by Jill Orr
This was exactly what Jay had warned me about. I had no love for Joe Tackett, but I didn’t want to see him dead—in no small part because if he died in prison, what he knew about my granddad’s death would die with him.
“Aren’t you kept away from the other prisoners?” I asked.
“Believe me, if they want to get to me, they’ll get to me.”
“Why don’t you tell the prosecutor what you know now? Give them what you have, then perhaps she can arrange for your protection?” Holman suggested.
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s all I got. I’ve seen how those people operate. If I give up that recording before I have a deal on the table, I’ll never get a damn thing.”
Tackett had a point. Giving him a transfer or whatever it was he wanted was going to be a tough sell under the best of circumstances. I’d be willing to bet that the authorities would take any chance they could to get out of dealing with him—and I couldn’t blame them for that. Tackett was a bad man, and he’d abused his power in Tuttle County for a long time.
“What can you tell us about a Shannon Miller—er, I mean Shannon Claremore?” I asked, changing the subject.
There was a taut silence on the line. “Figured out the connection, did you?”
My entire body broke out into chills. I knew we were onto something! Now, I just had to bait him a little further. “Of course we did.”
“Well, good luck nailing that crackpot without proof. That’s why I had to get her on tape.”
Crackpot? That didn’t sound like he was describing the Shannon Claremore I’d read about. My hesitation gave me away.
I could practically see Tackett’s self-satisfied smile through the phone. “Ah, I see. You’re on the right track, but you ain’t there yet. I can fill in those blanks, but I need a deal before I say shit.”
Holman and I looked at each other, both of us unsure of what to do. We had no control over what Lindsey decided to offer Tackett. It could be weeks until she spoke to him, if she decided to talk to him at all. And even if she did, what if she felt his information didn’t rise to the threshold of “fruitful and credible”?
“Just give me something—anything—that I can take to Lindsey to prove that the information you say you have is relevant to the murders of my grandfather and Hal Flick. That’s the only way they’re going to fight the feds to help you.”
For a few seconds all I heard was the sound of his breath in the receiver. “Albert found out that Shannon Claremore is not who she says she is,” he said finally.
“What does that even mean?” I said. “Who is she if she isn’t Shannon Claremore?”
“That’s all I’m gonna say for now. Tell that lady prosecutor I’m ready to talk. But I don’t know how much longer I’ve got.”
CHAPTER 27
Holman had Lindsey on the phone less than ten seconds after I hung up with Tackett.
“He spends almost all day in a cell by himself,” Lindsey assured us. “He’s safe.”
Holman held his phone, on speaker, in between us. I leaned forward. “He sounded scared, like he really thinks the cartel’s people could come after him.”
“And I’m sure that’s what he wants you to think,” she said. “He’s trying to find a way out of there, or at least a way to reduce the amount of time he spends there, so he’s busting out every trick in the book. Don’t let him get in your head.”
While I appreciated what she was saying, I couldn’t help but feel frustrated at her lack of urgency. If something did end up happening to Tackett before she had a chance to find out what he knows about Granddaddy’s death, that information could be lost forever.
“Have you decided how you plan to proceed?” Holman asked.
“The plan is to interview him at Greensville next week and have Sheriff Haight and Sheriff Clark present. Tackett is still refusing representation, which I think is a mistake, but that’s his choice. If he’s able to provide us with good information that the sheriffs are able to use in the Ellison and Flick cases and he agrees to testify, then I would be willing to go before Judge Giancarlo and recommend a transfer or reduction in sentence, depending on what we get.”
“And what about the feds?” Holman asked.
“I’ve all but decided that the potential of prosecuting two unsolved murders needs to take precedence over the DEA’s hope that Tackett may one day spill on the Romeros.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding. Tackett would be heard. I didn’t feel great about helping a man like him, but I was willing to live with it. My singular purpose was to extract what he knew about my grandfather’s and Flick’s killer, and that came before everything else to me.
“When are you set to interview Tackett?” I asked.
“Wednesday.”
“Any chance I can be there?”
Lindsey actually laughed. “Uh, no.”
“Really? Even under the victim’s rights statute?” I knew it was a long shot, but I had to try.
“That statute is the only reason I’m talking to you now, Riley,” she said, a steely kindness in her voice. “But I can promise you that once we are able to corroborate the information Tackett gives us, I will share it with you and your family.”
I scribbled on a scrap of paper, Do we tell her what T said about Shannon Claremore? and held it up to Holman, who shook his head.
He then took the phone off speaker. “Lindsey, there is one other nonlegal matter that I was hoping to discuss with you…” he said as he walked down the hallway for some privacy. I assumed he was going to pitch her the idea of them going to the party as newsies. I sent a silent prayer out into the ether for him.
I spent the next several minutes looking over the notes I’d taken during my conversations with both Tackett and Lindsey. Okay, I told myself, This is good. Things are happening. Tackett is going to have his chance to tell the authorities what he knows, and then Lindsey says she will tell me. I still had an inkling of doubt that Tackett could deliver what he says he could, but there was no way to know if he was lying yet. He also confirmed that there is something shady going on with Shannon Miller Claremore, which lined up with Flick’s research as well. This is progress, I reassured myself again.
I wondered about the audio recording that Tackett claimed to have. Where was it? Obviously, he didn’t have it with him in prison. He probably stashed it somewhere like a safe deposit box or with a relative perhaps. God, if I could just get my hands on that tape, I wouldn’t need to deal with Tackett at all.
“She’s in,” Holman announced, looking triumphantly dazed as he walked back into my living room. “She was quite familiar with the newsies and loved the idea.”
“That’s great!”
“Mm-hm.”
“Why don’t you look happy?”
He walked over to the kitchen table. “I am happy,” he said. “I’m just not sure what is expected of me.”
“What do you mean ‘expected of’ you?”
“I did not technically ask her out as my date for the evening—as a point of fact, I am actually your invited guest. I don’t even know the host. However, since we are going as part of a foursome, in which two of you are a quasi-couple, we, as the remaining two, are necessarily paired. But it’s a forced pairing, not one of intention or choice, so that begs the question, is this a date or not?”
I stared at him, my mouth slightly agape. As an overthinker myself, I was familiar with the twists and turns of an analytical mind, but this was over the top even for me. The best thing I could do for him was to provide some certainty. “Yes,” I said. “It’s a date.”
Holman swallowed. “Okay then.” He started to gather up his files and laptop. “I have to go.”
“Go where? What about the ice?”
“I am perfectly capable of driving in snow and ice.” He put on his puffer jacket and began winding a dark blue scarf around his neck. “If I am going to be a proper escort for Lindsey tomorrow evening, I
’d really better get going on some preparations.”
“Preparations?” I followed him to the door. “What does that even mean? I thought we were going to do more research for the story?”
“The fact is that until we know more about what Tackett is alleging, it’s like looking for a polar bear in a snowstorm, to use a timely metaphor.”
“Huh?”
“You know, like trying to find a black cat in a coal mine.”
“What?”
He blinked. “A needle in a haystack, if you prefer.”
“I don’t prefer!” I said. “How is researching information about Shannon Claremore like any of those things?” I let my shoulders sag. “I’m confused, Holman.”
“My point exactly,” he said and tapped the side of his nose twice just before slipping out through my front door.
CHAPTER 28
Holman may have been too keyed up about his impending date to focus on work, but I was not. As soon as he left, I went back to my notes on Granddad’s case and picked up where I’d left off when Tackett called. I once again read over the paperwork that Elaine at the Hudson Falls record office had sent me; I saw my notes about Jane Smith. I had almost forgotten that someone else had been sniffing around for information on the Millers the same day I had. I’d gotten her phone number (thanks to Elaine and my imaginary cat Nibbles) and had meant to look up whom it belonged to days ago, but I’d gotten distracted by Tackett’s letter. I knew now that the 252 area code was from Greenville, North Carolina. I also knew now that that was where Shannon and Wyatt Claremore lived. Google didn’t produce anything useful on the number, so I decided to check it out the old-fashioned way. I took a deep breath and dialed the number. It rang once, twice, three times. After the fifth ring or so, the voicemail clicked on: “Hello, you’ve reached Shannon. Please leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you and have a blessed day.”
The voicemail beeped and I had to make a split-second decision. Do I hang up or leave a message? The phone would have a record of my number and I wasn’t unlisted, so she could easily find out it was me calling. Besides, I’d left this number with Rhonda at Silver Meadows. I’d come this far; there was no point in hanging up now.
“Hi, Shannon. This is Riley Ellison, I’m a reporter from the Tuttle Times. I’m doing a story on a plane crash in 1959 in which several of your family members perished and I was hoping to get a quote from you. I’ve spoken to your father, Charlie, already but would like to interview you as well. Please give me a call back when you have time. Thanks.” I pressed end, my heart hammering in my chest.
So, Shannon Claremore was Jane Smith. Why on earth would she be trying to access her own family’s records from Hudson Falls using a fake name? As family, she had a right to those records. All she’d have to do is show proof of who she is, and they’d give her everything. Tackett’s words reverberated through my mind. Albert found out Shannon Claremore is not who she says she is. Who the hell was she then?
It was like the universe heard my question and provided an answer in the form of a ringing phone. Shannon’s number flashed on my screen. She was calling me back already. My heartbeat ticked back up. “This is Riley.”
“Hi, Riley, Shannon Claremore returning your call.”
I thanked her and recapped my reason for the call—at least my fake reason. When I finished, she said, “Yes, I understand you and an associate visited my father at Silver Meadows. I believe he told you we aren’t related to any of those poor folks who died in that plane crash.”
Apparently, she was going to stick with the party line. I would have to get more aggressive. “Actually, I have information that indicates you are.”
“What information would that be?”
“I’ve come across some records that show a signature from Charles Miller as the next of kin.”
“Death certificates are private.”
“I didn’t say it was a death certificate.”
She said nothing for several seconds. I waited, frozen with anticipation. “It must be a different Charles Miller. It’s a pretty common name, you know.”
“Could I ask him about it?” I said. I wanted her to know I knew she had blocked me from being able to interview her father again.
“I’m sorry. That’s not possible. My father is old and unwell. His memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“All right,” I said, trying to keep my tone as cool and even as possible. “It’d be easy enough for me to cross-check the signature on the form with one from your father—the DMV keeps records on these sorts of things, you know.” This was not true. For starters, I didn’t even have a copy of the form from the funeral home on Chincoteague—the funeral director had just read off that information to Ash over the phone. And even if I could get a copy, I doubted the DMV would give me, a lowly reporter, a copy of Charlie Miller’s signature. I ignored the ever-more familiar feeling of ethical dissention from my brain. I needed this information, I thought. If I had to tell a few lies to get it, then so be it.
“I don’t understand why you’re arguing with me about this,” she said, sounding irritated. “I’m telling you that we are not related to that Miller family. Period. End of story.”
“Do you know a man named Hal Flick?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I meet a lot of people, so I can’t say for certain that I’ve never met anyone by that name, but I don’t recall if I have. Why—who is he?”
“Was—who was he,” I corrected her, barely controlling my anger as I said the words. “He was a journalist who was killed in a car wreck a month ago.”
She was quiet for a moment, then said, “No, doesn’t ring a bell.”
“How about Albert Ellison?”
“Isn’t that your last name?”
“Albert Ellison was my grandfather. He’s dead now.”
“I’m sorry.” Perhaps for the first time in the conversation, she sounded sincere.
“The thing is,” I said, wandering into unchartered territory, “he was working on a book about the Miller family who died in that plane crash, but he was murdered before he could finish it.”
“Oh dear.” She had the decency to sound shocked at the word murder—but not to ask how or why. “And now you’re finishing it for him?”
“Something like that,” I said.
She was quiet for a long moment and then said, “Well, I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. If you need anything else from me, I’ll ask you to please go through my personal assistant, Megan Johanning. You can reach her through the Claremore Ministries switchboard. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to contact my father again. He’s very frail and any upset to his routine is hard on him.” She was clearly giving me the brush-off.
“I’m not going to drop this, Shannon. I’m going to continue looking into your family’s connection to this story.”
I thought I heard a note of desperation in her voice when she said, “I really wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“Why—what do you mea—” I said, but she had already hung up.
CHAPTER 29
Had Shannon Claremore just threatened me? I replayed the sentence in my mind—dissected her tone of voice, cadence, the places in which she paused. I really wouldn’t if I were you. It wasn’t an explicit threat like, “Drop it or else,” but it felt like she was almost begging me to let it go. What I didn’t know was if that was for my benefit or hers.
Given that the last two people who had looked into the Claremore/Miller connection were dead, I decided it was a good idea to let a member of law enforcement know about this, even if I didn’t really have anything concrete to tell them. I called Sheriff Clark and gave him a rundown on my odd conversation with Shannon.
“And you felt she was threatening you?”
I bristled at his tone, which was somewhere between amused and skeptical. “I don’t know if she was or not, but it felt like it.”
“All right.”
He cleared his throat. “I’ll make a note, but there’s not a lot I can do about a veiled threat by one person against another person—neither of whom live in my county.”
“I just thought…” I said, suddenly feeling very foolish. “It’s just that Joe Tackett called me this morning and said he’s worried that he might get killed by the cartel’s spies, and so he gave me this weird clue about Shannon Claremore not being who she says she is—”
“Wait—what?” He interrupted me. “Back up.”
I filled him in about Tackett’s phone call earlier and his accusation that Shannon Claremore is hiding something and how he was worried about his safety in prison and was looking to tell his story as soon as possible. That seemed to get the sheriff’s attention.
“I think I ought to call Lindsey Davis,” he said. “Maybe I should go over to Greensville and talk to Tackett sooner than later.”
“Yeah, great.” I was surprised by his sudden enthusiasm. “I think the sooner we can find out what he knows, the better. But if he’s worried about the appearance of talking to the authorities, wouldn’t that just exacerbate the situation?”
“I can arrange it with the warden so no one would know he was being pulled out to talk to me.”
“Wow,” I said, surprised and happy at the same time. “Do you think you could get in to see him today?”
“It’s possible.”
If Sheriff Clark was able to talk to Tackett today, I could be hours away from finding out the truth. It was almost too much to hope for. “Will you let me know what he says?”
“I can’t make any promises.” His tone was clipped, but after a beat he added, more softly, “But if I can, yes.”
We hung up with promises to talk again soon. I couldn’t believe that this might work—emphasis on might. With the roads being what they were, Lindsey would not be able to get to Brunswick County today even if she wanted to, so if she insisted on being present for the interview, it would be a no-go. But since Sheriff Clark would be the one who would need to follow up on any information Tackett gave regarding Flick’s death, she might allow him to get first crack, especially given his fear that he was in imminent danger. Of course, I also knew it was possible Tackett made up that whole “danger” thing to speed up the process. And while I hated to think it might have worked, I hated the idea of his secrets dying with him even more.