Bad Blood (Maggie Ryan Book 8) Page 5

  “That’s all. Nobody in between.” Maggie answered the unspoken question.

  “I was your only mistake.” Ginny tried to sound flippant.

  But Maggie was shaking her head firmly. “No,” she said. “I was mistaken, a little bit, about your father. And a little bit about myself. But you were not a mistake, love. You’re one of the best things ever.”

  Ginny twirled the apple core in her fingers. A whirl of emotions played through her flickering expressions. She said shakily, “I guess maybe I do want to take that shower.”

  “I’ll show you.” Maggie stood up and led her to the staircase. Her eyes met Nick’s at the foot of the steps, and she gave his hand a squeeze before she started up. “We’ll find something dry, okay?”

  “Thanks. I didn’t know the weather would be such a bummer,” said Ginny.

  “Yeah, that happens. Reality never quite fits our dreams.”

  Ginny slowed on the bottom steps, and Maggie turned back inquiringly. Ginny asked, “Are you disappointed?”

  “I’m delighted. I think you’re terrific. Are you disappointed?”

  The girl’s gaze didn’t drop. “I don’t know yet.”

  Nick saw relief in the slight softening of Maggie’s posture. Maybe she was right. If the girl was honest, there was a chance. Maggie said, “Yeah, it’s confusing,” and started up again. “See you soon, Nick.”

  “Right.” He went out into the storm again, into the blasts of wind and icy rain.

  It seemed balmy compared to the forecast indoors.

  V

  Dizzy with relief, Rina was still touching the telephone, as though she could will it to life again, could bring back Ginny’s brusque young voice. Not kidnapped, she had said; not even high; everything’s mellow. She was all right! Half of Rina felt like whooping with joy at the news that Ginny had not been hurt, or worse, by the killer at the library. But the rest of her still wanted to scream in frustration at the remaining questions. Where was Ginny? Why had she run away? Not drugs, surely. Not the other—Rina refused to think about that. Was it something Rina had done, or failed to do? Ginny hadn’t seemed angry at her when she left—but had Rina missed something?

  And who were these friends she was visiting? Last night after the police had left, Rina had phoned every one of Ginny’s friends she knew. All had denied seeing her after school. She’d thought for a while that Ginny was with Buck, because even at eleven he wasn’t home. His annoyed mother was not helpful, blaming Rina for the police visit and for worrying her. But then a call to Chip’s house had located Buck. He’d sounded astonished in a muzzy way. “Ginny’s not home? No’m, I didn’t see her at the library. Chip said she was there and left before I got there.” But how had Ginny gotten to Philadelphia? And why wasn’t she coming home now? If only she hadn’t hung up so soon!

  Rina looked up from the phone. Mamma and Delores Gallagher and Marie Deaver had just spread both newspapers onto the dining room table to compare the brief accounts of Mr. Spencer’s death, but right now all three pairs of eyes were turned to Rina. They reminded Rina of stuffed toys: Mamma a terrier in off-white with black accents, Delores Gallagher a plush turtle in bright green with yellow stripes, Marie Deaver a squirrel, perhaps, in gray mohair. “Was that Ginny, Rina?” asked Mamma.

  “Yes. Yes, she’s all right, Mamma.” She felt like a Raggedy Ann herself, limp with relief, flopping about between joy and frustration.

  “Thank God! When will she be back?”

  “She didn’t say. She seemed in a rush, said she’d call back.” That was a consolation. Add hope to Raggedy Ann’s stew of emotions. “But she’s all right. That’s the important thing.”

  Mamma bounced into the kitchen to hug Rina, who was still standing with her fingertips against the phone. “Cara, sit down, then. Relax! She’s all right! The biggest worry is over!”

  “Yes.” Rina was touched by her mother’s concern. “Yes, I know. But—”

  “She didn’t tell you when she’d be home?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, she’s too young to understand how we worry,cara. But she did call, finally. She’s not heartless. She’s learning.”

  Rina sighed. “Not enough! She wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t answer my questions!”

  “Did I hear you say she was in Philadelphia?” asked Mrs. Deaver.

  “Yes, you’re right. She did answer that one,” Rina admitted. “She’s with friends.”

  “Who?” asked Mamma.

  “I don’t know, Mamma. She was in such a rush, I didn’t even have a chance to tell her the police want her to come back too.”Don’t flake out, Ginny had admonished her, as though she could help it. “She just said she was all right.”

  “She’ll be back,cara.” Her mother stroked Rina’s hair as though she were nine again. “We have to have patience with youngsters. God knows, it’s hard, no one knows that better than I do! But what can we do?”

  “Well,” said Rina, trying to be practical, “we should call that detective and tell him she’s in Philadelphia.” Maybe the police could find her there, talk to her. Rina turned back to the phone and dialed the number Sergeant Trainer had left them. He wasn’t available, but the officer on the line promised to pass on the message that Ginny had called from Philadelphia. “Do you think you can find her?” Rina asked him anxiously.

  “Well, ma’am, Philadelphia is a pretty big city,” said the officer cautiously.

  “But can you alert the police department there?”

  “Ma’am, I’m sure Sergeant Trainer will do everything necessary.”

  “Thank you.”

  But Rina was not satisfied. She called Clint at work. “Philadelphia?” he asked when she’d explained. “Who does she know there?”

  “I don’t know, Clint. I’ll ask her friends,” she said with sudden decision. Her spine was back. No more Raggedy Ann. “As soon as they get home from school.”

  “Good idea. And listen, Paul Buchanan works in the DA’s office in Philly.” His voice was bright with eagerness. Ginny’s problems usually required measured responses, gentleness, restraint, but Clint’s instincts and lawyerly training were for action, confrontation. Now he was clearly grateful for something concrete to do at last. “I’ll call him, we went to law school together. And as soon as we get a name or address, we’ll drive up there and get her.”

  “Wonderful! Oh, Clint, I just know we’ll get her back soon!”

  “You’re sounding better, honey.” He’d called her twice today already.

  “Of course! She’s all right!”

  “Yes, honey. I’ll call Paul right away. You stay near the phone for now.”

  She hung up, then joined the others in the dining room. “The police say they’ll do everything necessary, whatever that means,” she reported. “And Clint will be calling a friend of his in Philadelphia, at the district attorney’s office.”

  “Oh, Rina, but she’s all right! That’s wonderful!” exclaimed Delores Gallagher, her smile as bright as her clothes. Then she sobered. “It’s been terrible for all of us, first poor John and then your daughter disappearing. I remember when my Berta was fourteen, she went to visit a friend, and they decided to stay in a tent in the backyard overnight. And she didn’t even call me! I was terrified! Her friend’s parents didn’t get back until midnight, and meanwhile no one was answering the phone—oh, I was just terrified!”

  “Children are so thoughtless,” said Marie Deaver. She looked haggard today. Rina felt a pang, thinking of Marie’s autistic son. Bobby’s profound inability to connect with other humans made thoughtlessness seem a virtue. But the older woman continued, “It’s such a relief to hear that she’s okay!”

  “Yes, that’s the important thing,” Delores Gallagher agreed. “My Berta is doing fine now. Her husband is principal, did I tell you?”

  “Several times,” said Marie Deaver.

  “She says the only problem is the school board always looking over her shoulder.”

  “Did Ginny take
clothes? Books?” asked Marie Deaver.

  “No. Only the cat and her rain cape. She likes to take the cat with her.” Especially if Mamma has been raging at him.

  “Mm, yes. She does love that cat. Did she take food for him?” Mrs. Deaver asked.

  “No. A box of treats, as usual.”

  “Well, then, she isn’t planning a long stay.”

  “Yes, I keep telling myself that.” Rina was cheered, though. Before Ginny’s call, the fact that she hadn’t packed books or a change of clothes was evidence that pointed to kidnapping or worse. But now that she’d called to say she was all right, it meant that she’d probably be back soon. If only she had explained what her problem was! Or if only Rina had kept her wits about her instead of stammering in her joy and relief. A good mother would have been calm, explained about Mr. Spencer and how important it was for Ginny to hurry back. Well, Ginny had said she’d call again. When she did, Rina would just have to forget all her questions, blurt out the fact of the murder, and get her to come back and explain so the police wouldn’t be suspicious of her.

  She wondered again if she should—but no, that couldn’t be useful, could it? She’d wait till Ginny was back.

  She looked down at the newspapers on the table. She really hadn’t thought much about poor John Spencer, she realized guiltily; fear for Ginny had wiped concern for the old man from her mind. But her mother and the others had been his friends, or at least his acquaintances. “Is there anything new about poor Mr. Spencer?” she asked politely.

  “Oh, nothing much we didn’t know,” said Delores Gallagher. “Except he never told me he had a married cousin in Florida.”

  “Did he?”

  “A woman, with a family of her own. His only relative, poor fellow. John’s wife died ten years ago, he told me once.”

  “A lot of us are pretty much alone in the world these days,” observed Marie Deaver. She had nephews and nieces, Rina remembered, but her only close relative was the helpless, unresponsive Bobby. Life took courage. She resolved to be a little braver about Ginny.

  Mamma said, “The other thing in the papers that I didn’t know was that he died around five-thirty or six. How terrible to think we were all calmly fixing dinner and poor John was dying!”

  Delores Gallagher snuffled. “Oh, Leonora, I know! It’s terrible! And I had just let him off at home, and he was so friendly and curious in the car—” She paused for a moment, sobbing into a tissue. Marie Deaver patted her heaving grass-green shoulders consolingly until she could continue. “We were talking just a few minutes before! But he didn’t say a thing about going to the library. Oh, it’s terrible!”

  Marie Deaver said, “They still haven’t found the weapon either.”

  “I suppose the mugger just walked off with it.” Mamma shivered. “He’s probably stabbed somebody else by now.”

  “I wonder why he was at the library.” Delores Gallagher’s sobs had stopped, although she still clutched the tissue. “And why didn’t anyone see him there?”

  “This branch closes at six on weekdays,” said Mamma. “After that it’s pretty deserted.”

  “That’s right,” said Rina. “Clint used to take Ginny to the parking lot there right before dinner, when she was learning to ride a ten-speed. It’s very quiet, he said. Every now and then someone would drive by the night book drop, but otherwise they were all alone.”

  “Well, why was John there, then?” asked Marie Deaver logically.

  “Maybe he wasn’t!” A new thought had occurred to Delores. “The police talked to me a long time because I was the last person who saw him before it happened. And you know, they kept asking about other places he might have gone. Not the library. So I wonder if he was killed somewhere else and moved to the library later.”

  Rina made a decision. If the police knew the time, and knew that John Spencer might have been someplace besides the library, then they already knew more than she could tell them. Her job was to find Ginny and get her home to explain things properly. No need for Rina to increase their suspicions by reporting that Mr. Spencer had telephoned yesterday a few minutes before six. Had telephoned, and had asked about Ginny.

  Clean and dry again, Ginny brushed out her hair before the bathroom mirror and considered her new mother. She was baffled. She had a vivid image now of Maggie, young and stubborn, fighting with all her ingenuity to see and hold her child despite the hospital regulations. Scheming. Breaking rules. Stealing the uniform. Running painfully with her fresh stitches. All for love of a baby.

  And then calmly signing the relinquishment papers, so that very same baby could be taken away forever by someone else.

  Shit. It just couldn’t be that way. It just couldn’t.

  The jeans and sweater Maggie had loaned her fit okay, though she had to roll up the cuffs. She swabbed out the tub carefully, transferred Buck’s envelope to the clean jeans, and gathered up her bundle of dirty clothes.

  There were four rooms on this floor besides the bathroom. Two children’s rooms, bright with posters, books, dinosaurs. Through one window she saw a maple branch with a hook-on ladder. Next was the big blue-and-white bedroom where Maggie had handed her the clean clothes, then a small study that looked out over the front door. Ginny glimpsed a calculator, a sofa, lots of math books. Maybe Nick was an engineer, she thought as she went down the stairs.

  There were voices in the kitchen. She opened the door and found herself in a crowd of people and animals. The small black spaniel barked once and then wriggled feverishly in greeting. Maggie, in sky-blue sweater and jeans now, was making peanut butter sandwiches at the counter, observed closely by Kakiy. Nick sat at the table by the window, a small boy on his lap and a little girl next to him. The children both had curly black hair and brown eyes, and both looked up, interested, as Ginny entered. The little girl asked, “Are you the new sister?”

  The boy whooped with laughter. “That’s not a sister,” he said scornfully. “That’s a lady.”

  “Why do you say that, Will?” asked Nick, smiling at Ginny.

  “She’s grown up!”

  “Sisters grow up, silly,” said the little girl. “She’s a grown-up sister. Silly Willy.”

  “Silly Sarah!”

  “Here, all you silly people, have a sandwich,” said Maggie, deftly inserting one in each quarrelsome mouth. “Ginny, this silly person is Sarah, and this silly person is Will. The silly dog is named Zelle. And you can dump your laundry in the corner by the washer there.”

  Ginny dropped her bundle and patted Zelle. “Hi,” she said to the children.

  Both small mouths were full. They mumbled, “Hi.” Then Sarah swallowed and said clearly, “Actually, Ginny, I’m not silly. I was just acting silly. Like Daddy.”

  “Hey!I wasn’t acting silly!” protested Nick, laughter glinting in his brown eyes.

  “But sometimes you do,” explained Sarah patiently. “At work.”

  Maggie said, “Nick is an actor, Ginny. Do you want a sandwich?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Not an engineer, then. An actor. He didn’t look much like an actor. Ginny eyed him surreptitiously as she sat down at the table.

  Maggie said, “Well, Will. Did anything interesting happen today?”

  “We made leaves,” said Will. “Red and orange and purple.”

  “That sounds pretty. What about you, Sarah?”

  “We learned a song.”

  “What song?”

  Sarah sang seriously, “Five fools in a barrow drove into Harrow, tra la, tra la, tra la!”

  “Good song,” said Nick. “Later we’ll do it on the piano, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Something interesting happened to Kakiy and me today,” Ginny told the children as she bit into her sandwich. “We rode on the subway for the very first time.”

  “Oh, yes!” said Sarah excitedly. “You know what’s scary? The noise. When the train comes. Were you scared?”

  “Yes, a little,” Ginny agreed. “Even Kakiy was a little scared, and
he’s a tough cat.”

  “I’m not scared anymore. But it’s pretty loud,” said Sarah sympathetically.

  “I gotta pee,” announced Will.

  “Okay, fella, let’s go.” Nick took Will’s hand, and they went out.

  “Are you finished with your sandwich, Sarah?” asked Maggie.

  “Yes. Can I have an apple?”

  “Sure. You can get it from the dining room yourself and take it up to your room.”

  “Okay.” Sarah skipped away too.

  Ginny and Maggie looked at each other. Finally Ginny said, “There were four people in my house. Three grown-ups and me.”

  “You seem to count as a grown-up here,” Maggie said, smiling.

  “Not there. Never with Gram. Not even Mom really counts as grown-up with her.”

  “I think it’s hard for some people to accept it when kids grow up.”

  Or when kids are born? Ginny quashed her bitterness and asked, “Maggie, how old were you when I was born?”

  “Sixteen.”

  Sixteen. Jesus. Ginny was suddenly enraged, as though being sixteen were an unforgivable familiarity from the calm woman sitting across the table from her. “Well,” she said coolly, aiming to shock, “my boyfriend and I will really have to move to even get a tie in that round of the contest.”

  Maggie’s blue eyes didn’t flicker. “Sixteen years and seven months,” she said evenly.

  Damn unshockable woman! Ginny muffled her rage; she didn’t want to lose it. She leaned back in her chair and snapped her fingers nonchalantly. “Shucks! No sense even trying to compete, then.”

  “Oh, no need to bow out of the contest,” said Maggie, nonchalant too. “You could shoot up a lot and eat junk food, and try for a preemie.”

  So Ginny was the one who was shocked. She gaped a minute, looking into those cool, challenging eyes, and suddenly understood. A baby was a person. Not a trophy, not a proof that its mother was daring, or grown up, or bad. A person. As she, of all people, should know. And this woman knew, and would not let her forget it, even in jest.

  She grinned grudgingly. “Ouch. You sure don’t argue the way Mom does.”