Читать книгу Plain Jeopardy - Alison Stone - Страница 15
ОглавлениеLate the next afternoon, after completing his shift, Conner strode around to the passenger side of his personal vehicle and opened the door for Grace. She had called him early that morning to see if the offer to talk to his father was still on the table. Conner considered this a good sign. Maybe they’d work out something mutually beneficial for both of them. She could get information on her mother’s murder, and maybe she’d back off Jason’s story.
When Grace didn’t immediately unbuckle her seat belt, he asked, “Is something wrong?”
“Are you sure your dad’s up for talking to me?”
“Yeah, come on. I called him earlier.” He held out his hand, and she finally unbuckled her seat belt and slid out of the truck without taking it. “He generally doesn’t like to discuss this case with outsiders, but that’s not the situation here.” Conner paused, not wanting to say that his father had always had a soft spot for the three little girls that Sarah Miller had left behind when she was brutally murdered. “He’s willing to talk to one of Sarah’s daughters.
“Besides—” he yanked open the back door and grabbed the takeout bags “—he’s always up for food.”
Grace held her scarf close to her neck as they walked up the pathway cleared of snow. Conner suspected his father had shoveled the flakes before they had a chance to hit the ground, whereas Conner preferred to put his four-wheel-drive truck to work each winter, creating two deep tracks in his long driveway. No shovel required. It was an ongoing joke between the two men.
“Watch out for the ice on the steps.” The salt hadn’t kept up with the sun-kissed icicles dripping from the overhang. He reached out for her elbow. She moved to the side and grabbed the railing instead.
“Any leads on the truck involved in the hit-and-run last night?” she asked.
“No, nothing on the surveillance video. But that was to be expected since it was positioned at the register and the driver never came into the store. All the officers know to look for a pickup with rear-end damage. If anyone tries to bring a truck in for repairs within a hundred-mile radius, we’ll be notified.”
Grace glanced up at him. “Why was it you answered the call last night when you obviously work the day shift?”
Conner smiled. “It’s a small town. I was filling in for another officer who requested off.”
She nodded.
“I’ve also—” The door swung open, stopping Conner midsentence. His father must have been waiting on the other side for their arrival. “Hey, Dad.”
“Son.” The former sheriff stepped back into the foyer, allowing him and Grace to enter. His father took the takeout bag from his son before grabbing their coats with his other hand. He shuffled off to the first-floor bedroom where he undoubtedly placed the coats on the king-size bed, like Conner’s mother used to do when they entertained when he was a little boy. It baffled Conner that, even after twenty-some years, the memory of his mother’s habits made him miss her like the day she had left.
Time had passed. The Miller case had grown cold. His father retired. Yet his mother never returned, having found happiness with a nice engineer with regular hours and little chance of getting shot on the job. Apparently, the replacement kids meant she didn’t miss the one she had left behind in Quail Hollow.
“Oh, something smells good.” His father’s voice snapped Conner out of his dark thoughts.
“Yeah, I picked up a few burgers from the diner,” Conner said.
His father nodded. “This must be—”
“Grace Miller,” Conner jumped in. “This is my father, Harry Gates.”
His father narrowed his eyes, and a frown slanted his mouth. “If my memory serves me correctly, the Miller girls were Heather, Lily and Rose. Not Grace.”
Conner watched Grace, wondering what that was all about. His memory had been a little hazy on the girls’ names, but he hadn’t given it much thought because she was staying at Heather’s bed & breakfast. And the striking resemblance to her mother...
Had this woman deceived him?
Conner was starting to feel protective of his father when she finally spoke up. “I’m Lily. Lily Grace. I started going by my middle name when I went away to college.” She smiled ruefully. “I wanted to put distance between my name and the tragedy that shaped my life.”
“Seems reasonable,” his father said without much ceremony. His father’s career and failed marriage had hardened him. What little sentimentality that remained belonged to the family of Sarah Miller. The family he had let down.
“Regardless of the name, there’s no doubt you’re your mother’s daughter. You have the same face.” His father tipped his head. “However, she was Amish and you’re—” he scanned her modern clothes and gave her a crooked smile “—obviously not. Do you see the resemblance yourself?”
“I only have a vague memory of my mom. The Amish don’t allow photos, so I can only rely on my memories. I was only three when she died.”
His dad held up his hand. “Of course. You were very young. Such a tragic thing. It’s going on thirty years, isn’t it?”
“Getting there. A lifetime ago.” Conner detected a vulnerability in Grace that had been lacking last night when she was focused on his cousin’s story. Perhaps she had been wise to keep her professional and personal lives separate.
Conner caught Grace’s gaze briefly before his father invited them farther into the house. When they reached the dining room, Conner was surprised to see retired Undersheriff Kevin Schrock sitting at the table, his chair angled to keep an eye on some TV program with a guy haggling to buy some other guy’s stuff. The big-screen TV dominated the adjacent family room. Kevin stood when they entered, and his dad was the first to speak. “I invited Kevin over. Kevin, this is Lil...Grace Miller. Grace, this is Kevin Schrock. He was one of the key investigators in your mother’s case.”
Grace shook his hand. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”
Kevin studied Grace’s face, probably seeing the same thing that Conner’s father saw: the likeness to the woman whose murder they had never been able to solve.
His father peered into the paper bag with blossoming grease stains on the bottom and sides. “Any chance you have an extra burger in here?”
“Of course.” Conner pulled out a chair for Grace to sit down. “Plenty of food for everyone.” He smiled at Kevin. “Nice to see you.”
“Same here.” Kevin picked up the remote sitting on the table in front of him and muted the TV program. He shifted in his chair to face Grace. “Boy, you certainly don’t look like the little girl who left Quail Hollow in an Amish bonnet and bare feet.”
Conner shot Kevin a stern look. These old-timers got directly to the point.
“I suppose not,” Grace said softly.
“You’ve come back to find answers?” Kevin pressed, seemingly intrigued.
“That wasn’t my intention. Not initially. I was staying at my sister’s bed & breakfast for other reasons, and then my editor asked me to write a story regarding the underage drinking party involving both the Amish and the townies.”
His father muttered something he couldn’t make out, anger blazing in his eyes. He cleared his throat and finally spoke. “I’m sure my son told you that Jason Klein, the boy killed in the crash that night, was family.”
Grace swallowed hard. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
His father’s expression grew pinched, and he faced Conner. “She’s a journalist? I hadn’t realized that.”
“She wants to know about her mom.”
Resting his elbows on the table, his father leaned forward. “If your motive is to drag poor Jason’s name through the mud...” He shook his head. “Jason’s mother has been through enough, hasn’t she? First losing her husband in a horrible helicopter crash, now her son.”
“That’s not my intention, sir.” Grace moved to sit on the edge of her seat. “I like to shed light on untold stories. I’m sure people would be fascinated to learn of the—” she seemed to be choosing her words carefully “—things that go on in an Amish community beyond farming and cross-stitch.”
“You really did move away from here young.” Kevin folded his arms, a self-satisfied look on his face. “The Amish do far more than farm and needlework.”
Grace tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t identify with the Amish at all. My father raised us in Buffalo. Please forgive me if I find this story fascinating. Others will, too. I’m sure of it.”
“Oh, people will find it interesting,” his father said. “They were all over your mother’s murder, too.”
Grace’s face burned red, and uncertainty glistened in her eyes.
“Dad!” Conner scolded him. “Grace came here to talk, not to be put on the spot.” Conner suspected his father’s blunt comment was a result of wanting to protect Jason, his great-nephew.
“After your mother’s murder, a young reporter thought she’d make a name for herself and wrote story after story about the Miller murder for the Quail Hollow Gazette. She inserted herself to the point that the Amish wouldn’t talk to anyone anymore, not even law enforcement.” His father fisted his hands in his lap, his anger evidently directed at a long-ago slight, not at the need to protect Jason. “The journalist was a huge detriment to our investigation.”
“You never told me that.” Conner studied his father’s face. A vein throbbed at the elderly man’s temple, his ire still palpable. His father had pored over paperwork and reports at the kitchen table long after the town had written Sarah Miller’s death off to a tragic and random encounter with a stranger passing through town. Yet they had never been able to prove it.
Conner himself had never felt the need to read the newspaper accounts because the case had taken over his young life, leaving his father obsessed and his mother absent. Now, as a law enforcement officer, he understood the delicate relationship with reporters and with the Amish. He had recently tried to mind this relationship when he’d asked Grace to stop asking questions about the night Jason was killed.
“People would say my accusations regarding the reporter were only conjecture on my part,” his father continued. “That I needed to take responsibility for not handling the investigation. That I was the only one responsible for not finding the murderer.”
“My intention wasn’t to upset you.” Grace pushed back from her chair, stood and smiled sympathetically. “I’m sorry, sir. I was under the impression that your son had told you I was coming.”
“He did. But I thought I’d be talking to Sarah Miller’s daughter. Not a journalist.”
* * *
“Please, sit down.” Conner gently touched Grace’s wrist and they locked gazes. He gave her a quick nod as if to say, “It’s okay. Please stay.” Trusting him, she sat down. If she hoped to learn anything about her mom, she didn’t see that she had much of a choice.
She glanced over at the undersheriff. Tingles of awareness prickled her skin from the retired officer’s intense focus. She hadn’t realized she’d be ambushed when she arrived here.
“I’m sorry you had a bad experience with a reporter. I have no intention of making anyone look bad.” Her only motivation was to reveal the truth. Let the rest of the chips fall where they may.
The retired sheriff grumbled under his breath, perhaps understanding more than most how these things worked.
Grace picked up a French fry and distractedly dipped it into the glob of ketchup she had squirted onto her paper plate. “I understand you put a lot of time into my mother’s case. Why was this one more difficult than most?” She knew from her journalism career that all cases weren’t neatly wrapped up.
Conner’s father folded the corner of the takeout wrapper from his hamburger. “Murder is rare in Quail Hollow. Some might say I was out of my depth. I worked that case harder than I’d ever worked anything before. Or since.” There was a faraway quality to his voice. “The best lead we had was a man who had been traveling through town. Eventually, we tracked him down, but he had a solid alibi. Rumors cropped up that there was another stranger in town. The locals needed to believe it was an outsider. It grew harder and harder to separate fact from fiction. But that’s where we still are all these years later. A vagrant passing through town killed Sarah Miller.”
“Were there any other suspects?”
The two retired law enforcement officers exchanged a subtle glance that she might have missed if she hadn’t been so observant. A heaviness weighed on her chest, making the room feel close. When neither of them answered, she pressed, “What aren’t you telling me?” A cold pool of dread formed in the pit of her stomach. “What?”
Kevin drummed his fingers on the table. She guessed it was a nervous habit. “In a murder investigation, the person closest to the victim is usually investigated.”
She tossed aside the French fry and wiped her hands on a napkin. “That’s not unusual.” She shrugged, trying to act casual when her insides were rioting. Her sweet father. Her mother’s murder had destroyed him. “You cleared my father and then moved on to this stranger passing through Quail Hollow.” Her gaze shifted between the two men. Holding her breath, she waited for reassurance. Of course they’d cleared her father. Hadn’t they?
Kevin finished chewing a bite of his burger and swallowed. “Your father moved out of town before we could one hundred percent clear him.”
“Well, that’s only partially true.” Harry leaned forward and gave her a reassuring smile. “I knew your father a bit from town before your mother’s murder. Your father and mother used to sell corn at the farmers market on the weekends. He was a friendly man. Talkative. You girls were his little helpers. After your mother’s murder, he shut down. Her death broke him.” He pressed his lips together. “Even though we never officially cleared him, my gut told me that he could never have hurt Sarah. Never.”
A lump of emotion clogged her throat. “Thank you.” She averted her gaze, fearing she’d lose it if she didn’t. This was the price of looking into her family’s story, the reason she had avoided it all these years. The reason she’d probably leave here today and forget she ever came.
“What else can you tell Grace about the time surrounding her mother’s death?” Conner asked the question Grace was now afraid to, because she was uncertain she could afford the emotional toll.
“The night Sarah disappeared, she had taken the horse and wagon into town to drop off a few pies. She had sold them to the diner. She left you girls home with your grandmother. A few people noticed her in town, but didn’t see anything or anyone suspicious. She never came home.”
She never came home.
Pinpricks of dread washed over Grace’s scalp as if she were reliving her mother’s last moments. She had vague memories of hanging out at the farmers market. Maybe the memories had been dreams, yet the images were vivid: the long dresses of the Amish women, the farmers’ work boots and the fancy shoes of the Englisch. The occasional dog would lick her sticky fingers after she devoured a piece of apple strudel. The farmers’ market was the highlight of the week. She figured the only reason she had those memories was because of how quickly her life had changed.
Amish to outsider.
Before versus after.
Conner’s father glanced over at his former coworker. “Anything else to add?”
“No. Not really. It was a shame we never found the guilty party. It was like he vanished into the night.”
“You mentioned a reporter at the time...” Grace watched the former sheriff flinch.
“Yeah,” Harry said. “She worked for the now-defunct Quail Hollow Gazette. She was like a dog with a bone. Relentless.”
“Do you know if she still lives in Quail Hollow?” Grace asked, hope blossoming. Another piece of the puzzle.
Can I really do this?
Kevin leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Can’t be sure. I believe she had some health issues and moved away to live with her daughter down south. Away from this cold.”
“I imagine they have her articles on file at the library,” Grace said, thinking out loud. “Maybe I’ll do some digging.”
After they finished eating, Grace and Conner carried the paper plates and glasses into the kitchen. Grace leaned on the counter while Conner put the glasses in the dishwasher. “I’m not sure I’m ready to look into my mother’s murder.”
Conner slowly closed the dishwasher door and turned to face her. “Your mother’s sudden death had to be really tough on you. Leaving this community must have made it that much harder.”
“I often wondered how my life would have been if I had grown up Amish. I look at the Amish men and women in town and try to imagine the path not taken. Sometimes I wonder if this was all part of God’s bigger plan.” Heat crept up her face. “Don’t get me wrong—I’d do anything to have my mom back. Yet no one could have predicted how her death changed everything about my life. Not all of it bad.” She slowly ran a hand through her hair. “That sounds horrible, doesn’t it?”
“No, life’s twists and turns are hard to understand sometimes.” He took a step closer to her, and she didn’t move. “But some tragedies don’t have any redeeming qualities.”
“You’re talking about Jason’s death.”
He nodded, a flash of hurt in his eyes. “I’m asking you not to continue to write about the death of my cousin’s son. It’s hard for our family, especially his mom. She lost her son and her husband in the course of a year. She’s spiraling out of control. She’s distraught.”
A knot twisted in Grace’s stomach. “I’m sympathetic. I really am, but you can’t compare the two cases. Jason drove under the influence. He made a choice.” She shifted away from the counter and glanced out the back window overlooking the snow-covered yard. The evening light was about to fade. “This is my job.” Grace wondered how many times they’d go round and round on this topic.
“Everyone has a job to do.” Grace spun around to find Kevin Schrock resting his shoulder on the doorway of the kitchen. “And sometimes it’s best not to mix business with personal.” How long had he been eavesdropping?
Kevin seemed unfazed that he had interrupted their private conversation. “His dad allowed your mother’s case to get to him. Ruined his marriage.” He pushed off the doorway and strolled into the room. “You have to trust your gut on these things. If you don’t think you can live with what you find, maybe it’s a story better left untold.”
Grace stared at him, wondering which story he thought was better left untold.
* * *
A few days later, since her sister’s car was still in the collision shop, Grace called the number for a car service in town. The Amish often hired drivers to get them from place to place when taking a horse and buggy wasn’t feasible. The local district’s Ordnung allowed the Amish to ride in the vans, but they couldn’t own cars or drive themselves.
The driver, an older gentleman, dropped Grace off at the local library and promised to return in one hour to bring her home. Grace climbed out of the van and smiled at an Amish woman hustling past with three young daughters in tow. The thick fabric of their bonnets kept their heads warm. Their long dresses poked out from under black coats. The fabric brushed the edge of the shoveled walkway, collecting clumps of snow. Nostalgia pricked the back of Grace’s eyes. Another generation ago, that could have been her and her sisters.
Grace held her collar closed and strode toward the main entry of the quaint library. Ever since retired Sheriff Gates had mentioned the articles in the Quail Hollow Gazette about her mother’s murder, Grace couldn’t get them off her mind. She tried Googling and using some of her research tools to find the articles online, but came up empty. At first, Grace took it as a sign that she needed to let the past stay in the past.
Her initial curiosity had been followed by a restless night and a growing determination that hollowed out the pit of her stomach. Grace hadn’t become a top-notch reporter by allowing a dead end to stop her.
After alternating between “let it go” and “just read the articles already,” she decided only the latter would allow her to move on. Besides, there couldn’t be much to go on in the articles since no one had ever been arrested. Grace needed to squelch her obsessive curiosity, a quality that usually served her well.
She carefully made her way up the salt-covered walkway. She entered the library and drew in a deep breath. The smell of books filled her nose. Something felt familiar. Grace had always loved to read, and she wondered if perhaps her mom had brought her here. Instilled in her a love of reading.
Or maybe that had come later, growing up in Buffalo.
Grace approached the librarian. “Where can I find articles from the Quail Hollow Gazette?”
“Oh, the Gazette went under—” she hesitated, giving it some thought “—fifteen years ago.”
“Do you have copies of the paper from the 1990s?” Grace didn’t want to tell the librarian exactly what she was looking for because she didn’t want to invite questions.
“We have clippings of the more important articles from the paper filed chronologically in the basement.” The librarian emphasized the word basement, apparently trying to dissuade her.
“Is the basement open for patrons to do research?”
The librarian planted her hands on the desk and pushed to her feet. “Um, Linnie, I’m going to show this woman where the archives are in the basement,” she said to her colleague, also behind the desk.
“Thank you,” Grace said, hoping her gratitude would make the woman feel like her trouble was worth it. She had met all kinds during her travels, from those eager to tell her their life story, to those who seemed bothered by the idea of doing their job. Yet in Grace’s experience, whatever her reception, she chose to be pleasant. It proved to be disarming—most of the time.
The librarian muttered something as she led Grace down a back hall marked with an overhead exit sign. She moved surprisingly quickly despite her short, choppy steps and the narrow purple dress she wore. She stopped at a door before the emergency exit. With the key on a lanyard around her neck, the librarian unlocked the door, reached in and flipped on the lights. “I’ll show you the files, and then I have to get back upstairs to help Linnie. The library gets busy in the afternoon with all our after-school programs.” She squared her shoulders with a sense of pride.
“That’s fine.” Grace preferred to do her research without anyone standing over her shoulder, anyway.
The fluorescent lights buzzed to life in the basement. The librarian led her down the stairs, past a row of shelves stacked with books with identical bindings to a series of gray filing cabinets along a cement wall. The librarian planted her hand on the top of the cabinet, then pulled it away and swiped her hands together. “It’s a little dusty down here. Most libraries have this information on microfiche or digital but, well, we don’t have the budget for that.”
“I understand.” Grace hoped her cheery yet sympathetic tone was effective. She didn’t know how long she’d be here or if she’d need to come back, and she wanted the librarian on her side.
The woman clasped her hands in front of her. “What dates are you looking for?”
The filing cabinets were neatly labeled with month, day and year ranges. As long as the newspaper clippings were filed correctly according to date, she’d be able to search the articles at the time of her mother’s murder. She touched the handle of the closest cabinet. “I see the files are labeled. I’ll be fine.”
“Well—” the woman pursed her lips “—don’t refile anything. Place any files you pull out on the desk over there. I’ll refile them at a later date. Because if you don’t put them in the right spot—”
“No one will ever be able to find the article they’re looking for in the future.”
The woman leaned back on her heels, apparently satisfied. “When you’re done, let me know. I’ll be at the information desk upstairs.”
“Thank you.” Grace watched the librarian walk down the narrow aisle, the bookshelves lining one side and the filing cabinets the other, her heels clacking on the cement floor. The librarian disappeared around the corner, and Grace waited until she heard the basement door click shut.
Finally alone, Grace ran her fingers along the labels on the drawers and stopped on October of that fateful year. Her knees grew weak, and a darkness crowded the periphery of her vision. Was she about to open Pandora’s box?
Should she or shouldn’t she?
Drawing in a deep breath, she slid open the first cabinet drawer. She’d come this far. She’d check out a few articles, that’s all. Inside the drawer, manila folders were labeled with exact dates. She slid out the folders from a few days before to a few weeks after her mother’s body was found. She carried the stack to a desk at the far end of the aisle, pulled out a chair and sat. She squinted up at the flickering overhead lights, wishing there was a desk lamp. Not many people must use the basement.
She opened the folder dated the day after her mother’s body had been found.
Amish Woman Found Dead.
Her mother’s life had been reduced to a four-word headline. No name. Simply “Amish Woman.”
The black words on the yellowed paper swam in her field of vision. Blinking, she traced the letters, as if it provided a connection to her mother.
As she slowly read the article, she imagined the writer, fingers flying over the keyboard, jazzed to write about something more substantial than cows escaping through broken fences. A quiver rippled through her stomach. Was she any different?
She shook the thought away and focused on the article. It didn’t provide any significant information that she hadn’t already known. Her mother had gone into town to sell pies. The waitress oozed with pleasantries on how wonderful a person Mrs. Miller had been and then digressed into the usual platitudes: what an awful tragedy, her poor daughters, how had someone dumped her body in the family barn without being seen? It was almost too much to read.
Breathing slowly through her nose, Grace tried to calm her nerves. She pulled out another article and squinted at the black-and-white photo taken from a distance. Was that her with her father and sisters? The hairs on her arms prickled to life. Her grandma’s house—the site of her sister’s bed & breakfast before it had been updated—stood in the background. She recognized the tree out front and the porch. Emotions she wasn’t ready to explore coursed through her.
The buzzing and winking of the yellow fluorescent lights threatened to trigger a migraine. She slid the files into her tote bag, convinced the lighting would be better upstairs. She went over to the cabinet to close the drawer when the lights went out.
Her heart nearly exploded out of her chest.
Just great.
Frozen in blackness, Grace called out, “Hello, I’m down here.”
The only response was the uneven sound of her breath.
“Hel-lo?” Her voice hitched. She didn’t dare move for fear she’d trip over something in the blackness.
A muffled shuffling sent terror pulsing through her veins. “Hello? Is someone else down here?” She slid along the cabinets, the handles jabbing her side.
Hope made her change direction. Her phone was in her bag on the desk. It had a flashlight app. Or she could call for help.
A rhythmic creaking filled her ears, made louder in the blackness.
What is that?
“I’m down here!” she hollered in desperation.
“I know you’re down here,” an unseen man whispered. Tiny pinpricks of fear blanketed her scalp. She slid closer to the desk, realizing whoever was here had intentionally turned off the lights. And was coming for her.
Her hand found her tote bag on the desk. She reached inside and found her phone. She feared pulling it out and revealing her location, but she needed help. She swallowed hard. Remain calm. You’ve been in far scarier situations. Her usual response to those who warned her that her investigation was going to get her into trouble didn’t seem to be doing her much good at this exact moment.
A loud, rhythmic creaking filled her ears. A groan of exertion cut through the blackness. She scrambled under the desk with her phone.
A loud crash exploded in her ears. A violent whoosh of air sent her hair flying off her face.
The bookshelves had crashed down around her, leaving her trapped underneath the desk.
