Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(8)

This wasn’t the moment to discuss my limitations. Although I could easily picture Wilbur Fitch’s house and be there in a heartbeat, I had to have a physical destination in mind. Although perhaps— “What kind of car does Sylvie drive?”

“A 2007 Camry. Tan.”

“I’ll be back.” I disappeared.

I stood beside a 2007 tan Camry parked in a lot across from one of the girls’ dorms at our local college. Streetlamps provided ample visibility in front of the dorms and in the parking lot. Locked car doors are no hindrance. I flowed inside. A backpack rested in the passenger seat. In case anyone was near, I became visible. I flipped on an interior light, pulled the backpack close, lifted the flap. It took only a moment to empty the contents. A laptop. Four textbooks. Colonial American history. Psychology. American lit. French. I would have expected a welter of crumpled sheets in keeping with the disorderliness of Sylvie’s room. I glanced at the laptop. Likely she made notes on her device and paper wasn’t a part of her world. I turned it on, checked her calendar. Three classes MWF, a single eight o’clock class TTh. In Notes three assignments were listed. And, at the end of the page, a cryptic: I Can Do It!

I replaced the textbooks and laptop in the backpack. Outside the car, I studied the quiet scene. An almost full bike rack at the end of the sidewalk was illuminated beneath a streetlamp. Across the street there were only two lighted windows in the three-story dormitory. No pedestrians were visible. I looked back at the car, but there was nothing to give me any hint as to its owner’s actions after she parked, locked the doors, and walked away.

I glanced again at the row of dorms. Was it possible Sylvie lived in one of the dorms? I gave it a try, thought Sylvie’s room.

I stood in the center of the room with the lop-eared bear and the casually dispersed clothes. I walked into the hall. The bedroom door made a slight squeak.

Running steps sounded. Susan plunged into the hall. “Sylvie? Are you home?’

“It’s me. I’m back.” I appeared.

“I heard her door. I hoped it was Sylvie. When you left, you said something about Sylvie’s car.” She stood with her hands balled into tight fists.

“Her car is parked across from a dorm on the campus. Her backpack is in the passenger seat.”

“That’s where she parks when she goes to class. That means she was on the campus today. If she didn’t take her car after class, she must have left the campus with someone.” Susan looked sick. “If she knows who kidnapped her, they can’t let her go.”

I very much feared that would be true, but as my mama always told us, “Don’t borrow trouble.”

I was crisp. “A smart kidnapper will be certain she never gets a glimpse of him. Or her. Sylvie won’t know anything to reveal their identity. Now tell me why Mr. Fitch keeps a box filled with cash in his safe. Is he engaged in nefarious activities?”

For an instant, her wide mouth quirked in amusement. “He’d love the way you talk. Maybe if everything ever gets sorted out and Sylvie is okay and I can explain to him and promise to pay back the money, maybe he’ll think the whole thing’s a hoot. He’s like that. Nefarious? He’ll boom, Hell, no. I’m not anybody’s crook. Every penny I have is a penny I earned. But I remember when a five-dollar bill was big money to me. Now I’ve got stacks of fifty-dollar bills right where I can get to them anytime I want. If I take it in my mind to buy a new car, I can walk right in and slap the money down on the counter. He’ll roar with laughter. He knows he’s over the top, but he’s proud of what he’s done. It makes me mad when people act like anybody who’s rich is somehow bad and the government should take all their money and pass it out. Nobody does more for people in trouble than Wilbur. He doesn’t tell everybody about his generosity. You know how they list donors for charities and a bunch of them are Anonymous. He’s Anonymous behind the soup kitchen and the Salvation Army and the fund for homeless schoolkids and the dog and cat rescue society and lots of other things. I know because I’m his secretary and I put the checks in the mail.”

“Does he work out of his home?”

“He has an office at the main building, but mostly he works from home. He knows everything that’s going on. He gets reports and spreadsheets and has me keep up with the markets around the world and how the yuan is doing. He’s very big in China.”

“Why do you know the combination to his safe?”

“Wilbur likes to sit at his huge desk or in the big leather chair on the other side of the room and have things brought to him. He trusts me.” Her lips quivered. “He’s always trusted me. Now I’m a thief. But”—her voice was forlorn—“if we get Sylvie back, he’ll understand. I’ll pay him back no matter how long it takes. I can sell the house for maybe sixty thousand and then—oh, I don’t know how I’ll get the rest, but I will. But that doesn’t matter now.” She whirled, hurried back to the living room. She stopped and stared at the clock. Almost twenty after twelve. She yanked her cell from her pocket, tapped numbers again. She listened and listened, finally swiped to end the call. “Why haven’t they called me?”

Susan found the failure of the cell to ring terrifying. “Perhaps you misunderstood. Perhaps the call will come at twelve noon tomorrow. Did the caller say midnight or twelve o’clock?”