Читать книгу Plain Jeopardy - Alison Stone - Страница 14

TWO

“Yes, I am a writer. I don’t think the accident had anything to do with my job.” Had it? The words sounded wrong in her ears the minute Grace said them, but she was committed to her denial, because acceptance that someone had tried to hurt her—kill her—would put a serious crimp in her research. The sheriff’s department wasn’t likely to let this go unchecked, and she wasn’t foolish enough to make herself a target.

Grace traced a finger along the armrest on the patrol car door and stared at the house. The house that had once been her grandmother’s hunkered in the winter night like a monstrosity from her past.

“Really?” Grace shifted to face Captain Gates, astonishment etched on his handsome features. “You get a note to meet at the gas station. No one shows up to talk to you, then a truck nearly pins you between the car and the pump. You don’t see the connection?”

“Now that you put it that way.” Grace tended to use humor to deflect. Had she really been that obtuse? No, she had simply shoved the obvious to the back of her mind. She tended to be single-minded in her focus, and she certainly wasn’t going to allow some jerk to deter her from the story. She’d have to be more cautious, that was all.

“This is serious,” the officer said.

Grace unfastened her seat belt. “I’ve dealt with far more dangerous situations covering stories all over the world. I can handle a punk in a truck. Besides, if he wanted to hurt me, he would have. His goal was to scare me.” She didn’t know who she was trying to convince.

“Did he?”

“No, don’t be ridiculous. I mean, I’m not too happy about what happened tonight, but I’m not going anywhere.” She scratched her head under the edge of her winter hat. “I can’t imagine why he wanted to scare me in the first place. I’m trying to get more details about the party the night of the fatal accident. Readers will be fascinated to learn that Amish teens have the same issues as everyone else.”

“Who have you spoken to already?” The officer shifted, and the seat creaked under his weight. She lifted her legs a fraction from the seat, the dampness adding to her ill temper. She didn’t need to be a deputy to follow his train of thought. Someone in Quail Hollow wanted to put an end to her investigation.

“Bishop Yoder wasn’t helpful when I tried to talk to him about the party. He assured me that anyone caught acting in an inappropriate manner would be dealt with accordingly. Then he shooed me along like I was some unwanted flu bug.”

“The Amish prefer to live separate. They’re not going to be receptive to anyone shining a light on something negative like this. Law enforcement and the Amish have a tenuous relationship, too. They deal with us only if they have to. That’s why, when a journalist comes snooping around, it makes our job harder because the Amish shut down.”

“I’m not snooping around.” Grace resented the accusation. “I don’t force anyone to talk to me if they don’t want to. I ask questions. They either answer or they don’t.” She preferred when they did, of course. “I also stopped by the victim’s house,” she continued, laying out the names of all the people she had already tried to talk to.

“Katy Weaver?”

“Yes, her brother answered the door and asked me to leave. Out of respect, I did.”

“Have you tracked down any of the teenagers from town who were at the party?” His tone changed subtly to one of genuine interest.

“Not yet. Any teenagers I’ve met claimed they weren’t there. I had hoped maybe tonight, after getting that note, I’d find out more information.” She wrapped her chapped fingers around the door handle on the passenger side of the patrol car. “Listen, my pants are soaked. I’m freezing. I need to go inside.”

Captain Gates pushed open his door, and the dome light popped on. She shot a glance over her shoulder at him. “You don’t have to walk me to the door. I’m fine.”

“You’re not getting off that easy.” His deep voice rumbled through her. Despite her frustration with the sheriff’s department thus far, she wasn’t sorry Captain Gates was going to escort her to the door. The surroundings were pitch dark in a way that can only happen in the country, far from civilization and light pollution. The memory of the truck barreling toward her flashed in her mind, and renewed dread sprinted up her spine.

The officer’s hand hovered by the small of her back, and the snow crunched under their boots as they crossed the yard. Grace dug out the keys to the bed & breakfast and unlocked the back door leading into a mudroom adjacent to the kitchen. She turned around in the small, dark space to thank him, and was caught off guard when he stepped into the mudroom behind her.

She cleared her throat, debating if she should ask him to leave. “Thank you for the ride home. I’m really tired. I need—”

“Turn on a few lights. Change into dry clothes. We need to talk.”

* * *

Conner made sure the windows and doors were secure on the first floor of the bed & breakfast. After he checked the last window, he turned around, surprised to find Grace watching him from the bottom stair with a determined look on her face. “I’ll be fine. My sister has an alarm system.”

It made sense. Heather Miller, Grace’s sister, had been the target of a vicious stalker almost two years ago. Her ex-husband had escaped prison and found his way to Quail Hollow, where his former wife had hoped to start a new life. Thankfully, U.S. Marshal Zachary Walker had protected her, and duty had turned to love. Now the two of them were on their honeymoon. He wished them all the best. They seemed like a nice couple. He only hoped the challenges of a career in law enforcement didn’t wreak havoc on their marriage like it had on his parents’.

He cleared his throat. “Can’t hurt to check to make sure everything is locked up.”

“Was it, Captain?” He detected a hint of sarcasm in her tone.

He lifted an eyebrow and couldn’t hide his smile. Her cheeks were rosy from the weather. She stared back at him blankly. He could tell she was humoring him.

“Yes, everything was secure. Yet I don’t like the idea of you out here all alone.”

Grace’s lips parted. “You’re kidding me, right? Would you say that to a guy?” She glared at him, skepticism shining in her eyes. “I’m more than capable of taking care of myself. I don’t need some big, strong law enforcement officer to protect me,” she said in a singsong voice.

Conner had to consciously will the smile from his face, not wanting to stoke the flames of her anger. “I didn’t mean to offend you. My job is to keep the residents of Quail Hollow safe. All of its residents, regardless of gender.”

Grace dipped her head and ran a hand across her neck. She had twisted her long brown hair into a messy bun at the back of her head. She had also changed into gray sweatpants and a sweatshirt with the name of a university emblazoned across the front. He remembered the story his father had told him about how Grace’s father had taken his three young daughters away from Quail Hollow after their mother was murdered. How different their lives had turned out. Grace would have never gone to college if she had been baptized into the Amish community. She’d probably be married with a few kids by now.

He shook his head, dismissing the image. “Are you warming up?”

“Yeah, let me throw another log into the woodstove. You said we needed to talk.”

“Yeah.” She opened the door and tossed in another log. The orange embers scattered and a new flame sparked to life. He feared if he offered to help her, she might bite his head off. She seemed the independent sort.

“How old were you when you moved away from Quail Hollow?”

She grabbed a second log and tossed it in. “Three,” she said, without questioning how he knew her background. That seemed par for the course in Quail Hollow, especially since he knew her sister. Grace straightened with her back to him.

“My dad was the sheriff when your mother...” He scrubbed a hand across his face. As hardened as he had become over the years, this felt too personal to casually toss out the word murdered.

Grace slowly turned around. “I didn’t know that. I haven’t done much research on my mom’s death.” She frowned. “I only have vague recollections of her. My memories are a blend of my own and stories told by my oldest sister, Heather. She was six when my mom died.” Then she seemed to mentally shake herself and held out her hand to one of the wooden rocking chairs in front of the wood-burning stove. “Have a seat. What did you want to talk about?”

“What is the focus of the story you’re working on? Why were you meeting someone at the gas station?”

She slowly sat in the rocker next to his and unwound and rewound the fastener in her hair, as if stalling. The skeptic in him wondered if she’d tell him the truth.

She stopped fidgeting with her hair, placed her hands in her lap and angled her body toward him. “My editor asked me to cover the underage party and the fatal accident. The image of buggies lined up and police arresting the underage Amish drinkers has been splashed all over the news. My editor thought it made a fantastic visual. Like two eras intersecting.” She held up her fingers in a square, framing the perfect shot. “Since I was already here recuperating from my surgery—” she shrugged “—it made sense for me to do a more in-depth story.”

“Your surgery?” Then he remembered their conversation at the gas station. “Your appendectomy.”

“Yes.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “I’m fine. I’m still hanging around as a favor to my sister, keeping an eye on the bed & breakfast.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of the rocking chair, deciding how to phrase his next question. “Did you ever think you’d have a much bigger story if you covered your mother’s murder?”

She closed her eyes and tipped her head back on the chair. “I don’t want to dig into that case. I like to keep my personal and professional lives separate.” She opened her eyes and leaned forward. “Besides, that’s old news.” The haunted look in her eyes suggested otherwise.

Conner tapped his fist lightly on the arm of the rocker. The heat from the stove warmed his skin. “The case still haunts my dad.”

Grace let out an awkward laugh, as if to say, “Yeah, it haunts me, too.”

“I could set up an interview with him if you’d like. It doesn’t mean you have to do the story. Maybe it’d provide some answers.” He wrapped one hand around the other fisted hand and squeezed. “Truth be told, it might do my father some good to see that you turned out all right.” His father often talked about the tormented look in the eyes of the three young Amish girls.

“Has your father ever talked to Heather?”

Conner shook his head. “From what I gather, she’s forgiven the person who murdered your mom and has moved on. I’m guessing that’s not the case with you.” He wanted to ask about the youngest sister, but couldn’t recall her name.

She shook her head quickly, but he wasn’t sure what question she was answering. “My assignment is to write a story on the youth of Quail Hollow. The Amish. The drinking. The accident. Not something that happened almost thirty years ago.” There was a tightness to her voice. “I hope you can understand, Captain Gates.”

“Please, call me Conner. Otherwise I feel like we’re in an interrogation room.” He leaned forward and added, “I don’t mean to add to your pain.”

Grace smiled tightly. “No, not at all. That was a lifetime ago.” She was obviously downplaying her emotions, and he regretted bringing up her mother’s murder. No one ever got over losing their mother at such a young age. He still struggled with losing his mom, and she was still alive. After his parents got divorced, she married someone else and seemed perfectly content with her replacement family, never bothering to return to Quail Hollow.

He felt a quiet connection to this woman. Perhaps it was from remembering the impact her mother’s murder had had on the entire community. Perhaps from the pain radiating from her eyes. He understood pain.

“I’m going to lay it on the line. I don’t want you covering the story because Jason Klein, the young man killed in the accident, is—was—my cousin’s son.”

She sat back and squared her shoulders. “Oh... I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“My cousin and I were like brothers. When Ben, Jason’s father, was deployed with the army last year, he asked me to keep an eye on his son. A teenager needs a male role model, you know? Anyway, Ben was killed in a helicopter crash.”

Grace seemed to stifle a gasp. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” Conner paused a moment, not trusting his voice. “Turns out, I did a lousy job of looking after his son.”

“Kids make their own choices. It’s not your fault.”

“I don’t want this one night—this one stupid, stupid decision—to be what Jason’s forever remembered for. I need you to kill this story.”

* * *

Grace slumped in the rocking chair and pulled her sweatshirt sleeves down over her hands, feeling like someone had punched her in the gut. “Wow, I’m sorry, but—” she bit her lip, considering her options “—I have to do this story. It’s my job. I can’t afford to lose my job.”

Conner stared straight ahead at the woodstove, the flames visible through slots in the door. A muscle worked in his jaw.

“It’s my livelihood. I’ve already begun posting little teasers on my blog about the story. If I don’t follow through, it’ll look bad.” The words poured from her mouth, as if she were trying to convince them both that writing this story was the right thing to do.

When Conner didn’t respond, she added, “I’m sorry for your loss, but what about the Amish girl in the hospital? Who gives her a voice? She’s innocent in all this.” Grace tempered her response out of respect for his loss.

“My cousin’s wife, Anna, is having a terrible time with all this. She lost her husband and now her son. Jason was a good kid who made a horrible decision. More publicity only adds to the pain.”

“He hadn’t been involved with alcohol or drugs before that night?” Grace found her journalistic instincts piqued.

“Off the record?” Conner met her gaze.

“Yeah.”

“A couple weeks before his death, Jason had a few friends over for a bonfire at his house after a big football game. Anna called me, worried that there might be some drinking going on. So I showed up, drove some guys home and Jason dealt with some blowback from that night. Apparently drinking is grounds for suspension from the football team. The star quarterback was one of the guys suspended. They’re a pretty tight group. They weathered the storm and moved on. Kids make mistakes. Most importantly, no one was hurt that night. Anyway...”

The story angles swirled in Grace’s head, making her dizzy. Was she really this insensitive? A good story above all else?

“Jason swore to me he wasn’t drinking at his bonfire. That the other guys brought the alcohol. I had no reason not to believe him. I gave him the riot act, anyway. I thought that’d be enough.” The inflection in his voice spoke of his pain far more than his words. Yelling at his cousin’s son for hosting a drinking party wasn’t enough to stop him from being killed a few weeks later in an accident where he was impaired.

“How do you explain the drugs in his system the night of the crash?” she asked hesitantly.

“I can’t.” Conner pushed up from his rocker and began to pace the small space in front of the stove. “He made a mistake. Must have taken something he didn’t know how to handle. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t a good kid.”

“This isn’t about good kids and bad kids. It’s about making decisions and suffering the consequences. Maybe some other kid will read the story and think twice before experimenting with drugs or alcohol. Perhaps the fact that he was a good kid will make a stronger impression. Show that it only takes one time.” Grace stood and folded her arms across her chest. Heat pumped from the stove, but it barely touched the chill in her bones.

“I’m sorry about your loss,” she continued, “but I’m sure the young Amish girl is a good kid, too.” The fact that she had just met this man stopped her from reaching out, touching his arm, offering him comfort. “I hope you understand that I have a job to do.”

He stopped pacing and stared down at her. “You realize, besides causing Jason’s mother tremendous pain, you’re also making it exceedingly difficult for the sheriff’s department to find out who provided the drugs the night of the party?”

Offended, Grace jerked her head back. “How?”

“The more you go digging around, the harder you’re making it for law enforcement to do the same. The Amish don’t like to be in the spotlight.”

“Maybe I provided you a lead tonight. Go find the truck that rammed my sister’s car. Then you’ll find someone who has something to hide.”

“Trust me, we’ll be working that angle. Meanwhile, I need you to stay put.”

“Don’t tell me to stay put.” Anger surged hot and fiery in her veins. She didn’t take commands from anyone, certainly not a man she had just met.

“I can’t keep saving you if you’re being reckless.”

“I hardly think pumping gas is being reckless.”

Conner held up his hand, then backed up. “Good night. Set the alarm when I leave.” He pulled a business card from his pocket. “Here’s my cell phone number. I’ll respond quicker than a 9-1-1 call from a cell. Sometimes those calls are routed through a few substations before they can find the origin.”

“If you’re trying to scare me, you’re not.”

He set the card down on the table and looked at her intently. “I’m not trying to scare you. You need to understand how things are. Good night,” he added tersely, turning to leave.

She stomped to the back door and turned the lock behind him. An ache in her hip from her heroic dive earlier this evening joined the dull pain from her appendectomy surgery.

The memory of the truck barreling toward her came to mind. She entered the alarm code and hit On, convincing herself she was safe. She had pursued far more dangerous stories in far scarier parts of the world. She wasn’t afraid of some teenager in a souped-up truck, if indeed the accident at the gas station had been intentional.

She returned to the sitting room and slipped her laptop out of the case resting against her sister’s fancy rolltop desk. She logged on to her blog, the one the editor encouraged her to keep updated. Since he was the one who assigned the stories, it was in her best interest to keep him happy.

“It gets the readers excited,” he’d told her more than once.

She focused her thoughts, her fingers hovering motionless over the keyboard. The hurt and betrayal in Conner’s eyes would haunt her. The dead boy had been his family. His responsibility.

The young man had made a horrible error in judgment that put a young Amish girl in a coma. People had to take responsibility for their actions.

No one had ever taken responsibility for her mother’s murder.

She considered all the hurt and deceit in her life. Her mother’s murder. Her sister’s violent husband. People weren’t always who they seemed to be. She had to shed light on the evil of the world. Give victims a voice.

This was her job. Her editor expected her to write the story.

She clicked New Post and started to type:

The idyllic countryside is dotted with picturesque farmhouses and barns. The Amish people wear conservative clothing and use horses for transportation, as if living in another era. Yet the world changes around them at a dizzying speed.

Alcohol. Drugs. And other evils.

The Amish choose to live an insular life with porous borders that provide no barrier at all. They are warned to live separate from the world.

But, apparently, no one told the outsiders, for they have found a way in.

Grace drummed her fingers on the edge of the keypad and reread her words. Too dramatic?

She closed her eyes and tried to remember her mother’s face. It was hazy, the memory of a three-year-old little girl.

Her mother had been murdered and no one had paid for the crime. Justice had never been served. Were the answers still out there? Was it really too late? What could it hurt to talk to the sheriff at the time of her mother’s death? Could she still ask Captain Gates to set up a meeting with his father? She hadn’t been very sympathetic to his family’s plight when he asked her not to write about Jason.

Conner must think she was as cold as the winter winds slamming the outside walls of the Quail Hollow Bed & Breakfast. Nerves tangled in her stomach, and she made one more check of the alarm.

All set.

She wandered back to the seating area and stared over the yard. In the window, her weary reflection peered back at her. A chill raced down her spine.

She backed away from the window, unable to shake the sensation that she wasn’t alone.