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.

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