Plain Jeopardy

by Alison Stone

  Conner frowned. “Clue me in.”

  “Paul took a job in Buffalo last summer.”

  “Ah, that’s tough. Maybe the economy will pick up here soon.”

  She ran her hand down her fuzzy scarf. “Not sure it really matters.” He didn’t want to read more into that than he had to. Her marriage was none of his business. Right now, he needed to find out why her husband’s truck was parked on the Weavers’ property with damage consistent with a hit-and-run.

  “What’s going on?” Her gaze drifted to Grace.

  “Where’s Paul’s pickup?”

  “That heap of junk? Out in his workshop, I guess.” She paused a moment and stared at him. “What’s going on?”

  “We found a truck registered to your husband on the Weavers’ property.”

  “The family of that poor Amish girl who was in that horrible accident? I don’t understand.” She loosened the scarf from around her neck and pulled off her knit cap. Wisps of blond hair stood straight up from the static. “Come in.” She waved to them. “Charlie!” she hollered, clearly annoyed. “Get in here.” She smoothed her hair and glanced expectantly toward a short hallway. “Charlie!” she hollered again. “Now!”

  Then, turning toward her guests, “My son has a late start to school because his first two classes are free.” Conner smiled. At this exact moment, he wasn’t worried if Charlie was truant; he wanted to know if he had used his father’s truck.

  Muffled grumbling preceded a door opening. A young kid appeared, pulling a sweatshirt over his bare chest. “What, Mom? What’s wrong?” The teenager squinted at the three adults standing in the living room with the look of a person who had stepped out into the bright sun after an afternoon matinee.

  “Hi, Charlie,” Conner said. “I’m Captain Gates. This is Grace Miller. She was the woman nearly run down at the gas station the other night.” Conner was watching the young man’s expression carefully, but he took that exact moment to bend over and adjust his sock. Conner waited for him to straighten before continuing. “We found your father’s truck.”

  Charlie’s eyebrows scrunched up, and he shrugged. “Dad’s truck?” He turned slowly, still seemingly struggling to come out of a dream state. “Isn’t Dad’s truck in his workshop out back?”

  Conner was pretty good at reading people, and nothing about this kid screamed “liar.” The kid was on edge, however. Maybe he was hiding something.

  “Did you take out your dad’s truck?” his mother asked, frustration weighing heavily on her slumped shoulders. “Please don’t tell me you took his truck out and crashed it. I’ll never hear the end of it. You know how your father is.”

  “No way. I didn’t, Mom.”

  The kid was afraid of his father and wouldn’t borrow his truck, even if his dad had taken a job in Buffalo and hadn’t bothered to come home to know the difference.

  Charlie pushed back the hood of his sweatshirt and scrubbed his cropped hair. “I don’t understand. Where did you find the truck?” He turned to his mom. “I thought Dad had the Chevy?”

  “He does.”

  “Do you know Levi Weaver?” Conner asked.

  “The Amish kid?” He shrugged. “Yeah, I’ve met him around.” All the teenagers seemed to know all the other teens in town from “around.”

  “The truck was parked behind a run-down shed on their farm.” Conner let the back of his hand brush Grace’s, thankful she was allowing him to take the lead. She didn’t make any indication that she recognized the kid as the driver of the truck that smashed into her. That would have been a long shot, anyway.

  “How’d it get there?” Charlie’s entire face scrunched up, as if he were trying to remember the formula to a complicated math problem.

  “How many people knew the truck was parked in the workshop?” If someone knew Jenny’s husband had left town, they could have taken the truck easily. Someone could borrow it without worrying about it being missed, for a while, anyway.

  Charlie’s eyes widened. If he had remembered something, he quickly tried to hide it by lifting his fist to his mouth and coughing.

  “Did you remember something, Charlie?” Grace asked.

  The young man turned to his mother with a hangdog expression. This was obviously a kid used to working his mom over to get his way.

  “What is it, Charlie? Come on, spit it out.” His mother unzipped her coat while speaking in a slow, methodical manner, as if she had grown weary of being a single parent to a teenage boy.

  “It’s nothing,” he said through gritted teeth. Was he hoping his mother would “get it” without him saying whatever it was?

  His mother took a step forward and turned around to stand next to her son. She put a hand on his back, clearly indicating she was on his side no matter what happened. “Charlie’s a good kid. He has a scholarship to college this fall.” She had the look of a woman who had already lost too much. “Please, he’s on the right path. I don’t think he’d do anything to screw that up.” Conner wondered if this was wishful thinking on her part.

  “A scholarship. That’s great.” Conner smiled at the young man, wondering if perhaps Charlie had gotten in over his head on something and needed an ally to open up to. Conner had gone away to school thinking he wanted to escape his small-town roots, only to return and follow in his father’s footsteps. “What college are you going to?”

  “University at Buffalo.” The young man stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, probably the same pair he had dropped on the floor next to his bed the night before.

  “Any chance you let one of your friends borrow your dad’s truck?” Conner used his most reassuring tone.

  When Charlie didn’t answer, his mother glared at him. “You let one of your friends borrow the truck? What were you thinking?”

  “No!” The exasperation in Charlie’s voice might have been a bit over the top to be genuine.

  “Who knew the truck was there?” Conner kept his tone even. The kid needed to feel like he was on his side.

  Charlie leaned back on the arm of the overstuffed couch. Apparently, he couldn’t tell the truth with his mom standing next to him. “I had a few friends over last weekend. We were hanging out in the barn. That’s where my dad has his workshop.”

  “What? Why would you hang out there? All your father’s stuff...” A flicker of realization widened her eyes. “Aw, why, Charlie? You could lose your scholarship if they find out you’re drinking.”

  “I don’t think that could happen,” Charlie said. “Besides, I wasn’t drinking.”

  His mother looked like she was going to grind her teeth to nubs in an effort to keep quiet.

  Charlie jerked one finger in her direction. “One beer. That’s hardly anything.”

  Jenny put a hand over her mouth. “Charlie! Is it worth it?” She held out her open palm toward their visitors, indicating it obviously wasn’t. “You might not lose a scholarship for drinking, but when teens drink, they do stupid things.”

  “Mom, you’re being dramatic. One beer is nothing. Half my friends are—” He cut himself off short. No teenager was going to rat out his friends in front of the sheriff’s department. Conner didn’t need him to. He knew what went on at those parties. As an officer, he had broken up countless parties, including that one at Jason’s house not long before he died.

  “Were any of these kids at your house also at the party the night—” Grace lowered her voice, probably out of consideration for Conner, but it still stung “—Jason died?”

  Charlie shrugged again and mumbled something that sounded a lot like, “I don’t know.”

  “Give us a few names.” Conner crossed his arms, trying to act casual, yet authoritative enough to demand some answers. What if one of these kids who had borrowed the Handlers’ truck had tried to hurt Grace because she was getting too close to what really happened at the party the night Jason
died? With the brand-new information from Levi that Jason wasn’t drinking that night, it made it more imperative that Conner find out what really happened. Had someone drugged Jason’s drink? If so, why? Had it been intentional, or had Jason picked up a drink intended for someone else?

  A million questions swirled around his head, hurting his brain. He had to get to the bottom of it, for Jason. For Jason’s mother. And for his own peace of mind.

  “No one did anything. Come on,” Charlie protested. Something akin to fear flashed in his eyes. What was he afraid of?

  “How about I say a few names, and you tell me if they were drinking in your father’s workshop?” Conner stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, trying to act casual.

  Charlie rolled his eyes in typical teenage fashion.

  Conner made up a name and Charlie frowned. “No. I don’t even know that kid. Does he live around here?” His tone suggested he thought Conner wasn’t right in the head.

  Conner didn’t answer. “How about Bradley Poissant?”

  “The mayor’s son?” Jenny asked. She glared at her son. “Are you guys still friends?”

  Charlie lifted one shoulder in a universal “whatever” gesture.

  “Was Bradley there?” Levi had mentioned that Bradley and Jason were arguing the night Jason died. It didn’t make sense. Bradley was a good kid. And the two teens were friends.

  Charlie pushed off the arm of the couch and pleaded to his mom. “We weren’t doing anything.”

  “Answer Captain Gates’s question.” Jenny planted her fists on her hips. “I’m not fooling around.”

  “Yeah, Bradley and a few other guys were here.”

  Conner stepped forward and clapped Charlie’s shoulder. “Okay, thanks for being honest. I have no interest in getting you in trouble with your mom. If there’s anything you need to tell me, tell me now.”

  “Charlie?” his mother silently urged her son to come clean with the officer. A genuine look of fear haunted her eyes.

  “No, there’s nothing else. Bradley was here with a few of his buddies. They’re jerks, anyway. I haven’t hung out with them since.”

  Jenny pulled her arms out of her winter coat and tossed it on the couch. She tugged at the collar of her sweater. “Charlie, I can’t be at your side 24/7. You’re going away to college. You have to be responsible. You’ve got to...” She fisted her hands and clenched her jaw. She turned to Conner. “What happens now?”

  “Do you know who took the truck? Where did you keep the keys?”

  “My dad always kept them in a key box in the workshop. And no, I don’t know. If one of the guys took it, they did it without me knowing.”

  “Okay,” Conner said, deciding to let that rest for now. “The sheriff’s department will tow the truck off the Weavers’ property as soon as they can get back there. See if the back-end damage matches the accident.”

  “That’s fine. I don’t care about the stupid truck. If Paul wants it, I’ll tell him he can pick it up at the collision shop.” Jenny scratched her head, as if trying to scrub the thought of her husband out of it. She took a step toward the door. “I have to get to work.”

  “I appreciate your time,” Conner said, then turned to Charlie and handed him his business card. “If you think of anything else, call me.”

  Charlie took the card. A doubtful expression was plain on his face.

  Once outside, Grace turned to Conner. “This Bradley Poissant’s name has come up more than once. Maybe we should talk to him.”

  Unease sloshed in his gut. “I know Mayor Poissant and his family. They’re good people. I can’t believe he’d ram your car. It doesn’t seem like him.”

  “People aren’t always what they seem.” She looked at him, and as much as he hated to acknowledge it, he agreed with her.

  NINE

  Later that afternoon, Grace watched Ruthie lumber down the stairs and lower herself into a rocking chair. “This baby can’t come soon enough.”

  “How are you feeling?” Grace leaned forward on the matching rocker in the Hershbergers’ sitting room. A cozy fire made her forget about the cold outside.

  A hint of guilt reminded her that she hadn’t been exactly honest with Conner. She had fully anticipated rereading all the articles surrounding her mother’s murder in the Quail Hollow Gazette and spending the day at home. However, she’d stumbled upon the name Maryann Hershberger in one of the articles. Turned out Heather’s right-hand employee at the bed & breakfast was none other than her daughter. Ruthie had stopped over to the bed & breakfast before Heather went on her honeymoon. Her sister had explained how Ruthie was the daughter of one of their mom’s good friends from years ago. Once she had this piece of information, she had to take a drive to their home. Thankfully, her brother-in-law’s truck made it out of the snowy yard.

  “I’m doing fine. I’m curious how you’re getting along at the bed & breakfast. It’s a shame I couldn’t fill in while your sister is away.” She smiled. “This baby has other ideas.” Ruthie had the glow of a woman excited about her first child.

  “It’s really no problem. It’s given me a chance to get to know Quail Hollow a little bit better.”

  “You should stick around until spring. Then you’ll really get a feel for the area. Everyone’s cooped up inside now.” Maryann, Ruthie’s mother, didn’t look up from her needlework, carefully drawing the needle and thread through the fabric.

  Grace couldn’t imagine herself in this small town much beyond her sister’s return from her honeymoon. She couldn’t even stay at the bed & breakfast for the afternoon without getting antsy.

  “Ruthie’s been spending more of her days here than at home,” Maryann continued. “I think she’s afraid of going into labor and not being able to track down her husband on one of his jobs.”

  “He’s a handyman,” Ruthie said proudly. “He did a lot of the work on the bed & breakfast.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Grace cleared her throat. “I hate to intrude on your peaceful afternoon,” said Grace, finally deciding to broach the topic on her mind, “but I was looking into my mom’s death.” Death sounded less bleak than murder. Everyone died. Only in truly awful cases did death come in the form of murder.

  Maryann’s head snapped up from her needlework. Then she immediately dipped it back down and seemed to struggle to get the needle through the fabric. Despite the older woman’s obvious distress, Grace pressed on. “I read your name in one of the articles in the newspaper.”

  “I was a little girl then,” Ruthie said, with an air of confusion. Then her eyes opened wide. “Oh, you mean Mem. Mem and Sarah were friends. Right?”

  “Yah,” Maryann said, a distant quality to her voice, perhaps lost in a pleasant memory. “We were.” She smiled ruefully. “You and your sister resemble your mem.”

  “I regret that we never had any photos of her to remember her by,” Grace said, wishing the room wasn’t quite so warm.

  “We don’t believe in having photos. Yet the tourists don’t seem to think anything of it nowadays. Always taking them.” The older woman said nowadays with a longing for days gone by. The outside world was speeding up in a way Grace suspected Maryann could never imagine.

  Grace blinked, thinking back to the photo someone had taken from a distance of her little family after their mother had been murdered. Even before the explosion of online news, local newspapers prided themselves on visual images. A photo like that would have sold a lot of papers.

  The juxtaposition of the quiet Amish countryside with murder. The three grief-stricken girls left behind.

  A familiar nagging worked at Grace, as if she were poking at a hornets’ nest better left undisturbed. What did she hope to achieve, anyway?

  “We were discouraged from talking to anyone back then,” Maryann said. “The outsiders flooded Quail Hollow.” She grew still. “What does the article say?”
>
  “That you and my mom were friends. That you couldn’t believe she was gone.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes.”

  “True enough. I still can’t believe she’s gone, even after all these years.” Maryann shook her bonneted head.

  Grace opened her mouth to ask a question that had been on her mind, when Emma, Maryann’s seventeen-year-old daughter, her youngest, came in through the kitchen and stomped her snowy boots on the floor mat.

  “The greenhouse is okay.” She smiled at her mom as she took off her coat. “We worried the heavy snow would crack the glass.”

  “Denki,” Maryann said. “Now come in and get warm. This is Grace Miller, Heather’s sister.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Emma said shyly.

  Ruthie groaned. “Emma, will you help me back upstairs? I need to lie down.” She glanced at Grace. “Sorry, I’m not very good company.”

  “Oh, please, don’t worry.” Grace smiled, encouraged that maybe Maryann would be more receptive to talking about Sarah without her daughters around.

  “Yah.” Emma hung her coat on a hook near the fireplace to dry. “Want me to read to you some?”

  Grace smiled, pondering a different life. Life with a mem, dat and two sisters in the quiet Amish community. A completely different upbringing from the one she’d had. Instead of reading books to each other, Heather, Grace and Rose tended to park themselves in front of the TV with frozen dinners while their dad picked up a second shift at the factory.

  Emma held Ruthie’s arm, helping her up the stairs. “Take care, Ruthie. I can’t wait to meet that baby of yours.”

  Ruthie groaned and laughed. “Me, too. Me, too.”

  Grace rocked back and forth slowly, settling into the quietness of the place. For some reason, she felt content here with Maryann, whereas she was unsettled alone at the B&B. Perhaps she needed company.

  “You’re looking into Sarah’s death?” Maryann asked, surprising Grace.

  “I was looking into the underage drinking party. Then I got a little sidetracked when retired Sheriff Gates mentioned a relentless reporter who had covered my mom’s death.”