Day by Day (10 page)

Ginger bolted to her feet so fast she set the rocker in motion behind her. “You have another flight to catch? Now?”

She stiffened when Lily embraced her. “Please try to understand. This is really best for all of us.”

Ginger pulled away. “This is best? No. I can’t believe that. I don’t believe that. If Paul won’t stand up against his parents for you, then he’s not my idea of a good husband. And he shouldn’t be yours, either,” she pleaded. “Forget the flight. Wait for Daddy and come home with us. We can
talk this through. Maybe…maybe Vincent should just stay with us a while longer to give you a little more time—”

Lily shook her head and placed one of her hands over her stomach. “Vincent’s not the only child I’m protecting, Mom. I’ve tried to raise one child on my own. I can’t do it again, and I won’t risk this baby’s future any more than I’d risk Vincent’s. Please don’t hate me,” she whispered, turned and walked away.

Ginger froze in place and watched her daughter leave. Flabbergasted from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, she felt as if she was outside of her own body watching a nightmare that had exploded into reality. She could not cry. She could not move a muscle. Until she saw her daughter slide her purse onto the conveyor belt at the security checkpoint.

“Lily!” Her cry erupted like a whisper, and she charged forward, only to be stopped hard by a pair of security officers.

“Ma’am, you can’t go through here. Not without a boarding pass or ticket.”

Frantic, she struggled against strong arms and watched Lily fade into the crowd. “Lily! That’s my daughter! I need to see my daughter,” she cried.

“Ma’am, if you don’t settle down—”

“Ginger? What’s wrong? Where’s Lily?”

She turned and burrowed into Tyler’s embrace. Weeping uncontrollably, she clung to his shirt with her fists. “Lily’s gone. Lily’s gone,” she cried.

Her heart was broken by her daughter’s decision, and each sad beat of her heart hungered for reconciliation and understanding.

Her spirit was crushed beneath the weight of so many unanswered prayers, and she struggled with the vision of her own broken dreams for her own future with Tyler as they headed into retirement.

And her soul shook at the thought of telling Vincent that his mother had no room in her new life for him.

T
en days had passed since Julia and Augusta Radcliffe had emerged as the primary suspects responsible for Steve’s death. Barbara sat with John in an office with Detective Sanger in Philadelphia at ten o’clock in the morning feeling as if she had been yanked into the worst of all possible reality television shows. Both girls were juveniles, but their names had leaked to a media ravenous for details and prepared for breaking news in the case.

Whether the camp of vans and cameras and audio equipment set up by the local, national network, and cable television and radio media in Center City was bigger than the compounds created by the reporters in the print media was hard to tell, but the chaos reminded her that one of the greatest blessings in her life was living in a small town like Welleswood.

Like the legendary circle of wagons that protected migrating families moving West, lifelong friends and neigh
bors linked together to create a loyal chain around Barbara and John and the twins to protect their privacy. Local police, including a host of auxiliary officers normally called upon as reinforcements for special events, used a variety of methods to keep reporters on the periphery of the town limits. Barbara refrained from having any interest in how far the boundary between legal and illegal methods had been stretched. Instead, she needed all of her resources this morning to focus on Lydia Sanger.

Dwarfed by a mound of folders and stacks of papers on her desk, the petite, African-American detective described the impressive work she had done on the case so far. “I know you’re anxious for us to make an arrest, and I wanted to see you today to reassure you both that we’re working very hard to make sure our case is rock-solid before we do. We’re not going to let the media direct our investigation or force our hand.” Her voice was deep, especially for a woman who barely topped five feet. “But I’ll be honest with you. This is not going to be an easy case to resolve, which is another reason I wanted to meet with you.”

John took hold of Barbara’s hand; she held on tight. “The media?” he asked.

“That’s only one component,” Lydia Sanger admitted.

“I don’t expect the media circus to abate any time soon, but the last thing we need right now is to have a trial by media, especially now that the family has hired Spencer Crawford to represent the girls.”

Barbara looked at her husband. From the quizzical look on his face, he was as unfamiliar with the name as she was, and Barbara offered her own blank look to the detective.

“You two obviously don’t watch much television, especially the legal coverage of trials.”

John shook his head. “We haven’t in the past and to be frank, we’ve been afraid to turn on the television, let alone the radio, since Steve’s death. Between the bottom screen news banners the stations use now, regardless of the program in progress, and the ‘breaking news’ reports, we don’t need to see or hear anything that would make losing Steve any more difficult than it already is, for us and for the twins. Our lawyer has handled the reporters’ inquiries for us, and we have no desire to be somebody’s idea of entertainment.”

The detective’s soft gaze met Barbara’s. “I understand. Completely. For the time being I think it’s wise to keep out of the media glare, although there may be a point where I might suggest we need to have you conduct a news conference or two. It would be controlled and well-orchestrated, of course, and—”

“I don’t think I can answer any questions or make any statements, especially to reporters,” Barbara insisted.

“And I hope you won’t have to, but we may have no other choice. Crawford is an excellent defense attorney with a well-earned reputation for using and manipulating the media, and you need to be prepared for that.”

John sat up a little straighter. “We’ll do whatever needs to be done.”

Barbara swallowed hard and nodded her agreement.

“And so will I,” the detective promised. She set aside several folders and crossed her hands atop her desk. “This case is about your son, Steve. He’s the victim here. One of my most important jobs during the course of the investigation will be to keep the focus on Steve and make sure
we arrest the right person or persons who are responsible for his death. Crawford, on the other hand, will try to deflect the media attention away from his clients and raise questions about the investigation or the criminal justice system in general, or Steve himself.”

The knot in Barbara’s stomach hurt so badly she could scarcely breathe. “Steve didn’t do anything wrong, and it’s not fair to make it seem like he did,” she argued.

“A good defense attorney like Crawford will do what he has to do to protect his clients. Now let me tell you what we know so far. The girls have denied that there was any personal connection between Steve, the girls, or their parents, but we need to be sure.”

Barbara stiffened. She braced herself to hear the woeful tale of the two miserable urban lives that had tragically intersected with Steve’s, convinced there was no connection at all.

The detective read from notes she had prepared. “Mom is a pharmacist. Dad is a retired Coast Guard officer and commandant of one of the yacht clubs at the shore. These days, he does private consulting work. No record of any connection between him and Steve’s firm. The two girls are their only children. Apparently, all four of them are active in their church. The eldest sister, Augusta, is seventeen. She’s a senior at Hale Regional High School, which is in Ocean County, just north of Cape May. She’s vice president of her class, secretary of the National Honor Society, and a Merit Scholarship winner who applied very early for admission to the Coast Guard Academy and was accepted. Julia is fifteen, a sophomore at the same school and ranks first in her class. She’s all-South Jersey in two sports, soccer and softball, and she—”

“Enough!” John spat out the words. “I’ve heard enough.”

Barbara eased her hand free, even as her mind struggled to absorb the information she had been given—information which exploded every profile she had created in her mind for the people responsible for taking Steve’s life. “I’ve never heard of these people,” she managed.

“Me, either,” John snapped. “If what you’re telling us about them is true, then why in the world were these…What would these girls be doing in Philadelphia? With a gun?” he demanded. “It’s almost so unbelievable to think that these girls were involved that I wonder if you have even gotten the people truly responsible for Steve’s death.”

“Oh, we think they’re responsible,” the detective argued.

“The ballistics test has provided a number of leads which I can’t discuss at this time, but it confirms the gun that the girls turned in is the gun that fired the bullet that killed your son.”

“But why? Why did they shoot the gun? Did they target Steve? Why? Why Steve? Why our son?” Anger and outrage fueled Barbara’s questions and her heart pounded against her chest. Tears of frustration welled, and she blinked them back. “Tell me why.”

“We’re still investigating the motive, but according to the girls’ statements, the shooting was accidental.”

John snorted again. “Accidental? Hogwash. They didn’t accidentally drive to Philadelphia. They didn’t accidentally have a gun which was accidentally loaded, did they?” He held up his hand to keep the floor to himself. “They killed our son. They left our two granddaughters orphans. That’s no accident. That’s a cold, hard, bitter fact of life we’ll
have to live with and so will they. I don’t care who these girls are. They’re murderers, and they should be held accountable,” he demanded. With his chest heaving, he glared at the detective who waited until he had regained his composure before answering him.

“If they’re responsible for Steve’s death, they will be held accountable,” she murmured, “but right now, you need to give us time to finish our investigation. We still have a lot of questions that need answers.”

Barbara shook her head. “But I thought you said the girls already gave a statement of some kind. If they admitted which one shot the gun that killed Steve, isn’t that enough?”

“According to the District Attorney’s office, their statement, such as it is, will probably be ruled inadmissible, since they did not have their parents or an attorney present when they turned themselves in to the local police. If we can confirm their statements, then we can charge the girls accordingly. Unfortunately, there’s a gaping hole in the investigation that needs to be filled in before we can proceed.”

John glowered. “What hole? You have two girls who turned themselves in with the gun that killed our son and who admit they’re responsible.”

“True, but we have to corroborate their account of that day, and frankly, we need to find out where that gun has been since July when Steve was shot. Just because the girls had the gun now doesn’t mean they had it in July. Maybe they did, but maybe they didn’t. And if they didn’t, who did? Did they accidentally shoot Steve and now, months later, were so overwrought with guilt they turned them
selves in without even consulting with their parents? Or are they covering for someone else. If so, who? And why?”

Detective Sanger straightened in her seat. “Those are the questions that need answers before we arrest anyone. I want to know everything about these girls and every move they’ve made since July and well before that before I give credence to a single word they’ve said. If they’re responsible, they’ll be arrested. If not—”

“The justice system,” John argued, “is supposed to be a code of law, not one ‘if’ after another.”

“The justice system is based on law, but the system, unfortunately, does not move as quickly or as surely as the families of victims might like,” the detective countered gently. “I know you want answers. You want justice, and you want closure. Please be patient. Be strong. I’ve got the numbers here for several victims’ organizations you can go to for support. In the meantime, give us all time to unravel the truth of what happened that day. That’s what you want most of all, isn’t it? To know what really happened to your boy and why?” she asked softly.

Barbara lost the battle to keep her tears at bay and let them trickle silently down her cheeks. She took John’s hand again. “We do,” she whispered. “We’ll try to be patient, won’t we?”

John turned and met her gaze, and she wiped the single tear from her husband’s cheek.

Silence fell between Barbara and John on the ride back to Welleswood. He dropped her off at home and headed straight to the office, once again retreating with his grief and his anger into his work. Instead of going inside her
empty house to get her keys and driving to the avenue to open her shop, she went to her room and changed into jeans and a sweater. Seeking comfort, she wrapped herself in the shawl that had been made for her by women who participated in the Shawl Ministry at church and headed for the river that created a natural boundary between Welleswood and neighboring communities to the north.

At nearly noon on a weekday, the children were all in school. Parents were either at work or inside their homes, and she walked the several blocks filled with stately Victorian homes to the river without seeing anyone at all. The air was cool and the breeze was crisp, but her steps were slow and deliberate. She crossed the last street, paused to acknowledge the police officer on bike patrol as he rode by, and crossed over the paved walking path that encircled the river.

She cut through the grassy park and went straight to the giant oak tree at the water’s edge. Now mid-September, autumn had yet to paint vibrant colors on the trees that hugged the park or to deaden summer reeds at the river’s edge. Waves gently lapped at the gnarled, exposed roots of the oak tree. She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders, sat down and leaned back against the trunk to gaze out over the river.

Memories quickly surfaced. Watching Steve learn to sail here on the little twelve-foot, fiberglass sailboat John and the boys had made from a kit. Helping Steve release the frog he had watched develop from a tadpole for a science project. With her mind’s eye, she saw him again, eight years old, soaked to the skin and mud up to his knees after falling into the river while trying to keep the frog in view as it hopped away.

She choked down a half chuckle, half sob, recalling how hard he had tried to train for cross-country by running around and around this river his freshman year in high school, only to suffer an injury in the first event that sidelined him for the rest of the season.

“Steve.” She whispered his name, and her heart ached for the sight and the sound of him, just once more. She closed her eyes and felt the gentle stir of the breeze on her face, but despite the shawl she wore, peace and comfort did not caress the anguish in her heart. “I miss him. John misses him. Steve’s girls miss him. He didn’t deserve to die. Please. Help me to understand,” she prayed.

As her mind replayed the morning’s conversation in the detective’s office, she bowed her head. She struggled to juxtapose the idea that Steve’s death might have been nothing more than a tragic accident with the notion he had been murdered in cold blood. Had those two girls wielded the gun, or had it been someone else, someone who was still unknown? “Help John. Help the girls. Just…help us. We can’t do this alone. I can’t do this…it’s too hard,” she whispered, but her heart was confused.

Was there a difference between seeking justice and wanting vengeance? If so, which did she truly want? Steve was dead, a cold, hard fact, just as John had said. Did it really matter if Steve’s death had been an accident or a deliberate act?

With one beat of her heart, it mattered a great deal to her. With the next beat, she did not care at all. Steve had died. That she knew for sure. “I’ve lost my son,” she cried and placed her broken heart in the hands of the One who understood the utter devastation that burdened her heart.