by Jill Orr
I stood, anxious to let him get to work. “Let me know what you find out?”
“You know I used to work for the man, Riley,” he said, his voice taking on a dark edge. “Tackett is one of the most gifted liars I’ve ever met—and that’s saying something. He’s not to be trifled with and not to be trusted.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” He arched one eyebrow. “Because it seems to me that you’re putting an awful lot of faith in Tackett. I know you’re desperate to find out what happened to Albert and Flick—”
“I’m not desperate,” I shot back, but even as I said the words, I knew how false they sounded. I was desperate, and anyone could see it.
“Tackett is out for one person and one person only: himself. He will lie, cheat, steal, and worse to get what he wants. Do not put too much stock in what he’s telling you.”
CHAPTER 31
It was still cold out, and gray clouds filled the sky, clumping on top of one another like balls of dirty socks, making it seem much later in the day than it was. Cars had begun to populate the streets again, but there was definitely less activity than there would be on a normal weekday in downtown Tuttle. I had just started walking back to the Times office when Ash texted.
Something weird just came up. Can you come over?
The funeral home was only a couple of blocks out of my way, so I decided to detour and head over there before going back to the newsroom. I turned the corner onto Broad and saw Ash standing outside the funeral home as I walked up, wearing his usual rumpled jeans and plaid shirt. He was waiting for me. My belly swooshed as I got closer and his eyes locked onto mine.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I responded, an involuntary smile edging across my face. “What’s up?”
He held the door open for me and I stepped inside. “I wish I could say this was all just an elaborate ruse to get you to come see me.”
“It’s not?”
He laughed but shook his head. “I just got a call from Gary, from the Chincoteague funeral home.”
“Okay.”
“He said he was telling his wife about talking to me the other day and she got a funny look on her face, and when he asked her what was the matter, she said someone had come by the funeral home about a month ago asking about the same family—the Miller family who died in a plane crash.”
A tingle started to creep up the back of my neck. I had a feeling about what he was going to say next.
“It was Flick.”
I knew it. I wasn’t surprised, but that didn’t stop the pounding feeling building inside my chest. Flick had been onto something big. He’d tracked down where the Millers died, had a meeting with someone, and then headed over to Brunswick County—either to see Charlie Miller or Joe Tackett in prison.
“There’s more.”
“Okay…”
“Gary’s wife gave Flick a copy of the death certificate, the one with Charlie Miller’s name listed as next of kin on it. He told her he had a meeting with some very powerful people who were trying to cover up ‘a lifetime of lies’ and needed it as proof.”
“A lifetime of lies?”
Ash nodded. “That’s what Gary’s wife said.”
“The powerful people he was talking about must be the ones he referred to as the ‘pack of professional liars.’”
“I thought you’d want to know,” Ash said. “And I didn’t want to put this all down in a text, just in case. All of this stuff is starting to feel really cloak-and-dagger.”
I agreed. “Good thinking.”
“You okay?”
“I will be.”
Ash took my hand and squeezed. “I know you will.”
For a split second the feeling of his skin on mine took me back to last night, and all I wanted to do was lose myself in the moment, to block out all the confounding puzzles I was trying to unravel, the crushing weight of trying to chase down the truth. But when Ash let go, the feeling faded. This was no time for passion; it was time to get back to work.
He offered to drive me back to the office, but I told him I’d rather walk. Fresh air always helps me think, and I certainly had a lot to think about after hearing that bit of news. I wondered who Flick had shown the copy of Daniel Miller’s death certificate to. And where was it now? It certainly wasn’t in the file, and it hadn’t been found in his car after the crash. If Flick had figured out, as we did, that Shannon Claremore was really Charlie’s daughter, he could have reached out to her. Was that who he had been meeting with on Chincoteague? Shannon denied that she knew Flick when I asked her on the phone, but it wouldn’t have been the first time someone lied to me. Or maybe Flick used a different name. If he was afraid he was getting close to the people who killed Albert, maybe he was trying to be extra careful? The thought caused a squeezing sensation deep inside my chest.
I felt with almost one hundred percent certainty that Shannon Miller Claremore and her father were lying about being related to the Miller family from the crash. The question, of course, was why. Shannon Claremore was married to one of the most high-profile and influential Christian leaders of our time. It seemed a little far-fetched to think that she could somehow be involved in not one, but two murders. However, there was definitely something weird going on with her. Tackett said Albert found out Shannon wasn’t who she said she was…what did that mean? If she wasn’t Shannon Claremore, who was she? It felt like I was trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle without using the picture on the box.
I didn’t care about Shannon’s warning—I needed to talk to Charlie Miller again. If I could tell him I knew he was Daniel Miller’s brother and that his daughter was hiding something, he’d have to provide some explanation. The problem was that Rhonda would never allow me back in. And she’d already seen Holman too, so he wouldn’t be able to get in either. I was thinking about the possibility of asking Kay to do it, when I looked up to see Ridley walking along the sidewalk toward me.
“You left before I had a chance to say goodbye,” she said, looking resplendent in her long ivory wool coat (what new mother wears ivory?). She leaned in for her traditional greeting of the double-sided cheeks kiss and handed me a white cardboard box. “You looked like you could use one of these.”
It was one of Mysa’s giant iced cinnamon rolls. A swell of gratitude rose inside my chest. Or possibly my stomach. “Thanks, that was really sweet of you.”
She fell into step with me as I headed for the Times office. “Is everything okay? Ryan said you were upset about something to do with Jay?”
“Oh, it’s not that,” I said. “I’m frustrated because I need to interview someone and can’t get access.” As we walked the remaining couple of hundred feet to the door, I explained the broad brushstrokes of the situation with Charlie Miller and Shannon Claremore. I left out the details about Tackett because it seemed like whenever I said his name, people started warning me to be careful.
I pulled open the office door and held it for Ridley. Holman and Kay must have been in their respective offices because the newsroom was empty. We took off our coats and sat down in my cubicle—well, I sat and Ridley leaned against the partition.
“Let me do it,” she said.
“Let you do what?”
“Go interview this Charlie Miller. I can do that. I’m not banned from seeing him.”
“No way.”
“Why not? You can tell me the questions you need answered and I will ask them,” she said with a shrug, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “You know I am very good at getting men to talk to me.”
Ridley had helped me out a few months ago on a story in which I needed to elicit information from a pervy pharmaceutical executive. He’d been all too happy to talk to me with Ridley by my side.
“Uh, he’s old—like in his nineties.”
“Even better.” She smiled. “Old men love me.”
I was fascinated with how Ridley unapologetically owned and acknowledged her near-universal appeal but never came off as arrog
ant or full of herself. “I don’t know…” I said.
“What? It solves your problem, right?”
“I guess, but—”
“And I love to help with your investigations—you know that!”
I thought about what Kay would say (No) and what Holman would say (also No) and what Ryan would say (Hell no). I bit the corner of my lip.
She raised one eyebrow in challenge. “You know how you hate it when the people around you tell you to be careful all the time and try to protect you even though you’re perfectly capable of making your own decisions?”
She had me there. Ridley was a grown woman who had proved herself more formidable than most. Who was I to protect her from herself? I pointed a finger directly at her chest. “Okay, but you will do exactly as I say and will not give anyone your real name and you will quit the minute I say quit.” I glared at her, trying to convey the seriousness of the situation.
“Of course,” Ridley said, flashing a triumphant smile tinged with a smidge of irony. “You’re the boss!”
CHAPTER 32
We made a quick stop at Mysa to check in with Ryan, during which Ridley gave him a vague explanation of where we were going. Then Ridley and I set off in her car for Silver Meadows. I convinced myself that this kind of subterfuge was justified, even if it veered just a teensy bit outside the ethical lines. Shannon Claremore had tied my hands by refusing to talk to me and refusing to let me talk to her father. The information he had could be the key to finding out who killed my grandfather and Flick. If I had to extend my toe across the line to get it, I could live with that.
As I watched Ridley walk into the lobby of Silver Meadows, I gripped the steering wheel of her Yukon so tight, my knuckles were literally white. I closed my eyes and exhaled as I loosened the death grip on the wheel. I needed to relax. We’d been over the plan several times on the drive down here. Ridley knew what she was supposed to do.
The plan was for her to pose as a member of the Greenville, North Carolina, Town Council, there to speak with Charlie regarding his daughter Shannon’s nomination for Citizen of the Year. It seemed like a plausible enough story—after all, the Claremores were prominent members of the community, active in several local charities in addition to their own ministries. It was late December, when all of the year-end lists were coming out, so it felt like the idea worked. Hopefully, it was at least strong enough to get past Rhonda. If she gave Ridley any trouble or asked to call Shannon to approve the visit, Ridley was going to tell her that the award must be kept secret from the nominees or they’d be disqualified.
Once Ridley got in front of Charlie, she was supposed to ask some softball questions about Shannon—What she was like as a young girl? How she did in school? Stuff like that—and then ask if there are any other family members she could talk to aspart of the process. If he said yes, then we would walk away with more potential sources about the Miller family. And if he said no, well, that would provide the perfect opening to bring up the plane crash. I told Ridley to tread lightly but mention that she’d read somewhere that Shannon was related to the family who died on Chincoteague in the fifties. If he denied it, she should say she’d seen his signature on the release forms from the Chincoteague funeral home. Surely once he realized he’d been found out, he would come clean. Or at least slip up and say something that would help us figure out what this man and his daughter were hiding.
I sat in the parking lot facing the large green lawn. There were a few other cars in the lot, but I was the only person out there as far as I could tell. It was still light out but wouldn’t be for much longer. The days were short this time of year in eastern Virginia. I tapped my fingers on the wheel. I was not good at waiting or at trusting someone else to do the interviews that I wanted to do, but in this case, I had no choice. The minutes ticked by. In need of something to do to busy my mind, I opened Words with Friends.
I don’t even know how much time had passed, but I’d just scored sixty-two points for the two-letter word za (accepted slang for pizza) when Ridley’s knock on the window nearly sent me flying into the roof of the car. I fumbled for the door-unlock button, my heart racing.
“Well, that was interesting,” she said, a crease appearing above her nose.
“Did they buy it? I mean, did they believe you were from the town council?”
“Of course.” Her tone was breezy, but there was a look of concern on her face.
“What did he say? Did you confront him about the form at the funeral home?”
“We never got that far.”
After all of this effort, Ridley never even asked Charlie Miller about signing the release form? Never confronted him about why he was lying to us? I didn’t want to come down too hard on her, but I was disappointed. “What happened?”
“Charlie told me—insisted, actually—that he doesn’t have a daughter named Shannon.”
Of all the things I expected her to say, that was not one of them. “What?”
“Yeah, he kept referring to his daughter as Bethany. Each time, I corrected him by saying, ‘You mean Shannon?’ and he’d shake his head and say, ‘My daughter is Bethany.’ He started to become agitated, so after a bit I went and got Rhonda. I told her what was happening, and she said he must be having one of his ‘off days.’”
“Off days? Like memory-wise?”
“That’s what she seemed to indicate.”
Shannon had told me on the phone that her father was not well, but I had no idea that’s what she meant. I’d talked to him just a few days before and he seemed completely lucid. I didn’t know a whole lot about how memory loss in the elderly…was it possible that one day he could know his daughter’s and grandkids’ names and a couple of days later not know them?
My frustration was mounting. “Well, I guess that was a giant bust.”
“There was one other thing.” She took out the small notebook I’d given her and read from one of the pages. “He said Bethany was a good girl and that he was so proud of how far she’d come since the night of the accident.”
The night of the accident? What the hell did that mean—if it meant anything at all? Given the fact that Charlie couldn’t even remember his own daughter’s name, the reference could have been just a random artifact of a diseased mind.
“Any idea what accident he’s talking about?” I asked, more out of frustration than any expectation that Ridley might actually know what the old man was referring to.
“Well,” she said, giving me a look that was one part warning and one part pride. “I did a quick Google news search of the name Bethany Miller, Charles Miller, and the word accident. Here’s what came up.” She handed me her phone.
It was an article from the Hudson Falls Chronicle from November 1969. I read the story. Then I read it again. Then I read it yet again. This must have been what my grandfather and Flick had discovered, what Tackett meant when he said Shannon Claremore isn’t who she says she is. If I was jumping to the right conclusion, Charlie Miller was not losing his memory. He knew exactly who his daughter was.
CHAPTER 33
In November 1969, fifteen-year-old Bethany Miller, daughter of Charles and Rebecca Miller of Hudson Falls, Texas, was driving her father’s pickup truck downtown just before midnight. She had only a learner’s permit, no driver’s license. Bethany’s mother had recently died, and both Bethany and Charlie had sort of “fallen apart” after Rebecca’s death, according to neighbors interviewed for the article. The police report said that Bethany ran a red light in downtown Hudson Falls and hit a Ford Mustang that was making a left turn across the intersection. The driver of the Mustang was killed instantly. He was seventeen-year-old Jason Wells, the son of Judge Garrison Wells, a municipal court judge in Hudson Falls. Bethany pleaded guilty to vehicular homicide and was sentenced to twenty-seven months in a juvenile detention facility.
As I read the story and began reconciling it with what we already knew, a picture began coming into focus. After weeks of stumbling around in the dark, it su
ddenly felt like someone had switched the lights on. Shannon Miller and Bethany Miller were cousins who were born in the same year, 1954. Shannon died in a plane crash along with her entire family at the age of four. Bethany Miller got into serious trouble as a minor, went to prison, and was released at the age of seventeen. There were no searchable mentions of Bethany Miller from Hudson Falls after 1971, which was the year that Shannon Miller, now Shannon Claremore, would have enrolled in college—the wedding announcement said she graduated from East Carolina University in the class of 1975. I knew I had a long way to go before I could bring any of my theories to the authorities, but for now I just needed to say it out loud. I turned to Ridley. “I think Bethany Miller stole her cousin’s identity and started a new life for herself after she got out of prison.”
Ridley looked at me, eyes wide, and for one awful moment I thought she was going to start laughing or tell me I was crazy, but instead she said, “How does a person even do something like that?”
I let out the breath I’d been holding. She didn’t think it was crazy…or at least she didn’t think I was. “Identity theft in 2020 looks very different than it would have back then, but it definitely happened,” I said. “I took a class in college on the counterculture literature of the 1970s…”
Ridley shot me a sideways look.
“It’s relevant, I promise,” I said. “As a part of the class, we read this book—more of a glorified pamphlet, actually—called The Paper Trip. It was all about how to steal the identity of someone who died. It gave detailed instructions.”
“Really? Is that even legal?”
“Identity theft, no, but the book was protected under free speech. Anyway, the point is that it used to be way easier to become someone else back before the internet and before everything was digitized.”
“And you think Bethany Miller started living as Shannon Miller after she got out of prison?”