The Full Scoop

by Jill Orr

  Sheriff Clark gave a curt shake of his head. “Lawrenceville. We believe Flick was heading to Lawrenceville.” He said it with the kind of authority that gave me the impression that this was more than just something he thought.

  “What’s in Lawrenceville?” I asked.

  “Not what,” he said, “who.”

  “Okay,” I said, growing weary of his slow-drip style of communication. “Who is in Lawrenceville?”

  “I’d rather not say until we have more information.”

  “But—” I began, my frustration beginning to boil over. “Why not?”

  “We’re simply not ready to talk to the press about our investigation.”

  “We’re here not as reporters. We’re here as Flick’s family.”

  “Even still,” Sheriff Clark said. “When there’s information to share, we will share it. For now, you have to trust that we’re running down leads as best we can with our limited resources. It’s just gonna take some time.”

  Right after Flick had been killed, I’d quite frankly been scared to share any of my theories with Sheriff Clark. One of the last things Flick had told me was that I should be very careful with the information we were uncovering about Granddad’s murder. I didn’t know Sheriff Clark and therefore didn’t know if he could be trusted. I hadn’t told him much about what Flick had been investigating, and now I was beginning to rethink that decision. If I shared with him, maybe he’d be inclined to do the same? It was becoming abundantly clear that I was not going to be able to figure this out alone.

  “Sheriff Clark, my grandfather was working on a book when he was killed. Flick believed—as I do—that something he uncovered while researching that book was the reason he was targeted.”

  He ran a hand over his mustache, looking interested now. “What sort of book?”

  I explained what I knew about The Lonely Dead. “Flick told me the day before he died that he’d been to Chincoteague Island to look into something about a family of five who’d died in a plane crash years earlier. The Miller family out of Hudson Falls, Texas.”

  Something flashed in Clark’s eyes.

  I seized on it. “What? Does that mean something to you?”

  With a reluctance that was almost palpable, he again opened the file on his desk, took out a business card, and pushed it across the desk to me. “Charles Miller is the who we’re looking at in Lawrenceville.”

  Since Sheriff Clark seemed mildly impressed, I fought the impulse to let my mouth hang open in surprise.

  Holman took the card from him and read aloud, “Silver Meadows. Raising the standard of senior care.” Holman blinked at Sheriff Clark. “What does this mean?”

  “We know that Hal Flick called Silver Meadows two days before he was killed. He spoke with Ms. Eggers, the director, about visiting one of their patients.”

  “Charles Miller?” I asked.

  Clark nodded. “Pretty big coincidence that guy being a Miller and all, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” Holman said flatly, his standard response.

  My brain was already six steps down the road. “Sheriff, have you gone to talk to this guy yet?”

  “No. Haven’t had time.”

  I scooted toward the edge of my chair and looked him dead in the eye. “Can we?” And then before he had a chance to say no, I added, “We’ll record the whole thing, provided he doesn’t mind, of course, and come straight here afterward and let you listen to the tape.”

  Sheriff Clark held my gaze but said nothing.

  “Please.”

  After what seemed like far too long, he gave a brisk nod and mumbled something about this being a free country. We were out the door before he had a chance to say anything else.

  CHAPTER 17

  Silver Meadows sat at the end of a long tree-lined road. It was a large one-story building made of red brick with freshly painted white trim. The front windows were decorated with teak boxes full of colorful flowers—real, as far as I could tell—and there were magnolia and glorybower trees, boxwoods, and Japanese maples to round out the impeccable landscaping. Silver Meadows must be where seniors go who have more money than family members willing to take them in.

  A woman named Rhonda met us at registration and had both Holman and I fill out a visitor’s form before we were allowed to proceed. We told her we were doing a story for the paper on some of Charles Miller’s relatives. It was obvious Rhonda liked the old guy. “He’s pretty amazing for a guy of ninety-one. He’s a quiet one, though. Mostly, he just sits and reads. Matter of fact, that’s where he is now.”

  She led us back to a large room with a high ceiling and windows lining the back wall. An elderly man in a wheelchair sat facing out looking over a large open field with walking paths and a lake with a mermaid-shaped fountain in its center.

  “Charlie?” Rhonda said as we approached. “You’ve got a couple of visitors.”

  As he turned around, I could see that Charlie Miller was straight up old. He had two tufts of white hair above each ear, skin the texture of ancient parchment, and cloudy blue eyes that I could tell were showstoppers back in the day. On his lap was a worn leather-bound book.

  “Thank you, Rhonda,” he said in a thin voice. “Can I trouble you for a Coke?”

  “It’s no trouble at all, sugar,” Rhonda said. “You want your usual—7UP, no ice?” He nodded and she went off to fetch his drink.

  “Hi, Mr. Miller.” I stepped forward to hand him my business card. “I’m Riley Ellison and this is Will Holman.”

  He lifted his arm to take the card, but it stayed bent at the elbow. “Pleased to meet you both.”

  I spoke slightly louder than I would have in normal conversation. “Mr. Miller, we’re reporters with the Tuttle Times and we were wondering if we might be able to ask you a couple of questions.”

  At first, I couldn’t tell if Charlie had heard me, because he didn’t react for several seconds. I was about to open my mouth to repeat myself when he said, “Don’t know what use I can be, but I’m happy to help if I can.”

  I took that as consent for the interview and sat down on the opulent beige sofa across from him. Holman remained standing. I took out my notebook and my phone. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

  He shook his head. I pressed record. “Mr. Miller, in 1959 there was a plane crash just off the coast of Chincoteague Island.” I scanned his face for any sign of recognition. I didn’t see any. “A family of five perished in the crash. The Miller family.”

  “Miller?” He asked, looking from me to Holman.

  “Yes.”

  Charlie furrowed his brow, like this information was upsetting to him.

  “Was that your family? Are you related to the Millers who died in that plane crash?”

  His gaze fell down toward the bottom of the sofa, and for a moment he looked like his mind was somewhere far away. “I have a daughter, you know?”

  This was apropos of nothing, and Holman and I shot each other an uncertain glance. I said, “You do?”

  Charlie smiled and it changed his whole face. He instantly looked ten years younger—which meant that he still looked old, but happy-old instead of tired-old. “She and her husband live in North Carolina. They visit when they can.”

  A quick calculation told me that this man’s daughter would be no spring chicken herself. If he was ninety-one, his child was most likely in her sixties or seventies. I smiled. I wanted to get back to talking about the plane crash but didn’t want to seem rude, so I waited for him to finish his thought.

  “She’s an angel. A God-fearing woman.” He absently touched the Bible in his lap. “And my granddaughter… Ella. She lives over in…in…” he looked up as he struggled to catch the thought. “Texas. Yes, that’s right. And my grandson, Nicholas. He’s a CPA.”

  “You must be very proud,” I said. “Um, Mr. Miller, do you know anything about that plane crash I mentioned? Do you know if you’re related to the family who died?”

/>   The smile lines around his eyes faded like footprints at the edge of the ocean. “No.”

  “No, you’re not related to them, or no, you don’t know if you are?” Holman asked.

  “No, I’m not related to them.”

  Charlie’s response struck me as odd. For starters, it was the first thing in the entire conversation he’d been definitive about. Secondly, he hadn’t asked any questions—what were the names of the people who died, how old were they, why did the plane go down? These were all things you’d think someone would want to know, particularly if you shared a family name with the victims.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “My family’s not from around here. We’re from the West Coast—no relation to any of the Millers in these parts.”

  Without reasonable grounds to argue, I let it drop. “Do you—I mean, did you—know a man named Hal Flick?”

  He shook his head, his face blank. “No, I don’t believe so.”

  “How about someone named Albert Ellison, did you know him?” Holman asked.

  “Ellison,” Charlie repeated. “That sounds familiar…” Then he looked down at the card I’d given him, still in his lap. “Riley Ellison. That’s you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I know you?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.

  I wasn’t sure if he was asking because I looked familiar or if he was confused by Holman’s question. Either way, he suddenly seemed frailer, more vulnerable. A feeling of guilt started to creep up on me.

  “We’ve never met before today. Albert Ellison was my grandfather. He was a journalist too, an obituary writer, actually.”

  “Obituaries,” he said with a small, breathy chuckle. “I used to read them, but I’ve outlived all my friends. Don’t know anyone in there anymore.”

  Rhonda came back with his 7UP and we took the opportunity to say goodbye. “Thanks for talking with us today, Mr. Miller,” I said.

  He said goodbye but looked agitated or maybe confused. Either way, I had the feeling our visit had upset him.

  As soon as we got in the car, Holman said, “Charlie Miller is not from the West Coast.”

  “What? How do you know?”

  “He called his 7UP a Coke.”

  “So what?”

  “So a 7UP is not a Coke.”

  “Sure it is,” I said.

  “No,” Holman said in the overly patient voice he reserved for teaching me things. “Technically, a Coke is a Coca-Cola. A 7UP is a colorless lemon-lime soft drink.”

  “Same difference.” I rolled my eyes. “Besides, how do you know that means Charlie Miller isn’t from the West Coast?”

  “Everyone knows that there are regional differences in the word for soda and in—”

  “—they do?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “That’s probably because you’ve never lived anywhere but Virginia.”

  Well, I supposed he had a point there. I aborted my halfhearted argument. “Go on.”

  “On the West Coast, people say soda, unless you live in the upper Northwest, in which case you might say pop. Calling a soda a coke, in addition to being a trademark infringement against the Coca-Cola Company, is a decidedly Southern affectation.”

  “Interesting,” I said. I’d never heard that, but as Holman pointed out, I wasn’t exactly Mrs. Worldwide. “Why would he lie about where he’s from?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  “Should be easy enough to do a little digging on his background. I’ll start tonight.”

  We stopped back by the Brunswick sheriff’s office and told Sheriff Clark what we’d learned and what we suspected. He said very little in return, took a few notes, and we agreed to talk again when there was some news. We got back on the road to drive home. My brain needed a break from talking about Joe Tackett, so I decided to surreptitiously bring up Lindsey’s name and see if I could gauge Holman’s interest in her.

  “Do you want to call Lindsey and tell her about our meeting with Tackett?” I said, fishing.

  “I can if you like.”

  “She seems like she’d be willing to help if she could. I mean, she’s certainly no friend of Tackett.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Holman was not taking the conversation bait. I tried again, “She’s cool, don’t you think?” As soon as I said it, I worried I’d gone too far, been too obvious, so I scrambled to do something nonchalant to make it look like I was super relaxed with no ulterior motive whatsoever. “Do you want a piece of gum?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Oh,” I said as I dug through my purse. “I guess I don’t have any.”

  Holman frowned. “Why would you offer me—”

  “So anyway, back to Lindsey,” I said, cutting him off. “I think if it weren’t for the pressure from the feds, she’d be willing to make the deal. She seems like a super reasonable person, you know?” I peered at him from the corner of my eye.

  He made some vague sound of agreement.

  “And smart, too.”

  “She is actually a rather gifted songstress as well.”

  Songstress? I fought the urge to mock his old-timey word. Now that he was finally talking, I didn’t want to make fun of him and risk him clamming up. “Really?”

  “She came to karaoke night at Lipton’s last week. She sang ‘Natural Woman’ by Aretha Franklin. Difficult song. I was impressed.”

  Holman did not impress easily. I took this as a good sign and waded in a little deeper. “Hey, I was thinking of inviting her to come with us to that New Year’s party so we’d have an even foursome. Plus, she’s pretty new to town and it might be fun for her to meet some new people. What do you think?”

  “Sure.” Holman kept his eyes straight ahead, betraying nothing. Then, after a beat, he added, “But I wouldn’t be surprised if a woman like her already had plans for New Year’s Eve.”

  “Oh, you never know,” I said and turned my face away, toward the window, to hide my smile. This was going to be fun.

  Daily Astrological Forecast

  Scorpio

  Today’s movement of sensual Venus into your fourth house could result in fireworks of the carnal kind, so be sure all your personal grooming is up to code! You’ve been so focused on your career recently that you may have been neglecting the interpersonal relationships that are your raison d’être. But all that is about to change. Your powers of attraction are on point, making you irresistible to almost everyone you interact with. Go with it—all work and no play makes Scorpio a dull girl!

  Unfortunately, erratic Uranus is stagnant over your rising moon, creating instability and uncertainty. Changes may be on the horizon that force you to leave the days of wine and roses behind. A difficult choice may present itself sooner than you thought, Scorpio, so do your homework. A small misstep could have severe consequences for the people you care most about.

  Tonight: Rock your highest stiletto and show off those calves!

  CHAPTER 18

  I had another restless night of sleep (or not-sleep, as it were) and finally gave up at about 5:30 a.m. and got out of bed. I bundled up and took Coltrane for a predawn walk, which he seemed to appreciate far more than I did. My winter coat—really only meant to protect against mildly cold temperatures—was no match for the unseasonably arctic weather we’d been having lately. When we got home, I started the coffee maker and stood underneath a near-scalding shower for at least fifteen minutes. Once sufficiently thawed, I bundled myself in my warmest PJs and robe, slipped my feet into my pom-pom slippers, and poured myself a large mug of steaming hot coffee. I still had over an hour and a half until I had to be at the office.

  I was halfway through the online obituary section in the Guardian when a faint knock on my door sent Coltrane into guard-dog mode, shattering my morning peace. It was 7:07 a.m.—way too early for a visitor. I checked my phone to see if I’d missed any calls or texts from someone telling me they were coming over. Nope
.

  “Who is it?” I called out as I made my way to the door, half expecting it to be Holman with doughnuts or maybe one of my parents on their way to coffee with friends.

  “It’s Jay.”

  Jay? Jay, my ex-boyfriend who lived in Washington, DC? He was here, at my house, at seven o’clock in the morning? I swear my heart stopped beating for a fraction of a second. I did a quick inventory of what I was wearing and quickly debated whether I had time to go put on clothes. Or brush my teeth. Or get a complete makeover.

  “I’m sorry to come by so early without calling…” he said through the still-closed door.

  Damn, no time. I quickly smoothed down my hair and opened the door. Jay stood on my front porch looking like he’d just walked out of a J. Crew catalog. He wore a crisp white shirt under a navy suit, a hot-pink pocket square, and rich brown leather wingtips. In sharp contrast, I wore a puffy peach-colored robe over lobster-print flannel pajamas.

  “Hi,” I said, peering out from behind the door. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, stepping inside. “I’m so sorry to just stop by like this.”

  I tucked a strand of hair behind my ears. “No, it’s fine. I was just—”

  “Drinking coffee and reading the obits?”

  He knew me well. I turned toward the kitchen to hide my smile. “Can I get you a cup?”

  “Sure.” He followed me into the kitchen but hung back by the breakfast bar as I got down a mug—the cheesy “Virginia Is for Lovers” one he always used to use at my house in the mornings—and poured. The last time I’d seen Jay it had been at his apartment in DC, about two months ago. That was also the night I met his new girlfriend, Chloe. Given the circumstances, it was almost strange how notstrange this early morning visit felt.

  “So,” I said, arching a brow, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”