It was an hour till showtime. Nick picked up his room phone and dialed Brooklyn.
The phone rang. And rang.
Odd, he thought, Ginny usually answered soon. She didn’t go out, after all. Although she might be in the little backyard, if Will was feeling better. Or of course she might be rocking him to sleep, or bathing him. Some things couldn’t be easily interrupted.
He’d try again from downstairs after he got into makeup.
“Rina, have you been cleaning my room?” asked Mamma anxiously.
“No, I haven’t been in there.”
“Well, someone has.” Mamma was clenching and unclenching her hands.
“What do you mean?”
“Someone has been through my handbag. And gone through my papers.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Were the police here again?”
“No. And they wouldn’t search your room without telling you.”
The two women stared at each other, uneasily.
“When did it happen?” asked Rina.
“I’m not sure. I had it with me when I went shopping at ten.”
“Yes, I remember. I was working on my quilt.” And becoming more desperate by the minute. Aggie’s suggestion that they go together to see Buck after school had seemed a godsend, although what she had learned depressed her even more.
“And this afternoon I was out in the garden,” said Mamma. “When Aggie brought you back I was still there. She came out to say hello before she left.”
“Yes.”
“Do you suppose someone got in while I was in the garden? I did leave the door open.”
“Wouldn’t you have seen them?” Rina felt jumpy, cranky.
“Yes, but—well, weeding by the evergreens there, I might not have noticed. Should we call the police?”
“It’s not much. But with everything else, maybe so.”
Sergeant Trainer, when they reached him, noted it down with his usual neutral questions. Then he said to Rina, “You haven’t heard anything from your daughter, Mrs. Marshall?”
“No. Nothing. But she said she wouldn’t call again for a while,” said Rina defensively.
“It really is important for us to get in touch with her.”
“I know, Sergeant Trainer. But she hasn’t called.”
“Yes, I know, and I wonder why not.”
Rina was indignant at his persistence. “You can’t blame her, can you, if she doesn’t want to face questioning? For murder? At her age?”
“No, no, but—”
“Why don’t you find out who did it? Then she’d be back like a flash!”
“Now, Mrs. Marshall—”
“Just find him! It’s your job!”
“We’re doing our job, Mrs. Marshall.” Sergeant Trainer was not made of stone after all; Rina could hear splinters of anger in his cool voice. But she was too upset herself to stop.
“Well, what do you have to show for it, besides a trumped-up charge against an innocent teenaged girl?” she demanded.
“Mrs. Marshall, the lab report came in today, and there’s no doubt at all. The only fingerprints on the scissors that killed Mr. Spencer belong to that innocent teenaged girl.”
Fear washed the anger from her. “To Ginny?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Marshall. I shouldn’t have told you that. But we’re being as reasonable as we can. Really. Try to see it from our point of view.”
“Yes. Yes, I see that. Thank you, Sergeant Trainer. I’m sorry.”
“Yes, Mrs. Marshall. I’m sorry too.”
Rina replaced the receiver slowly and leaned back against the kitchen counter for a moment, thinking.
There was one way out, she realized suddenly. One way that might save Ginny, might bring her back.
Aggie had said it. Sometimes love demands very painful and risky things.
Tomorrow, thought Rina. If they don’t find the murderer today, I’ll do it tomorrow.
XIX
Everything was fine, of course. But how had Will gotten into the tree? Ginny tried to think, but her mind seemed wrapped in cotton. The roof below the window slid down at an alarmingly steep pitch. The lower branches were high above it. The branches blurred again. She should be laughing, but she was worried. Maybe another lude would help. She could worry later.
But Will was her brother. Her own blood.Famiglia.
“Will. Howjoo get—up there?”
“Ladder.”
Ladder. She frowned, looking around. Finally she was sure. “There’s no ladder!” She giggled. “You’re kidding!”
“It fell down.”
“The ladder?”
“Yes.” Will whimpered. He wasn’t giggling.
“Wherezit?”
“It fell down.”
The world was misting over again. She said, “Jusha minute,” and lurched out of his room again. Everything was fine. Except her legs weren’t working very well. Maybe she should wake herself up more. Cold water. She took aim at the bathroom door and managed to reach it. There was a problem getting into the shower, because the side of the tub was in the way. But she succeeded at last and turned the faucet.
It worked. She turned it off again, gasping, and thought almost lucidly for a moment.
Will had to be rescued. He was small, and sick, and could not hold on to that branch forever.
Police? No. Impossible. She forgot why, but it was impossible.
She’d have to do it herself. She couldn’t get to the branches from the roof of the porch. But upstairs, from the exercise room window, the branches were very close. If her muscles would do what she told them to. It would be safer with a rope. But there was no rope.
No rope, no hope. She giggled at the silly rhyme.
Better take a nap, think later.
Some hidden vein of determination pulled her back into coherence. Rope. Something tight. Tighten your belt.
Still dripping, she stepped carefully across the hall, and after some difficulty found the knob to Nick and Maggie’s closet. For a minute everything swam before her again, but then the determination prevailed and she saw Nick’s belts, four of them on a hanger. Tighten your belt. She put one on but then couldn’t buckle it. Her fingers didn’t work, and things kept blurring. Then she carefully looped his belt over her own, so that it dangled down before her, held in its middle by her belt. She was so pleased at this success that she looped three more belts through, beaming, before she noticed the noise again.
“Gin-nee!”
“Coming!” she called. Where was he? Oh, yes. Tree. Her window upstairs. She struggled up the steps and found it was easier on all fours. Like Kakiy. Whee. At the top she hauled herself upright with the banister, started confidently toward the window, and stumbled only once before she got there.
She heaved up the sash triumphantly. Hey, everything was fine! There was the branch she knew so well.
A long way down to the roof, warned some part of her mind that was still awake. And further still to the hard cement of the walk between the porch and the side fence. Not soft like the mat under her. Well, then, throw the mat out there! She seized the corner, pushed and squeezed it through the window. Then she shoved it exuberantly and it popped through. Whee! It hit the roof, skidded down rapidly and over the edge. She heard it smack against the cement below.
Will was crying. Poor little kid.
“Will! Hey, Will! I’m coming!”
“Ginny?” snuffled Will.
“I’m up. Here.”
Cautiously, he looked up. “Help me, Ginny.”
“Okay. Jusha minute.”
“Silly Kakiy went in the tree.”
“Yesh.”
“You come here and get me, okay?”
“Okay.” Get him. Get Will. Silly Willy. She reached out of the window, grabbed the branch happily. It was rough in her hands. She pushed herself cheerfully out the window. Whee! She laughed.
But her hands hurt where she was dangling from them. A gust of wind slapped her, icy on
her wet clothes, and another moment of clarity came. Far below, the steep roof of the porch sloped down. A little nearer, Will clung to his branch, waiting for her. And Ginny, chuckling like a fool, was hanging by her hands from a higher branch, eight or ten feet up from his. No way to reach him from here. Her hands hurt.
She should get her leg up on the branch, lie on it like Will.
“Jusha minute, Will,” she said cheerfully.
The panic inside her was not quite submerged in the flood of well-being. The panic made her concentrate. Throw a leg up over the branch. Whoops, missed, try again. Throw a leg up and pull at the same time. There, done! She wrenched herself up, teetered on the top. And slid off the other side. A stump of a twig ripped into the inside of her thigh as she slid over, breaking into her sense of peace.
Hang on.
Have to do it again. Throw a leg over, pull hard, stop. This time she balanced, though the world swirled. Hold on.
Will was still holding on.
“How you, Will?” she asked.
“I want to get down.”
“Wait. Ish hard for me too.”
He whimpered. Poor little guy.
“I’ll get you, Will. I promish.”
“Okay.” The snuffling stopped.
She had to slide backward along the branch to the trunk. Things would be fine then. She could get to the next branch down, then to Will’s. She couldn’t quite trust her muscles, but she was sure everything would be fine. Obeying the stubborn panic that would not be quieted, that was spoiling her high, she clamped her arms and legs around the branch, slid back just a little, moved her arms and legs back, clamped again and slid again. It was hard to avoid the twigs.
She clamped, slid, clamped, slid, bumped into the trunk and almost fell.
She might feel cold if everything didn’t seem so fine.
“Ginny, hurry up.”
“Okay. Everything’s fine.”
How could she get down to that next branch? She tried sitting up, still straddling her branch. Her back was to the trunk. One of the belts looped through hers slithered out and fell, startling her. She swayed but hung on.
She had to get Will. She had promised.
There was another branch a couple of feet above her head. She slowly lifted one hand, concentrating, still holding tight with the other. Hard not to lose her balance. Like ballet. Up went her hand. Up over her head, whee! It bumped into the branch and she clutched it. That was what she wanted. Everything was fine. Why had she wanted it? Oh, yes, to stand up. She grabbed the branch with her other hand too and stood up happily, and her feet slipped, and once again she was dangling from her sore hands, and the pain was prodding her awake again.
It was a long way down. She remembered the mat skidding down. Better not to skid like that.
Behind her was the branch she had slipped from. She groped with her foot, found it, slowly stood again, still holding to the upper branch. A few feet further out that upper branch, she noticed, was Kakiy. Serene. Unworried. Cheshire cat. She giggled.
“Gin-nee!”
Get Will.
She clamped one hand, let go with the other. Then she turned carefully to face the trunk. She could see a branch below her. Hold tight, said the panic, even though everything was fine. She put her free arm around the trunk, made sure her feet wouldn’t slip, and threw her second arm around. With enormous care she chose the correct foot, the right one, and hugged the trunk, and stepped out toward the lower branch. After a long time her foot reached it, and, still clasping the trunk, she shifted her weight to the lower branch.
The bark was rough, sliding against her wet sweater. Her leg hurt. But she had to reach Will. She’d promised.
“How ya doing, Will?”
“I’m tired.”
“Me too. I’ll be there shoon.”
Better not fall. It would scare Will.
But another blurry time came, and the panic made her hold still, embracing the trunk. When she was little she had been good on monkey bars. Trees too. Why was this one so difficult?
“Ginny?”
“I’m coming.” She had promised. She began again. Hug the tree, left foot down slowly, touch, shift weight. She had to think through and double-check each part of the automatic actions. Finally she found herself standing on Will’s branch.
“Ginny, I’m cold.”
“So am I. Jusha minute, Will. I’m thinking.”
Together maybe they would be warmer. Warm. Sleep.
Not now, snapped the panic, think! Be careful! Tighten your belt!
Why had she brought the belt?
Tighten your belt. Your seat belts.
Carefully, with her right hand, she withdrew one of Nick’s belts. Carefully, she reached as far around the trunk with it as she could. On the third try she caught it with her other hand. She pulled it back, lost it, found it again, and managed to pass the end around her waist. Now she had to buckle it. Then everything would be fine. She leaned against the trunk, fumbling with her stubborn hands. Finally the pin slid into the hole and she had buckled herself to the trunk. She giggled in delight.
God, this was a beautiful tree. A fine tree.
But she was supposed to be helping Will. She’d better turn toward him. She grabbed the tree with one arm, eased herself around inside the circle of Nick’s belt, then slowly lowered herself to a squat. The belt caught a couple of times as it slid down the trunk, but finally she was sitting, one arm still around the trunk, the belt circling her body and the trunk.
Will, his rump to her, tried to look back at her. “Come get me, Ginny.”
“I better not. You hold on tight. And back up, very shlowly. Slowly.”
He moved a little, trustingly. Now that she was so near he was confident again. The tough little body that swung on the parallel bars upstairs contracted, stretched, contracted, and then he was there, his little feet against her thighs, his corduroy-clad bottom only inches away.
“Good, Will!” What a wonderful, wonderful brother. “Do you want to sit up?”
“I want to go down.”
“I know. I do too. But we’d better wait a little. I can’t do it yet.”
“But I’m tired of the tree.”
“Lesh rest a little while, okay? I bet you want to sit up.”
“Yes. My hands hurt.”
“Okay.” She gripped the trunk tighter, put out her arm. “Okay, Will, I’ll put my hand out. You hold it and lean against me.”
She bent her efforts toward holding steady, and Will, coordinated and no longer fearful, nestled back against her. Ginny was flooded with love for her little brother. Little trusting brother.
He shouldn’t trust you, said the panic. Tighten your belt.
“Now let’s put on our seat belt,” she said.
“Seat belt?”
“Here.” She pulled out a second of Nick’s belts. “Around our legs and under the branch. To Grandmother’s house we go.” She giggled.
Interested, he helped pull the belt around. “I can buckle it,” he announced proudly, and did so.
“Good! Now one more.” She pulled out the last belt, carefully passed it between her waist and the trunk, and then gave the two ends to Will to buckle around his own little belly. And finally the panic in Ginny subsided a little.
“Your clothes are wet,” observed Will.
“I’m all wet,” she giggled. “But ish okay. We’ll be warmer together.”
They snuggled, and she began to drift away. But Will was restless enough to keep bringing her back. He made her sing songs. They giggled, and told stories. Every now and then he asked wistfully if it was time to go down, but the high was beginning to wear off and the panic was swelling within her. Her legs and back were very cold, and her thigh throbbed where the twig had torn it, and her butt was sore from the constant hard pressure of the supporting branch. But she knew better than to move.
After a while Kakiy came down a little from his high branch, eyed them disdainfully, and then ran lightly alon
g the branch into the exercise room. Will was quite interested, and prattled along for a while with conjectures about what Kakiy was doing inside, maybe going into his new house. Ginny made appropriate noises, but she wasn’t really listening. There was something about the way she felt right now, as the drug’s haze receded. Something to do with Mr. Spencer. Something she had seen as she left home.
But then a more important question pushed through the waning mists of the drug. What the hell was she doing in a tree?
Objectivity was returning, and terror, and with it came shame.
She was a total idiot.
She should have done something sensible. Maybe not the police; she still flinched from that. But she could have called Ellen. Or better yet, she could have prevented the whole problem, if she’d been paying attention to what Will was doing. She could have stopped him in time. Or at least she could have found a way to help him down, a rope or a ladder of some kind. There were a million sensible things to do other than that drunken lurch through the tree to hold him and sing to him. What a total idiot she was! And there was no way out now, she realized. They were stranded. There was no one to call for help.
Why had she taken that damn lude?
Well, she thought defensively, what could you expect? She did pretty well really, considering that her biological mother was probably a half-witted junkie and …
Her mother was a bright athletic Ph.D.
Damn.
A bright athletic Ph.D. would not get herself stranded in a tree. Would not abandon her responsibilities to a sick little boy and get wrecked on ludes just because she was tired of being stuck in the house and was feeling sorry for herself.
Not even if she was accused of murder? And homesick? And had just learned the brutal news that her genes gave her no excuses?
Especially not then.
So what the hell was Ginny doing in this tree?
She loved Will. Her little brother. Okay, she had done dumb things for love before. For love of Kakiy, she had yelled at Gram and Mr. Spencer, and gotten herself accused of murder as a result. For love of Mom, she had let Maggie go snooping to Maryland instead of telling the police where she really was, and had gotten herself stuck with this interminable babysitting as a result. For love of Buck, she had risked getting pregnant, and as a result—well, she had lucked out on that one.
Bad Blood (Maggie Ryan Book 8) Page 24
