Plain Dead (8 page)

To Rachel's delight, Bishop Abner, as well as three other Amish men, had joined the open skate after the demonstration. The bishop's old-fashioned skates were laced high over his ankles, a broad wool hat clamped firmly on his head. His hands were behind his back as he skimmed effortlessly over the surface of the pond.

“Look at him,” Mary Aaron said, coming up to stand beside Rachel. “Did you know he could skate like that?” The bishop's long beard and trailing scarf whisked out around him as he executed a graceful turn into the cold wind.

“He shows off, that one,” came the jovial comment of Naamah. Breath exhaling in great puffs, the bishop's wife joined them. “I tell him, ‘Bishop Abner, some may think it shows
hochmut,
what them Englishers call pride, to skate so in front of all these people.' And what do you think my
goot
husband says to me? He says, ‘Naamah, exercise is
goot
for the health. I cannot be responsible for what other people think, only what I think. And not always can I control that.' Have you ever heard the like from a bishop?” She laughed, a deep and unrestrained outpouring of joy. “I did not know my Abner when he was in
rumspringa,
but I think that one, he was a handful to his parents.
Ya?
” She tilted her head. “Of course, you know he was born in Wisconsin. Lots of ice and snow they have there, so he learned to skate almost before he could walk.”

Mary Aaron crouched to unlace her boot and slip her foot into a white leather ice skate. “No one will say I'm showing off, and that's the truth.” She looked up at Rachel. “Aren't you joining us?”

“Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow if I get time.” Rachel chuckled. “I'm as
doplich
as a sheep on the ice. Evan can skate rings around me.”

“A clumsy one, are you?” Naamah laughed again, so hard that her bonnet slid back and nearly tumbled off the back of her head before she caught her dangling bonnet strings and pulled it firmly into place again. “No one is as
doplich
as me,” she continued, “but . . .” She patted her ample stomach, made even more substantial by a padded black coat and a thick, hand-knit sweater beneath it. “When I was a girl, I was light on my feet.”

“Rachel!” George waved to her as he made his way out of a throng gathered around the hot chocolate stand. In one hand, he carried an insulated mug, in the other arm his bichon frise, attired in a red-and-black faux-fur coat and matching doggy boots and earmuffs. “Isn't this marvelous?” he said. “Look at this crowd. You know this is going to have to be an annual event.” He lowered his voice and leaned close. “Of course, next year we won't have the notoriety we have now. From what I've overheard in the bookstore today, a lot of out-of-towners came because Stone Mill made the evening news again.”

Mary Aaron finished lacing up her second skate, glanced at Rachel, and grimaced. “A little creepy.”

“I'd say,” Rachel agreed. She wondered if George's brain tumor had done more damage to his rational thinking than was first thought.

“Creepy, but human nature,” George said. “People are fascinated by violence. Look at how they stare at traffic accidents.” He nodded to give weight to his statement. “Seriously, don't you think we should hold the Winter Frolic again next year?”

“As long as you're going to be the chairman, George, not me.” Rachel petted the dog's head. “Nice earmuffs, Sophie.”

Taking no offense at her teasing, George smiled broadly. He was fashionably dressed for the slopes of Aspen in a hooded red-and-black Obermeyer ski jacket and matching pants. Rachel wouldn't have recognized the brand, but George had agonized over the purchase, and she'd had to spend most of an evening examining choices on the website while he tried to make up his mind. “I had her bathed and clipped for the occasion,” he said. “Had to look her best for the tourists.” He motioned toward a raised platform constructed of snow and ice and fitted with appropriate electronic gear. “We should be ready shortly. We're running a little late on the judging results.”

“We'll have to do it before seven,” she reminded him. “That's when the talent contest begins.” The school board had been good enough to allow them to hold the competition in the high school auditorium. Thankfully, she wasn't in charge of the talent show.

“Look at him now,” Naamah said, pointing at her husband. He was skating beside the paperboy, Eddie Millman, his head bent to hear what the boy was saying.

Rachel was glad to see that Eddie was out and about; she'd been concerned about him, after what had happened the previous day. Worried enough that she had considered calling his mother to check on him, even though she didn't know her that well. It was good to see him smiling; stumbling upon a corpse could traumatize anyone.

“I think Bishop Abner is enjoying himself as much as Eddie,” Mary Aaron observed.

“
Ya,
he should have had sons and daughters of his own. He would have been such a
goot
father.” Naamah thrust her hands into her coat pockets against the cold. “But it was not God's will for us. And we must bear our lot.” She forced a tremulous smile. “It does my heart
goot
to see my Abner taking pleasure in his neighbors' children.”

Mary Aaron took Naamah's arm. “You may not have children born to you, but they are all children of your hearts. And you have your nephew with you now,” she murmured. “They all love you.”

“I hope they do.” Naamah slipped a mittened hand out of her pocket and patted Mary Aaron's cheek. “Now go and have some fun yourself.”

“It looks as though they may be ready for us.” Rachel indicated the ice podium. “There's Hulda and Polly.” She started walking in their direction and George followed. She had reached the bottom step when she caught sight of Evan standing near the hot chocolate stand; she waved to him. “I'll just be a few minutes,” she called, waiting to let George and Sophie ascend the steps ahead of her. The music from the speakers stopped, started again for a few seconds, and then cut off abruptly as George reached the podium.

“Welcome, all of you,” George said, his cultured voice carrying over the audio system. “Friends, neighbors, and all of our guests from out of town. We're so happy to have you here to share the fun at our first annual Winter Frolic. And now, without further ado, we'd like to announce the winners of our ice sculpture, but first . . .”

Rachel smiled and tucked her hands into her pockets. George was just warming up. For all his rhetoric about
without further ado,
he enjoyed the limelight far too much to simply announce the winners and move on. He began to thank the fire company members and the festival organizers and then to name everyone who'd volunteered to make the event special. Rachel glanced around, trying to locate Evan, but didn't see him in the milling assembly. Minutes passed and George was still talking, waxing on about the history of the valley. Rachel's mind wandered, and again she thought about the hat in the snow. Did it have anything to do with Billingsly's death, or was she letting her imagination run wild?

“Rachel,” Hulda whispered, giving her a little nudge, “you're on.”

“. . . Our terrific town innkeeper and an inspiration to all, Rachel Mast!” George proclaimed. “Let's give her a well-deserved hand.” He motioned to the onlookers, and everyone began to clap.

Rachel closed her eyes and wished she were back in her small parlor, cuddled up with her cat on her lap, fire crackling on the hearth. She wasn't afraid to stand up in front of an audience, but neither did she enjoy it. She forced a smile and took her place at the microphone. “I'm pleased to announce that third place goes to . . .”

A few minutes later, Rachel stood with the winners and the runners-up while a nervous young man with a bad complexion lined them up to snap photos for the town newspaper. “Is there even going to be a paper?” She tried to recall his name. Vaguely, she remembered him as either the son or nephew of Billingsly's surly receptionist. It was Greg. That was his name. “I just assumed, Greg, that with Bill Billingsly's death . . .”

“We're putting out the Saturday edition, as planned,” he said. “With extensive coverage of the Winter Frolic. Most of the content was already set to go to press. Advertisers already paid for their ads. Aunt Lulu said the show must go on.” He motioned to the group. “Move in a little closer, please.”

Once Greg had all the pictures he wanted, Rachel congratulated the contestants again and reminded the visitors to check out the nearly two dozen ice sculptures all over town. Smiling for real and pleased that her duties were complete and she could hunt down Evan, she excused herself.

As Rachel gratefully made her way down the steps and into the crowd, she heard Hulda reminding everyone over the PA system of the family style Amish feast about to begin in the school cafeteria and the talent show in the auditorium.

Rachel hadn't gone more than twenty paces from the judging stand when Evan found her. “We have to talk.”

She looked up at him in surprise. From the tone of his voice and the expression on his face, he was clearly upset. “What's wrong?”

He grabbed her arm and moved her through the crowd. “Not here.”

Chapter 7

“You want to go have something to eat?” Rachel looked at him, wondering what was up. “I should make an appearance at the Amish feast.”

“Not the cafeteria. I need to speak to you alone.” There was no hint of a smile.

She took in her surroundings; there were still plenty of people milling around, but many were heading for the warmth and good food of the cafeteria, where Amish women would be serving typical Amish fare family style at long tables. “It's a little cold to stand here.”

“My car.” He nodded in the direction of the parking lot.

She didn't know that she'd ever heard him use this tone with her before. “What's wrong?”

“I don't think you want an audience.”

She followed him across the parking lot to his SUV. He opened the passenger's door for her, and she climbed in. She wondered if he'd found out she went to Billingsly's Saturday night. Had Mrs. Abbott realized it hadn't been a snowman she'd seen at Billingsly's door but rather an innkeeper in a white parka? Rachel
knew
she should have told Evan. She shivered, the cold seeping up from the soles of her boots.

He went around to the other side, slid into the driver's seat, and slammed his door. “Why didn't you tell me about your criminal conviction?” The interior light shone on his face, illuminating rigid lines and the hard set of his mouth.

This was the last thing she'd been expecting to hear. The first words out of her mouth should have been an apology, but her reaction was one of irritation. “How did you find out?”

“Does it matter?”

She had started to shiver. She wrapped her arms around herself. “It matters to me.”

“I'm not in a position to give you information on an ongoing investigation.”

“Billingsly. You found something at his office.” She gave a heavyhearted sigh. When Evan didn't reply, she leaned back against the seat, letting the implications sink in. “He was going to do it, wasn't he? He was going to tell everyone. He threatened me, but I didn't really believe that he'd—”

“Is it true?” Evan's words fell like stones between them.

It had been a long time ago. Another life . . .

Numbness spread through her. If it came out in the paper, no one in this town would ever look at her the same way again. Her parents would have to live with the shame of having a criminal for a daughter. “So it's coming out in the next edition?”

The interior light went out, but she could still see the outlines of his features. “No. We found the information, along with dirt on other people in town, on his laptop. He had the column featuring everyone's favorite Stone Mill innkeeper half written. There was a different, completed ‘Over the Back Fence' scheduled for Saturday.” One gloved hand clenched into a knot, and he slammed it against the steering wheel. “Why didn't you tell me, Rache? Didn't you think I had a right to know?”

She turned to him. “It was a long time ago. I wasn't the same person I am today.”

“You didn't answer me. Is it true or not?”

Her mouth tasted of copper. “What did it say?”

“That you were convicted of insider trading.”

She glanced out the window; it was beginning to fog up. Townsfolk and strangers, Amish and English, were laughing and talking as they stomped the snow off their boots and entered the school. She could imagine the delicious aromas coming from inside. “It's true.”

“Rachel.” His voice was laced with a mixture of anger and hurt feelings. “You should have told me. I would have told
you
about something like this.”

“No, you wouldn't have.” She was angry now, and she wasn't even sure why. He hadn't done anything wrong. She had. She was the one who would carry that stain on her name for the rest of her life. “You would never have had to tell me because you never would have been in the situation I got myself into.” Straight-arrow Evan. A man who saw everything in black and white. No gray. But the world held a lot of gray, didn't it?

“I want to hear your explanation, not what Billingsly wrote.”

She put her hand on the door. She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to talk about this. Not tonight. Not ever. “It's complicated.”

“I'm sure it is.” His voice was tight . . . a stranger's voice. “Which is why I want to hear it from you and not from some sleazy would-be tabloid writer.”

“It's freezing in here.” She took her hand off the door and gestured to the dashboard. “Can you at least turn the heat on?”

He started the engine and pushed buttons. The air coming out of the vents was only lukewarm. “I'm waiting.”

“As I said. It was a long time ago. Basically, I pled no contest to insider trading. But . . . unless you understand the nuances of finance . . .” She stopped and started again. “Lay people don't understand what insider trading really means, that it can mean a lot of things. And I was going to tell you. It just never seemed the right time.”

He raised his voice again. “In two years?” He shook his head and didn't look at her. “I'm a cop and my girlfriend— the woman I asked to marry me—has a criminal record and I don't know about it? And now I find out that you lied to me about the argument you had with Billingsly hours before he was murdered?”

“I didn't lie to you about my conversation with Billingsly. He
did
threaten me. But that wasn't really what we were fighting about. It was about what he'd done to Annie and Joab—what he was doing to this town. I told him he had to stop it.”

“Or what?” He groaned. “Him threatening you, you getting angry, that changes things, Rache.” He turned to her. “Do you understand what I'm saying?”

She met his gaze. “What? I'm a suspect now? You think I'd kill him over his stupid gossip column?”

“No, I don't think you'd kill him. But I'm a detective. I don't get to decide, based on personal relationships, who's a person of interest and who isn't. I have to follow an established protocol.” He looked away and then back at her. “Anyone else hear the argument? Was Mary Aaron there? Anyone who can vouch for you?”

“No. Lots of people heard us arguing. But nobody heard what we said. Mary Aaron had walked away.”

“Do you understand that to an outsider, it might look as though you had a reason to silence him?” He brought his fist down on the dashboard, hard. “Damn it, Rachel. Your name is going to have to go on my list of possible suspects.”

Her hand found the door handle again. She couldn't believe what he was saying. She couldn't believe he would think for even a second that she could kill someone, much less that she could kill a man the way someone had killed Billingsly, leaving him to freeze to death like that. She didn't know what flew into her when she spoke again. “Well, if I'm a suspect, Detective Parks, then you may as well know it all. I went to Billingsly's house that night. I—”

“Don't say any more,” he interrupted sharply.

“Why?”

He raised a hand, fingers spread. “I need to think about how I have to proceed, whether it's ethical for me to even continue with this case or—”

“Evan? You don't seriously think I could have done that to Billingsly? That I could take a man's life in such a cruel way?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “For
any
reason?”

“Of course I don't think you killed Billingsly,” he snapped angrily. “I said that, didn't I? Of course I know you better than that. But I have to do my job. You argued with Billingsly and he threatened you. You go on the list. Blade had a beef with him. He goes on the list until his alibi checks out. Same goes for Skinner. I can't pick and choose.”

“No. You can't.” She yanked off her glove. “And the lead detective on a case can't be compromised by a relationship with a convicted criminal—especially one who's just become a suspect.” She grasped her ring and struggled to remove it.

“Rache, no,” he protested. “Don't—”

“This was a mistake, Evan. My mistake. Apparently, I make a lot of mistakes.” She opened the car door, thrusting out her hand. “Take your ring.”

“Rachel.”

She slapped the diamond ring on the dashboard and got out of the car. She didn't bother to slam the door but walked away as fast as she could. Behind her, she heard Evan calling her name, but she didn't stop. Sobbing, tears cold on her cheeks, she plunged into the shadowy parking lot, headed for her Jeep.

 

Later—she wasn't sure if it was fifteen minutes or fifty—Rachel pulled off the street on the edge of Stone Mill, dug in her purse for a tissue, and blew her nose. She'd left the ice rink parking lot with the intention of going out to her aunt and uncle's farm to find Mary Aaron, but then had decided against it. If Rachel went there, she would have had to deal with her aunt and uncle and the family. They'd want to know why Rachel was at their house and not at the frolic, and she'd have to give some excuse and act cheerful, at least in front of them. And she couldn't do it. Not tonight. She was just too emotionally wrung out from her explosive exchange with Evan to put on a good face.

She felt empty. She had no more tears left, just a hollowness inside.

She rested her hands on her steering wheel. She couldn't just drive around all night; she ought to head home. But if she went home, she might have to play hostess to some of her guests, something she normally loved doing. But not while she was so upset.

She glanced up the street; it was mostly empty. Businesses were closed; everyone was either at the Amish feast or tucked safely in warm houses or hotel rooms. But not everyone had gone home. Rachel spotted the lights from The George still on. Maybe Ell was there. Even if she was busy with customers, the bookstore would be a warm and welcoming place to sit down for a few minutes and catch her breath. No one would expect anything of her, and she could gather her thoughts and decide what she was going to do about Evan. She didn't want to even consider that the engagement might really be over, that their relationship might be over. But how could she marry a man who could think she could kill someone?

Rachel shifted her Jeep into gear and pulled back onto the street. A light dusting of new snow covered the sidewalks and streets. She found a parking space in front of the bookstore and hopped out into the cold. Fat snowflakes drifted down, dreamlike in the light from the old-fashioned street lamps, and the ice crunched under her feet as she made her way to the first pair of double doors.

The George had been a theater in a former life, closed and falling into disrepair like so many small-town America cinemas. George O'Day had possessed the imagination and the financial means to buy and restore it as an independent bookstore. Books were George's first love, after Sophie. And to everyone's surprise and against all odds, the store had been a huge success, drawing customers from far-flung communities in this part of the state and aiding in the rejuvenation of Stone Mill's downtown.

Just walking into the marble lobby of the stately structure always gave Rachel a thrill. The concession stand now served as the register counter, and rows of bookshelves had replaced the theater seating, but the velvet drapes, the painted plaster ornamentation, and the ambiance remained. The spacious stage once trod by actors had been transformed, minus the screen, into a coffee shop/tea room, complete with tasty Amish-baked delicacies and scattered seating. Alone with a book, doing homework, or sharing a chat with friends, townspeople and visitors were charmed by The George's hospitality.

Rachel had expected to find Ell or one of the employees at the register, but instead, it was George O'Day ringing up a purchase for the high school principal. They both smiled and called out a greeting when they saw Rachel. LeRoy Sawyer, a portly gentleman with curling dark hair and a bristling mustache, complimented her on the success of the Winter Frolic. She thanked him, reminded him that it was a joint effort by dozens of residents, and George repeated his hope that the festival would become an annual event.

“I'd love to stay and discuss it,” Sawyer said. “Our student council came up with some ideas you might want to consider for next year. I have to run, though. I'm meeting my wife and her parents at the Amish feast.”

Sophie whined, and he stooped to scratch her head. The little dog wriggled with pleasure and then jumped up and down, wanting more attention.

“Enough,” George said. “Be a good girl.”

Sawyer chuckled. “And as usual”—he grimaced—“I think I'm running late. Better go before I get into even more trouble.”

George and Sophie followed the principal to the double doors. “Watch the sidewalk,” he cautioned. “We sprinkled salt on it, but it's still slippery.” He closed the door behind Sawyer, turned the lock, and pulled down the shade. He repeated the routine with the other two sets of doors, and then dropped the blind in the old ticket booth that read
Closed
.

Rachel glanced up at the ornate clock over the register and then at George.

“Closing early tonight,” George declared. “LeRoy was the only customer who came in after six.”

“I can go if you like. I just stopped by to say hi. You could tuck in early for the night.”

“It's one of the perks of being an independent. You can close when you want to.” George threw her a compassionate look. “And you look as though you need a cup of tea and a friendly ear . . . unless I miss my guess.”

“I could use both,” she admitted.

“Switch out the lobby lights, will you?” George removed his cane from behind the register counter and led the way into the book room, Sophie bouncing along behind. “I hid two cinnamon twists,” he said. “Ada's mother makes the best I've ever eaten. With black walnuts.”