Plain Jeopardy

by Alison Stone

  “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.

  THREE

  Late 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 midd
le 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.”