Alison Stone - Plain Jeopardy

“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.