy. Never unhappy.

As if there were an invisible line etched in sand between them, he hesitated a split second and then came forward and gripped her hand—briefly.

He was still as buttoned-up as his black wool winter coat. Last December, she’d glimpsed him at a wedding, another of his rare visits. And now she thought she knew his reason for appearing here today. “Are you looking for Ben?” she asked. “He’s running an errand for me.”

Ridge digested this in several moments of silence. “My mother said he doesn’t come home after school. Every day he walks here from the bus stop.”

Yes, going home to your parents’ house is way too depressing for any kid. For a long time, the Matthewses’ home had been nothing but a house, merely four walls, a roof and floor. That was why Ridge had forsaken Winfield.

“Thanks for being kind to Ben.” His low tone curled through her.

Resisting his effect on her, she forced another smile. “Ben’s a good kid. Are you here to visit him for a few days?” she added, hoping his answer would be yes.

“I’m moving him away this weekend.”

She stiffened with shock. “With you to Madison? Now?”

The door opened behind Ridge. More frigid air rushed in.

“No,” Ridge said, “an opening has come up unexpectedly in a good military school near Milwaukee. Ben was next on the waiting list. He’s scheduled to start bright and early on Monday.”

Just inside her door, blond-haired and freckle-faced Ben halted, looking as if he’d just received the death sentence.

She took an involuntary step toward him. Military school? For Ben? No.

“Military school?” Ridge’s orphaned ward echoed her aloud. “Monday?”

Sylvie wanted to pull Ben, now white-faced, into a protective hug. But at twelve, he was too old for that.

Caught between the two of them, Ridge shifted sideways, eyeing both. “Ben, you know I told you that my parents are too old to keep you.”

Besides being too self-centered, too self-absorbed, Sylvie amended silently. The constant ache in her damaged hip twinged at this thought. Ridge, don’t be so cold. He’s just a kid and he’s been through so much.

“I thought—” Ben’s voice thinned “—you were going to get a place big enough for me to come live with you.”

Ben’s plaintive tone stung Sylvie.

Ridge had enough conscience to look uncomfortable. “My job doesn’t make me good guardian material, Ben. I travel all over the state on homicide cases. Or I get embroiled in local ones that keep me out all hours of the day and night. This way you won’t be shifted around from house to house while I’m tied up on a case. You’ll be at school and I’ll come and get you at least one weekend a month.”

“What about this summer?” Ben asked, an edge of panic in his voice. “Sylvie said she’d teach me how to snorkel.”

Ridge looked distinctly uneasy now. “I’ve signed you up for summer camp—”

“No!” Ben burst out.

“Ridge,” Sylvie put in, overriding Ben’s heated stream of objections, “my dad and I want Ben to spend the summer with us. I meant to ask you.”

Silence.

“Really?” Ben asked, approaching her as if she were his last hope.

The spur-of-the-moment invitation had been forced out of her. She reached for Ben and he came to a halt beside her. She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, and Milo planned to hire you to help him at the bait shop.” Her father hadn’t said so in so many words, but he liked kids in general and Ben in particular.

“Really?” Ben repeated, color coming back to his cheeks.

“Really.” She squeezed Ben’s shoulder and then glanced at Ridge, reading his chagrin, wanting to shake him, reach him. “You trust us with Ben, don’t you, Ridge?” She knew this last phrase would make it impossible for him to say no. He wouldn’t stir the murky waters of the past.

“Of course,” he said brusquely. “Time for us to go, Ben.” Peremptorily, he turned toward the door.

Again, some impishness prompted Sylvie to refuse to let Ridge have his way completely. Perhaps it was Ridge’s aloof, almost insensitive handling of Ben that made her want to throw another speed bump in his path.

“Just a moment,” she said. “Let me shut down my computer and we’ll go upstairs. Ginger’s back. She’ll want to see you. Just got in last night.”

“From Alaska?” Ridge asked, showing that he wasn’t completely out of touch with Winfield.

“Yes, she plans to ‘hole up’ and finish her master’s thesis. I haven’t seen her at all today. She’s probably still glued to her laptop upstairs in her apartment. I need to pry her loose. Then we’ll go to pick up the pizza I ordered and then I’ll take Ginger home with me to eat it.” Sylvie bustled around turning off her computer.

Ben, who’d spent every afternoon after school with her since he’d moved in with the Matthewses last fall, went around turning off lights, helping her close up as usual.

Within minutes, Ridge and Ben stood near as she locked up, protecting her from the stiff wind. Ridge’s presence made her feel everything more intensely—the cold, the wind, the early darkness. But without revealing this, she locked up the front door of the two-story Victorian that she rented from Ginger’s mother. Once it was secured, the two males followed her limping gait. As they walked the narrow shoveled sidewalk around the side of the house, their footsteps crunched loudly in the clear early night.

The only other sound was the cutting wind blowing from Lake Superior at their backs. Sylvie tried to think of some way to hint to Ridge that she wanted to discuss Ben with him. But if the past was any guide, she knew Ridge would do anything to avoid being alone in her company.

The threesome reached the rear door of the enclosed two-story porch that shielded the back staircase. Sylvie unlocked and opened the door, ready to call up the stairs to her cousin. Then her heart stopped for one beat.

At the bottom of the steep staircase lay her cousin, crumpled. The deep winter dusk made Sylvie doubt her eyesight. She hurried over the threshold. “Ginger! Ginger!”

No response.

Sylvie threw herself onto her knees beside Ginger’s body. No one alive would lie in that rigid, twisted position. Sylvie knew she must be dead. “Ginger!” she keened. “Ginger! No!”

Ridge heard the hysteria in Sylvie’s voice. Taking the scene in at a glance, he recognized all the signs of death—death that had taken place hours before. He shoved Ben back out the door. “Go home. Now!”

“But…but,” Ben sputtered.

“She’s dead,” Ridge hissed beside Ben’s ear. “You need to go home and stay there.”

“Sylvie—”

“I’ll take care of her.” Ridge pushed Ben farther away. “Go. I’ll handle this. I’ll take care of Sylvie. Go.”

Looking fearfully over his shoulder, Ben fled, letting the outside door slam.

Ridge turned and knelt beside Sylvie. He went through the motions of checking Ginger Johnson’s nonexistent pulse. He lifted her eyelids. Her irises were dilated. But…her eyes were closed. The thought made his insides congeal. Not just for the sorrow death always brought but because that meant…he didn’t want to go there. For so many reasons.

He snapped open his cell phone and punched in the emergency number. He gave the details as simply as possible to the responder. He snapped it shut again. “Sylvie,” he said gently, “help is on the way.”

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Rocking on her knees, Sylvie had wrapped her arms around herself as if she might fly apart.

“It looks like it.” He didn’t mention Ginger’s eyes being closed. It hit him then. This was the second time he and Sylvie had together confronted the body of a relative, lying dead. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach. In spite of himself, he laid a hand on her slender shoulder.

She covered his hand with hers. “Ridge, Ginger must have fallen last night,” she pleaded. “I think I would have heard her fall if…if it happened while I was in the store.” She looked up at him, her woebegone face pale and fringed by her short silvery-blond hair.

He read in her huge blue-violet eyes the silent plea for exoneration. Had this event taken her back in time, too, back to the night Dan had died? “Yes, you’re right. From what I see I think Ginger must have fallen last night.” You didn’t fail your cousin. She was dead before you came to work this morning.

But he didn’t let any of his suspicions about Ginger’s fatal tumble color his tone or expression. If only Ginger’s eyes had been open. How easy everything would have been.

With relief, he heard a police siren. Gently he grasped Sylvie by the upper arms and drew her to her feet. She felt unsteady to him. So one arm under hers, he guided her to the door. “I’m going to ask you to go back into your bookstore. Why don’t you make a new pot of coffee?”

She looked up at him. Her lips were pressed so tightly together they were as white as the swirled frost on the single-pane window behind her. “I want my dad.”

Another sting. She’d said those exact same words to him on that long-ago night, too. “Call Milo. He should be here. Ginger’s mom, Shirley, still lives here year-round in her Victorian, right?”

She nodded. “But she and Tom are away in Arizona for a delayed honeymoon, a break before the tourist season starts in May.” Tears filled her eyes. “I’ll go…I’ll go make the coffee.”

After giving her a heartening squeeze, Ridge nudged her through the doorway. That was all she could do, all anyone could do now. Make coffee for the very long night ahead. He couldn’t help himself; his gaze followed Sylvie’s slender silhouette until she disappeared around the corner at the front.

The long night of investigating the crime scene had finally come to an end. Ridge glanced at his watch, his eyes gritty with fatigue. Nearly three o’clock in the early morning. Sheriff Keir Harding, whom Ridge remembered from high school, faced him at the bottom of the stairwell. Ginger’s body had been taken away hours before.

“I don’t think we can deny that Ginger’s death is suspicious,” Keir said. “But I don’t want to start rumors.”

“Having an autopsy done—people will hear about it and talk,” Ridge said, rubbing his taut forehead. As they stood there talking, the coroner was probably wrapping up the autopsy at the local funeral home.

Keir grimaced. “Ginger was well liked. This will hit everyone hard.”

I couldn’t agree with you more.

“Let’s send Sylvie and her dad home, then.” Keir led Ridge to the door he’d entered hours ago with Sylvie and Ben. “We’ll lock this place up tight and I’ll make sure a deputy checks around here every hour so the crime scene isn’t tampered with.” The sheriff made a sound of exhaustion.

Outside in the silence of the stark, icy night, they walked single file on the path between the waist-high mounds of snow around to the front. Sylvie’s bookstore was still alight on the quiet street of darkened shops and homes.

“I’m so glad you were already in town. This saves me calling for state help.” After delivering these unwelcome words, Keir bid him good-night and headed for his sheriff’s Jeep.

Ridge fumed in silence, but his fatigue even dulled this reaction. This was supposed to be just a quick trip home to take care of settling Ben. But Ginger hadn’t gotten herself killed just to trouble him. My problems are nothing compared to Ginger’s family’s.

Now he had to face Sylvie. Ridge stiffened his defenses and walked into the entrance of the bookshop. Visibly despondent, Sylvie was draped over a well-worn tweedy sofa along the wall in the foyer. She glanced up at him, her appealing face drawn.

“Where’s Milo?” he asked, forestalling her questions.

She sat up. “Dad went home hours ago to call his sister, Shirley, and break the news to her about Ginger. He also wanted to make flight arrangements for her and Tom on his computer while they packed to come home.”

He watched her slip her small feet back into her stylish black boots. “Rough.”

Their eyes connected. And he sensed that everything that he wished to conceal from her about Ginger’s death and about everything else that lay between him and Sylvie, she read with ease. His jaw clenched. He tried to relax it. And failed.

A tear trickled down Sylvie’s right cheek. She brushed it away and stood. “I take it I can go home now.”

Ridge nodded, unable to speak. Images from the scene of Dan’s untimely death had slid in and out of his conscious thoughts during the night-long investigation. Bringing Sylvie along with them.

She went to the coatrack and Ridge hurried forward to help her don her plum-colored down coat the second time tonight. In her evident fatigue, she wavered on her feet. He steadied her, a hand on her upper arm.

“I’m fine,” she whispered.

Her frailty belied her words. He admired her nerve. Nothing was fine tonight and nothing would be fine for quite a while. “My car’s out front.”

He escorted her through turning off the foyer lights, locking up, and then out in the winter cold so dry the air almost crackled with static electricity. After helping her into his SUV, he got in and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. He tried again. Not even grinding. Sudden aggravation flamed through him. With his gloved palm, he slapped the steering wheel once. Nothing ever went right for him in Winfield.

“You left your lights on,” Sylvie said, pointing to the dash where sure enough his lights had been switched on and left.

He let out a slow breath. “I’m used to the automatic ones but I must have turned them on manually and forgot.”

“And when you arrived, the street was still lit by shop lights along with the streetlamps. You wouldn’t have noticed you’d left them on. No one did.” She opened her door. “It’s only a few blocks for me. I always walk to work. And your parents’ house is within walking distance. Leave it till morning.”

Not willing to let her out of his sight, he got out and joined her on the sidewalk. The icy temperature nearly took his breath away. It was probably quite safe for her to walk home, but after finding Ginger dead, he didn’t want to leave Sylvie alone at the dark early-morning hour. He would only leave her when she was in her own home safe with her father. “I’ll walk you home first.”

“That’s not necessary. This is Winfield, remember?” She stopped speaking—abruptly.

Her face was turned away from the streetlamp so he couldn’t see her expression, but her sudden silence and immobility told him that Ginger’s death had hit her afresh. Yes, this was Winfield, but Ginger had died, not in faraway Alaska, but here in her hometown of Winfield.

Without mentioning this, he looped Sylvie’s arm around the crook of his and began leading her down the street he knew so well. He didn’t need to ask her where her house was. Walking beside Sylvie made him very sensitive to the stark white of the snow mounds left by the plows. It also made him aware that the cold, along with being in Winfield, was nibbling away at him bit by bit.

After a couple of steps, he adjusted to accommodate her halting gait. This nipped his conscience. He’d been able to walk away from Dan’s accident unscathed. But did every limping step remind Sylvie of the past? If it did, how did she stand it?

“What took the sheriff so long?” she asked. “I mean, why did they spend so much time up in her apartment?”

Uneasiness twitched through him. He didn’t want to face this. No, he did not. They reached the end of the block and started up the next. How to avoid making this damaging revelation?

“Ridge?” she prompted.

“Sylvie, it’s late. We can talk about this tomorrow.”

Sylvie halted. “You’re frightening me. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Come along.” He tugged her.

She resisted. “I’m not moving until you tell me why they took so long up in Ginger’s apartment.”

He’d had it. Why didn’t anything ever go the easy way? Why couldn’t she just accept what he said? “Ginger’s death has been deemed suspicious.”

“Suspicious?”

The low temp was numbing his bare ears. “It’s freezing out. Don’t you feel it?” He tugged her elbow. “Come on. I’ll tell you everything. Let’s just get out of this cold.” He drew her along.

“Tell me,” she insisted, even though she began walking again.

He walked faster, urging her along. “Ginger’s apartment had been ransacked.”

“What? You mean someone broke in?” She slowed, pulling against him.

He tugged her. “Someone tore Ginger’s apartment apart.” His voice turned savage. I wanted to leave in the morning. What’s the chance of that now? “We think the point of entry was a rear window on the back porch.”

“What could they have been looking for?” she asked. “Ginger didn’t have anything worth stealing.”

That only made it more suspicious. Didn’t Sylvie see that?

“Maybe you’ve got it wrong,” Sylvie said. “Ginger might have been looking for something and had everything turned upside down and inside out. Ginger wasn’t always very neat.”

Ridge didn’t want to respond to this excuse. Why not let her come up with ways to avoid the truth? He just slogged on, the relentless cold filtering through all his layers of clothing.

“Don’t you think it could be that? Ginger might just have been unpacking and—”

The sheriff’s words came back to Ridge: “It’s good you were with Sylvie when she found the body. She might have closed her cousin’s eyes without thinking or I might have assumed that she did. But we both know—” Suddenly Ridge had had it. He couldn’t take any more waffling, any more lame explanations. “Ginger’s eyes were closed,” he snapped.

“What does that mean?” Sylvie halted again. “You’re not making sense.”

He urged her along again. His face was stiff not just from the bitter temperature but now from irritation. “It means that someone closed her eyes.”

“Someone…what?”

His patience evaporated. “Sylvie, if a person falls to their death, their eyes will remain open. Someone was there after Ginger fell and shut her eyes.”

Sylvie exhaled—deeply and loudly. And then began breathing very fast.

In the scant light from the streetlamp, he glimpsed her eyes and mouth wide in shock. Then he realized she wasn’t getting her breath. “Sylvie.” He shook her arms. “Sylvie.”

She was beginning to hyperventilate. If he didn’t get her breathing, she’d faint on him.

He pulled her face close to his and, covering her mouth with his, blew into her open mouth. Once. Twice. He shook her again. On and on, he blew carbon dioxide into her mouth. “Breathe. Breathe.”

She shuddered once and pulled away from his mouth. Then she leaned her head against him. She was gasping now, but was getting air. “This,” she whispered, “can’t be happening.”

Not wanting to, but unable to stop himself, he put his arms around her delicate form. “It’s freezing. I’ve got to get you home.”

She raised her pale face to him, visible now in the streetlamp glow. “What happens now?”

TWO

March 5, Saturday afternoon

Sylvie’s insides were descending, spiraling as if she were going down a narrow funnel. For the hundredth time, she pulled herself up from the darkness that was trying to suck her under. Surviving Ginger’s funeral had devoured all her strength. But she was determined to be a support to her family.

The bright fluorescent lighting in the church basement hurt her eyes. She hadn’t slept very much over the past three nights. But neither had anyone else in her family. Now, she sat at a long whitepaper-covered table near the end of the after-funeral luncheon. In the cement-block basement room, the men all wore dark suits. The women had dressed in sober dresses or dark pantsuits. The dark colors matched the mood in the room. Unexpressed grief revealed itself in the tight smiles and lowered voices. Rhinestone brooches on collars glinted here and there in the bright light. Almost everyone in town had turned out for the funeral. Cousins and relations murmured to each other down the length of the family table. Subdued, guarded. This death was different. This was unnatural. Perhaps murder.

Her father sat across from her next to his new brother-in-law, Tom Robson, while her aunt Shirley, Ginger’s mother, sat beside Sylvie. Neither of them spoke though occasionally her aunt forced a smile for her and patted her arm as if trying to make up for the horrible fact that Sylvie had been the one to find Ginger. Shirley’s sorrow appeared still too deep for tears.

“I hope Chad didn’t have trouble finding it,” Ginger’s stepfather, Tom, fretted, glancing at the large wall clock.

In the distracted haze they were all in today, Tom had forgotten to bring his wallet and he wanted to give Pastor Ray the check he’d already written him for doing the funeral service. Chad, Shirley’s teenage foster son, had gone to fetch it.

The gathering was about to break up. The forced-air furnace was having trouble keeping away the encroaching chill that penetrated the basement room. Small children were starting to whimper and whine, rubbing their eyes as it neared time for their afternoon naps. And the church women who’d put on the luncheon were in the kitchen, chatting, clattering, washing casserole dishes and coffee cups. The homey sounds comforted Sylvie. Here she was surrounded by friends and family. It was at times like these that the ties of blood and faith meant the most.

Sylvie surreptitiously massaged her sore hip. She’d played the organ for the funeral and then done a lot of walking through snow and standing at the interment. Her hip had no cartilage to keep bone from rubbing on bone. At home tonight she’d have to use an ice pack on her hip to bring down the swelling.

Aunt Shirley lowered her voice and spoke into Sylvie’s ear, asking about another cousin. “Rae-Jean’s still coming home on Monday?”

Sylvie nodded. Rae-Jean had just finished a term at the Chippewa Drug Treatment Facility and a few months in prison. “Dad’s going to drive down to get her.”

“Her parents still haven’t forgiven her?” Aunt Shirley asked.

Sylvie shook her head.

Aunt Shirley lowered her chin, frowning. She didn’t have to say the words. Sylvie understood the unspoken message. Rae-Jean’s parents should be grateful that they still had their daughter alive and breathing. No matter what she’d done.

Sylvie watched Tom fidget, glancing at the clock again. What was taking Chad so long to get back? Tom and Shirley’s house wasn’t that far away. Sylvie felt her patience dissolving, fizzing away like a cold tablet in water. Come on, Chad. We can’t leave till you bring the check.

Once again, flashes, images from the evening when she’d found Ginger ricocheted in her mind. Ridge hadn’t come today. Nor his parents. Which had been the usual for them. And no one could blame them. Ridge had been busy most of every day working with the sheriff, sifting the evidence collected at Ginger’s apartment. Audra Harding had represented her husband, the sheriff, and was in the kitchen washing dishes.

Sylvie couldn’t get Ridge out of her mind. They’d been so close the night he’d walked her home. For just those few dark moments, the past hadn’t weighed them down. She’d needed comfort and he’d offered it. She could still feel his warm breath reviving her, his strong chest under his woolen coat supporting her. For that instant, he’d let her come close, so close.

Wild-eyed, Chad appeared at the bottom of the stairwell and stood gasping as if he’d run all the way.

Sitting at his parents’ kitchen table, Ridge tried to get a word into the phone conversation. But his boss, Matt Block, in Madison hadn’t finished with him yet. “Harding has a good rep. He’s had a couple of tricky cases that he solved since he took over as sheriff.”

Ridge was aware of this but he couldn’t butt in and say so. One didn’t do that with Block. Ridge heard himself grinding his molars to keep from interrupting his boss.

“Don’t hurry back,” Block continued, “until Harding thinks he can handle it on his own. Let him decide.”

While listening to Block fill him in on what was going on in Madison, Ridge moved the salt and pepper shakers closer together and glanced at his watch. The funeral luncheon should be winding up about now. His ward, Ben sat, staring at him from the opposite end of the table. Didn’t the kid ever blink?

Block repeated that he wanted Ridge to stay in Winfield. Ridge forced himself to speak in an even tone. “That might take some time.”

“Like I said, nothing pressing here now,” Block said, infuriating Ridge further. “And we want to keep our funding at the same level for the next fiscal year. Every time our people go out to work with local law enforcement, it’s good PR. This close to the state house we’ve got to think of politics, next year’s budget. Keep me posted.” And Block hung up.

For a moment, Ridge wanted to toss the cordless receiver into the garbage disposal. And grind it to dust. I don’t want to stay here.

“What did your boss say?” Ben asked.

Ridge made himself look the kid in the eye. It wasn’t the kid’s fault that he had his mom’s blue eyes and his dad’s cowlicky hairline. “I’ll be staying for a while longer.”

Ben’s pleased reaction was not obvious, but of course, the kid still made it clear he didn’t want to leave Winfield.

From the next room, the musical theme from a soap opera his mother was watching blared louder, no doubt time for another string of commercials. And though practically every other year-round resident in Winfield was in the community church basement for Ginger’s funeral, his dad was at his grocery store as he was seven days a week every week. Didn’t his parents ever look beyond the caves they’d retreated into?

I can’t take this all out on Ben. But on the way to Winfield just a few days ago, Ridge had felt so confident that everything was working out so well for his getting the kid settled. The opening at the military school, the camp registration. Now all this.

The phone rang. Ridge picked up. What he heard made him rise to his feet.

Ben rose, too, watchful.

Ridge hung up and hurried to the row of wooden pegs by the back door where all the coats hung. Ben rushed up behind him and grabbed his jacket, too.

Ridge stopped and faced Ben. “I’m going out on police business. Stay here.”

Ben shoved ahead of Ridge to the back door. “I’m not staying here.” The kid burst outside and ran down the shoveled sidewalk to Ridge’s SUV. There he grabbed the door handle.

“This is police business,” Ridge barked. “No place for a kid. You can’t come with me.”

“Then drop me at the church where everybody is. I can hang with Milo or a friend. I’ll walk home for supper.”

Ridge had thought Ben going to a funeral so soon after losing his parents would be bad for him. But he couldn’t blame the kid for wanting to get out of his parents’ house. After all, it was exactly what he wanted to do. “Okay. I’ll drop you at the church. Get in.” Ridge got into the car.

“What happened?” Ben said inside, hooking his seat belt.

“I can’t tell you until the sheriff wants it known.”

After dropping Ben at the church, Ridge drove the few blocks to Tom and Shirley’s house. He still couldn’t believe what the sheriff’s dispatch had told him.

Two sheriff’s vehicles were already parked outside the white Victorian. Ridge strode up the freshly shoveled walk to the front door. It opened before he could knock. Keir Harding waited for him just inside. He looked disgruntled and Ridge didn’t blame him. He was disgruntled, too.

“Who notified you?” Ridge asked, looking around at the disarray inside the house.

“Shirley’s foster son, Chad. He came alone to pick up Tom’s wallet. Tom had forgotten it this morning. Chad found the door open. He looked inside, couldn’t believe what he saw and froze up. Finally he ran back to the church and announced what had happened to the general public.”

Great. Nothing like a little discretion. “What do you think? Just an opportunist taking advantage of the funeral?”

“Here in Winfield?” Keir nearly snarled. “This isn’t Madison or Milwaukee. Most of the town is at the funeral. Tom and Shirley, not to mention Ginger, are very well liked. If someone from Winfield did this, I’ll swallow my badge.”

Deputy Trish Lawson walked into the room. Wearing thin plastic gloves, she held up a man’s wallet.

“Where did you find it?” Keir asked.

“On the top of the bedroom dresser. In plain sight.” Trish’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “It hasn’t been touched.” She opened the wallet to show them the credit cards and greenbacks still inside.

Ridge processed what had just been revealed. Someone had broken into Shirley’s Victorian. But they hadn’t bothered to swipe the wallet sitting out or even take the money out of it. He looked at the sheriff. They didn’t need to say it aloud. Both of them wanted to know—what’s going on here?

Later that day, Ridge had tried to beg off from going to Milo’s place to fill in Ginger’s family about this latest development in the case. Neither Ridge nor Keir had even bothered to discuss the possibility that the two break-ins might not be related. Of course they were. And Keir wanted Ridge along. After all, this was what Ridge, a state homicide detective, was being paid to do by the state of Wisconsin.

Now they entered the protected stairwell at the side of Milo’s Bait and Tackle on the waterfront and walked up the one steep flight of stairs to the apartment above the store. The door opened before the sheriff could knock.

Still wearing her dark violet pantsuit, Sylvie stood at the door. Her white-gold hair shimmered in the light. “We heard your footsteps.” She stepped back, allowing the sheriff and Ridge into the kitchen, which opened onto the large front room. Around the crowded table sat Milo, Ginger’s parents, Chad and Ben, who avoided Ridge’s gaze. Ridge looked away, too. Ginger’s mother, Shirley, and her new husband, Tom, were in so much emotional pain that their faces actually looked pasty gray.

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 mean 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.

“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.

“Ridge, it’s hard for a kid to change schools in the middle of a year. Why not let Ben finish out the year here? I think I may have a solution.”

“What are you thinking?” Ridge asked.

“Why not let Rae-Jean go to Shirley?” Milo asked. “And Ben comes here.”

“At a sad time like this?” Ridge sounded uncertain.

“Having someone to take care of would help Shirley. I know my sister.”

Ridge shrugged. “Okay. Ask.”

Milo lifted the receiver of the kitchen wall phone and dialed a number. “I’m sorry to bother you so late, Tom.”

Sylvie listened to the brief conversation, carried on in a low voice Ben couldn’t overhear. And every word her father spoke made her love him more than she already did.

He hung up the phone. “Tom and Shirley will keep Rae-Jean with them. Ridge, we have room for Ben now. May he stay with us?”

Sylvie held her breath. Ridge, please.

“You’re very good. Both of you.” Ridge rose with obvious fatigue and lack of enthusiasm. “I just thought Ben needed a long-term solution. But I’ll think over your offer and we’ll talk tomorrow, okay? I’ll be taking Ben home now.”

A gloomy Ridge and a dejected Ben left almost immediately. Sylvie and her father stood, looking at the closed door for a long moment. Then Milo put his comforting arm around her shoulder. “Ridge is making a big mistake if he takes Ben away now.”

Another in a long line of mistakes, Sylvie added silently. Was there any way to make Ridge see sense about Ben?

“Let’s go to bed,” her dad said. “I’m about to fall asleep on my feet. And we’ll still be settling Rae-Jean and her baby in here tomorrow. It will be an adjustment for both of us having an infant in the house.”

She nodded and he walked her to her bedroom door where he pecked her cheek good-night. Lord, wake Ridge up and let him see Ben as a gift, not a burden.

March 8

Late Tuesday afternoon, Sylvie paced the floor of the new clinic in Washburn. Her aunt Shirley was in the examination room with the nurse-practitioner who was examining Rae-Jean’s baby girl, little Hope. What could go wrong next? Rae-Jean, looking exhausted and weak, had arrived home and Sylvie had put her to bed immediately.

And then she and Aunt Shirley had rushed the obviously very congested baby here. Just over five pounds in weight, tiny Hope had been born three weeks premature and was so fragile. And they still didn’t know how the child would be affected from Rae-Jean’s drug abuse the year before.

Then Aunt Shirley came out with the baby in her arms and smiled. “We just need to get a couple of prescriptions filled. And to pick up some camphorated oil.”

Sylvie sighed with relief. Rae-Jean had a bad cold, too, and needed their attention.

A half hour later, Shirley parked in front of Milo’s Bait and Tackle Shop. Two police cars were parked there. “Oh, no,” Shirley moaned.

Sylvie knew just how her aunt felt. She was beginning to cringe at the sight of police vehicles. With a sinking feeling, she unhooked the baby from the car seat in the rear passenger compartment. And then both women hurried up the few steps to the shop. Milo, wearing a khaki quilted vest, met them at the shop’s entrance.

“Dad, what’s happened?” Sylvie asked, while Shirley cradled the blanket-shrouded baby close to protect her from the biting wind.

“I went to pick up a few groceries. While I was gone, someone got into our apartment and struck Rae-Jean from behind and knocked her out.” Disbelief and anger colored each of his words. He took off his glasses to rub his eyes.

Sylvie shook her head as though trying to deny what had happened.

“Where is Rae-Jean, Milo?” Shirley asked, patting the fussing baby in her arms.

“That deputy, Trish, has driven her to the E.R. in Ashford. I don’t think she’s hurt except for a lump and a bad headache.”

The sound of footsteps sounded from above and then Ridge was there in front of them. “The sheriff would like you to come upstairs, please.”

Ridge’s unexpected presence jolted Sylvie’s already jangled nerves. “You didn’t get to take Ben to that school, did you?” His stark expression caused her to step back from him.

“I hadn’t come to a decision yet,” Ridge replied, shivering once from the cold. “Ben’s in school today. Please, you need to come upstairs and look over your apartment.” Without a further word, he turned and motioned them to precede him upstairs.

As she passed within inches of him, Sylvie could think of nothing either comforting or persuasive to say.

The sheriff was waiting for them in the kitchen. “Whoever broke in and struck Rae-Jean didn’t have as much time to tear your place up as Ginger’s apartment and your house.” He nodded toward Shirley.

“You think there is just one person doing this?” Sylvie asked the sheriff. The unreality of someone breaking into their home and for an unknown reason was obviously shaking Sylvie’s peace apart. “Is it just one person who is looking for something? But what?”

Keir shrugged, his features set in grim lines. Ridge stood at his side, reflecting the same mood in his expression and stance.

Sylvie wrapped her arms closer around the baby.

“Something will break,” the sheriff said with what sounded like forced confidence. “This doesn’t appear to be the work of a professional and he is bound to slip up, leave something behind. And we’ll get him.”

Shirley sank onto one of the kitchen chairs and unwrapped the thin blanket over the baby’s head. She held the baby girl close and kissed her downy forehead. “What could they be looking for? And why? Oh, Lord, help us.”

Sylvie’s spirit echoed the despairing cry of Shirley’s heart.

Keir asked Sylvie and Milo to make a cursory examination of places where they kept their extra cash and few valuables. Nothing was found missing and this didn’t lighten the pervasive gloom. The sheriff asked them to wait downstairs in Milo’s shop. But before she could comply, the kitchen phone rang. Sylvie picked it up and heard a voice over the line. “A lady is here who wants to dicker over the price of a book, one of the collectible editions of Georgette Heyer.”

In her current mental fog, it took a few moments for Sylvie to understand who, where and what was happening. It was Shirley’s neighbor Florence Levesque, who was watching Sylvie’s shop for her today. “Florence, I’ll come right over.” She turned to Milo and Shirley and said, “I’ll be right back.”

When she walked outside, Ridge hailed her from the bottom of the steps, “Where are you going?”

“To my shop. Florence is there with a customer.”

Ridge caught up with her. “I’ll come with you.” Without preamble, he continued as they walked side by side, “Do you have any idea at all of who might have done this?”

“None.” Why was he coming with her? In spite of her limp, she found herself walking faster than usual in the brisk winter wind.

“Since I can’t take Ben myself, I’ve decided I’m going to call a friend of mine in the Milwaukee Police Department and ask him to meet the bus from northern Wisconsin tomorrow. He can take Ben to the school. I don’t know when I will be able to get away from this case. And I’ve got to get Ben to that school.”

She cast him a scorching glance. “You’re out of your mind,” she declared, patience gone.

Ridge looked shocked. “What?”

“If you think that you can put Ben on a bus in Ashford tomorrow morning and that when it reaches Milwaukee that night, he will still be on it, you are out of your mind,” she repeated.

Ridge made a sound of disgust. “You’re right. I must be crazy to even think of doing that.”

Most shops on the side street where they walked had been closed until spring. She had the haunting sensation that she was trudging through a ghost town with Ridge. The icy wind battered them, swirling particles of dry snow around their ankles. Her hip ached from the cold and her indignation at his blind spot was fueling her weariness.

Suddenly she yearned for hot sun, green leaves, white sailboats on blue water and tourists shoulder to shoulder on this empty street, laughing and calling to each other. The fact that there was no escape, no way to leap ahead to the future where all the present problems and mysteries were solved sparked her temper.

She stopped and faced him. “You can’t be any more frustrated than I am. I’ve lost Ginger. Some crazy person is going around tearing my family’s houses apart searching for something. We don’t know what that something is or how far they will go to get it. I mean, will they kill someone else?”

Before he could answer, she went on, feeling the tide of frustration roiling, frothing inside her. “And now Rae-Jean has been attacked. Just dealing with Rae-Jean coming home from prison with the baby would have been enough. You think you have problems? Both sides of my family are going through terrible times. You only have Ben to worry about and you seem totally unwilling to spend any time with the boy and be concerned about his problems.”

“I have no experience with kids. But I’m trying to do the best I can. I wanted to get him settled so that he could have an easier time of it.”

“Or maybe you could have an easier time of it? What is it about Ben that most makes you want to get rid of him? Is it because he’s the same age as Dan was when he died?” she challenged him. Then that alarmed feeling shook her, warning her that she had gone too far.

Ridge made no reply. But he pulled away and began stalking the last few yards to the corner across from her bookshop.

She hurried after him; her hip faltered. She slipped on a patch of ice. And fell down hard.

Ridge turned back. “Are you all right?” He reached down to help her up from the icy pavement.

“I’m fine, but ashamed of myself.” Her face blazed. She was usually so careful not to fall in order not to aggravate her damaged hip further. And usually so careful of others’ feelings. “Ridge, I’m ashamed of myself for my anger at you. But I’m so concerned about Ben and his needs.” She couldn’t look him in the eye. “He’s so fragile at this time.”

Ridge drew her to her feet. One of his hands cupped her neck under her collar. The satiny fabric sensitized her neck or was it that his hand was only a millimeter from her skin?

“Don’t give it a thought.” His voice was still rough, but diffident. “After the past five days, neither of us has any patience or nerves left. And I don’t seem to be making a lot of good decisions about Ben.” His other hand pressed against the small of her back, drawing her closer to him, evidently keeping her steady. “With all that’s happened over the past few days, it’s a wonder we’re still in our right minds.”

“Maybe I’m not,” she teased a bit, trying to make up for goading him, striking him when he was already down. “I’m so sorry, Ridge,” she whispered.

Regret again triggered the tears that had hovered just a breath away from the moment she’d found Ginger dead. “I’m so sorry—” she blinked away the tears “—I just wish I could help you. Help Ben…Help you see that he has needs and feelings and…” All the emotions of the day, of the week overcame her. And then her head was resting against his chest again. The wool of his coat rasped her cheek.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. But he held her close. And that was what she needed now. No one had held her like this for a very long time. As winter dusk turned the sky to pewter, the last of the day’s wind continued to flog them. His nearness began to settle deep into her, soothing all of the ruffled edges that the last few days had caused.

Finally his voice came soft and low. “Sylvie, there is a reason that all this happened. Something that Ginger said or did or saw made her a target. Someone knows that Tom and Shirley were her parents and that you were her cousin and close friend. So both your houses were places that she might have visited the night she came home.”

“Or that she might have stayed last fall when she finished her summer here and left for Alaska again?” She looked up.

“That’s right. These three places—her apartment, her parents’ home and your apartment—all were places she would have been last summer.” His voice gained momentum. “What happened to Ginger last summer that would have carried over until now?” He stepped away from her.

She sensed him reestablishing his distance from her. Their moment of closeness was over. “But why would someone wait until now? Wouldn’t it have been easier to investigate, search these places, especially Ginger’s apartment, after she left for Alaska and before she came home?”

“Good point. But it leads nowhere.” He dropped his hands from her.

Bereft of his touch, she said, “I still think we need to find out what her surprise was. Maybe she told someone else around here. Maybe someone she knew met her when she came to town and told her something.”

“A better point.” His businesslike manner had returned, searing their connection. “We’ve asked that anyone who has information about Ginger’s movements the night she came home to come forward. No one has but you.”

“But if they have a guilty secret, they wouldn’t come forward,” she said, reestablishing her independence, too. She couldn’t let herself depend on Ridge. His stay here would be fleeting. “Because they would still be looking for whatever she had that they want…”

“Yes, and we don’t know what that is. But can you think of anyplace in Winfield or nearby that she frequented last summer that might be a hiding place for something important?” He studied her as though he could summon the answer from her with a word.

Blocking Ridge out so she could concentrate, Sylvie closed her eyes and tried to think. Ginger had worked the excursion boats that toured the Apostle Islands. That led nowhere. She shook her head.

“Can you think of anywhere that she stopped before she came to you that first night?”

Sylvie replayed in her mind the evening with Ginger and then the night she and her father had found Ben in Ginger’s attic. The peanut butter that Ben had eaten—yes. “Groceries. She had bought groceries.”

“Groceries? You mean the ones in Ginger’s fridge?”

“Yes.”

“I thought one of the deputies, that young one, Josh, told me you’d put those groceries in the fridge.”

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