Plain Dead (3 page)

Rachel shook her head again. “I know
Mam
wants me to come back. And I know she loves me. But she has to realize that I made my choice when I walked away from the farm all those years ago. I'm not the daughter—” She broke off as a man materialized in the hall doorway. “Mr. Skinner.”

She walked toward him. “Is there something I can get you?”

He was wearing his coat. A pair of thick leather gloves dangled from a beefy hand. “I don't suppose you can offer me anything stronger than coffee?” he said brusquely.

Mary Aaron smiled and made herself busy checking to be sure the sugar bowls were full.

“No, Stone Mill House doesn't have a liquor license.”
And I wouldn't sell it if I could
, Rachel thought. She did have an occasional glass of wine, but some habits die hard. The Amish didn't partake. Ever. And they would never serve alcohol to friends. Or strangers.

“Figured as much. But there must be a place in this town where a man can get a decent draft.”

“The Black Horse. That's the tavern in town. It's right on the main street, just past the old theater that's a bookstore now.” She hesitated. She didn't usually monitor her guests' comings and goings, but that didn't mean she never worried about them. “Have you looked outside, Mr. Skinner? It's really not a night to—”

“A little snow doesn't scare me, ma'am. I'm from Colorado.” He tugged a black watch cap over his head and walked out of the dining room.

“Only an Englisher would be so foolish,” Mary Aaron said when the front door closed behind Jake Skinner, “to go out in such a storm for beer.”

“I agree,” Rachel said. “But I could hardly tell him so.”

“I suppose.” Mary Aaron yawned and covered her mouth with her hand. “I was up before dawn this morning, so I'm ready for bed. Anything else you need me to do?”

“Not a thing. You go on up,” Rachel said. “Pull the trundle bed out from under my bed. It's already made up with sheets and blankets.”

“You're not coming?”

“In a bit. I want to check my email,” she hedged. She did want to check her email, but she felt too restless to turn in yet. She knew she couldn't sleep, and she could hardly keep the light on and read with her cousin trying to nod off.

Rachel couldn't stop going over her encounter with Billingsly in her head. Had he really been threatening to publish information about her past? Or was he just running his mouth? She didn't know what she was going to do about it, but she couldn't let him get away with trying to intimidate her—no matter the personal cost.

A gust of wind rattled the windows, and they both looked in the direction of the front of the house. “Hope we don't lose electricity tonight,” Rachel said. “I'd hate to have to depend on the fireplaces and woodstoves to keep my guests from freezing.”

“At least you have them,” Mary Aaron said. “Is good you don't forget all the lessons you learned growing up in a Plain household.” She opened a closet door and removed a kerosene lantern. “I'll take this lamp up with me, just in case.”

 

More than an hour later, Rachel was still puttering around in the small office. She'd checked her email and found a cancellation for the next night, which was just as well because the elderly couple in the first room on the second floor had already told her that they weren't attempting to drive home the following day and would be staying on.

It was getting late. Rachel knew that she should get to sleep herself because the following day would be hectic. Even though the Amish members of the community wouldn't be participating in the celebration, there was still an array of events scheduled. The one she was most excited about was the ice sculpture contest. Entrants, locals and out-of-towners, had signed up to create ice statues of animals. The creations could be sculpted anywhere in the town limits, and part of the fun was that visitors were asked to locate as many of the statues as possible. The winning sculptor would receive a hundred dollars and bragging rights, and the visitor who found all of the sculptures would win a free night at Rachel's B&B for the following year.

Sunday's forecast was for below-normal temperatures and sunshine by midafternoon. Rachel was expected to be a judge for the ice sculpture contest. And without enough sleep and with the extra work of so many guests, she would be lucky to make it through the day on her feet. She really did need to go to bed.

But she kept thinking about Bill and what he'd said. Would he really tell the town she'd been convicted of insider trading?

She stood in the middle of her office for a moment, thinking. She needed to talk to Billingsly. And the fact of the matter was, she wouldn't be able to sleep until she did. She stood there listening to the howl of the wind for a moment. Last time she had checked, it was still snowing. Weather reports were for heavy snow and high winds all night, tapering off sometime after four a.m.

It really wasn't a good idea to be driving during a storm like this. But Billingsly lived only three blocks away. And he made a point of telling anyone who would listen that he never dined until ten or went to bed before midnight. Billingsly would still be awake. He'd be home because of the storm, and she could make a rational attempt to talk some sense into him. Or at least know if he really was going to tell everyone what she'd done. Because if he was, she needed to tell those closest to her before the news got out. Resolutely, she donned boots, her warmest parka, and mittens, and let herself out by the back door.

The cold took Rachel's breath away. Not only was it snowing hard, but the wind was piercing, too. It howled around the house, whipping the tree branches and heaping up drifts around the house. Rachel shoved her hands in her coat pockets, put her head down, and started walking.

Hulda's house, behind her, was lit up like a Christmas tree. Her elderly neighbor would no doubt be curled up in her bed, reading a book, and the sons and grandsons would be watching sports on the multiple TVs in the house or playing billiards in the basement.

No vehicles were moving on the road to town. Rachel was so glad that Evan wasn't on duty tonight because the highway would be littered with accidents: fender benders and worse. It happened every time they had a major snowstorm. Did average people ever consider how much the police sacrificed to protect them in this kind of weather? Did they ever consider how often public servants like the police and paramedics put their lives on the line?

The snow was piling up fast, making it hard to see where the sidewalk ended and the street began. Rachel kept walking, but began to wonder if she'd come out on a fool's errand. Not only did she have another block and a half to walk, but she'd have to make her way back, too.

Of course she had no intention of staying long. And maybe Billingsly, despite being the cold fish that he was, would hear her out when she walked into his house looking like Frosty the Snowman.

Her feet were getting numb, and she wished she'd thought to wear a scarf. Luckily, lights were on in a few of the houses, and here and there a yard light shone. She concentrated on how the lights sparkled in the falling snow. Unlike her B&B, which was a hundred years older than most of the structures in Stone Mill, the houses were mostly early Victorian, with large yards and elaborate front porches. Pretty houses.

She turned onto Billingsly's street and spotted his house; the front porch light was on. Third on the right. She thought she could make out . . . Yes, there were definitely lights on downstairs in his house. He had to be at home because he never wasted electricity by leaving lights on when he wasn't there.

It was impossible to find the brick walk that led to the front porch, so Rachel cut across the lawn. Shivering with cold, she reached the house and made her way carefully up to the front door. The house had been magnificent in its day. Six pillars marched across the front, and the porch roofline was edged in gingerbread trim. The stained glass windows were large, almost floor to ceiling, and the elaborate front door boasted another pane of stained glass and an antique doorbell. Rachel reached out to ring the bell, but then hesitated.

Was this really a good idea? She was still so angry.

And a little scared.

She lowered her hand. Through the stained-glass sidelights on the door, she thought she could make out Bill's silhouette in the doorway that she knew led into his kitchen. His back was to her. He appeared to be wearing a bathrobe. A fire flickered on the hearth in his living room fireplace.

She raised her hand to ring the bell again. Then dropped it.
Face it, Rae-Rae,
her inner voice mocked.
This isn't one of your better ideas
.
Better to think on this a day or two. Go home, get warm, and climb in your bed
. . . which was exactly what she did.

Chapter 3

As predicted, the snowfall ended by sunrise the following day, and while Stone Mill did get about nine inches, it was not hit by the blizzard that everyone had been talking about. At seven thirty, after Rachel had fed her goats, she and Mary Aaron set out a breakfast of fresh fruit, pastries, and cereal and went outside to begin shoveling the sidewalks. There was a heavy pewter sky, and the air was cold, but the wind had driven much of the new-fallen snow into drifts at the edge of the house, so the task wasn't as bad as it might have been. They'd worked about fifteen minutes when Rachel's brothers Danny and Levi came walking up, each carrying a snow shovel.

“I didn't expect you two here this morning,” Rachel said, leaning on her shovel to catch her breath. “But I'm glad to see you.”

Levi was a sturdy boy of twelve with dark hair and a sweet smile, her favorite among her brothers, even though a sister wasn't supposed to have favorites. Danny, soon to be fourteen, was just entering the difficult teenage years when an older sister, especially one who had shamed the family by leaving the church, could be a source of embarrassment. Lately, she'd been making an effort to get to know him better, but so far, he'd resisted.

“How did you convince
Dat
to let you come shovel snow for me?” Rachel asked Danny, but Levi answered.

“Didn't tell him that's why we were coming. It's visiting Sunday. We've come to visit our sister.”

Danny averted his gaze and dug his shovel into the snow.

“Of course, it being the Sabbath,” Levi continued, “we're not supposed to do work except what has to be done.”

“Like clearing snow for safety reasons,” Mary Aaron put in with amusement. She was wearing a blue scarf over her head and a man's black beanie over that.

“Right,” Levi agreed. “So we can't take money, but we
can
take breakfast.” He grinned, his nose and cheeks a bright red. “I'll bet you've got something good in that kitchen.”

“Fair enough,” Rachel agreed. “And next time you come to help out, I'll be sure to—” A distressed cry caught her attention, and she turned toward the street. Eddie, the boy who delivered the Sunday Harrisburg newspaper, was stumbling along the street, slipping, falling, and weeping.

“What's wrong?” Rachel called. Eddie was a sensible youth, about the same age as Levi. “Are you hurt?” She stuck her shovel in a drift and ran through the snow, wading through drifts to reach the street. Mary Aaron, Danny, and Levi abandoned their shovels and followed her. “What happened to you?” she asked as she reached Eddie. His face was bright red with cold, his face wet with tears. The child looked terrified.

“Something wrong?” Jake Skinner had appeared on the front steps of the B&B in his coat and hat.

“We're trying to find out,” Mary Aaron called back to him.

Rachel grabbed both of Eddie's arms, forcing him to look at her. He was almost as tall as she was. “Do you want me to call your mom?” she asked calmly.

The paperboy nodded, wiped at his running nose with his coat sleeve. “Yeah. Could you call my mom? Please? I left my cell phone at home.”

Rachel let go of him and inspected him closely. She didn't see any blood; he seemed more frightened than injured. “We'll go right inside and call her, but you have to tell me what's wrong. Are you hurt?”

Tears began to run down his red cheeks again. “It's Mr. . . . Mr. Billingsly,” Eddie sobbed. “He's—” The boy pointed with a shaking hand in the direction he'd just come.

“Take a deep breath and calm down.” Rachel took him by his shoulders. “What about Mr. Billingsly?”

Eddie's wide eyes stared into her face. His normally fair skin had turned a pasty gray, his freckles standing out like raindrops on a dusty windowpane. He looked as if he'd seen a ghost.

Jake Skinner approached. “Is the boy hurt?”

Rachel shook her head. “I don't think so.” And then to Eddie she said, “What were you saying about Mr. Billingsly?”

“I think he's . . . he's dead.” Rachel heard one of her brothers gasp behind her. “Outside . . . on his front porch,” Eddie managed. “I was delivering his paper. He . . . he wants it on the porch by the front door. Not in the yard. No tip for the month if you forget.”

“You think he's dead?” Rachel repeated, trying to cut through the boy's rambling. She could hear the faint wail of sirens.

“He's got to be dead. I . . . I didn't know it was him. I saw this . . . this
thing
—” Eddie choked. “On the porch. I thought it was an ice statue. You know, the ones for . . . for the contest today. But . . . but when I got closer, I saw that it wasn't. It was a real person. All covered in ice. His eyes were open and he was . . . was staring at me.” The boy lowered his head and began to weep uncontrollably. “It was aw-awful.”

Rachel looked at Mary Aaron. “Could you take Eddie in the house and phone his mother to come and get him?”

“
Vat is?
” Danny asked. Both he and Levi were standing a few feet away, staring at Eddie. “Somebody's dead?”

“Of course I'll take him.” Mary Aaron smiled kindly at the paperboy and reached for one of his gloved hands. “Come on, Eddie. You can have something hot to drink while you wait for your mom.”

“Go on,” Rachel urged, glancing in the direction of Billingsly's house. “She'll call your mother for you. Don't worry. It'll be all right.”

“No, it won't,” Eddie said, shaking his head slowly. “It won't. Because he's dead.”

Rachel watched as Mary Aaron led Eddie toward the house. “Danny, you and Levi wait here. I'm going to go and see for myself.”

She glanced at Jake Skinner. He had picked up one of the snow shovels and started clearing the sidewalk, which struck her as odd since she was sure he had heard Eddie's claim that Bill Billingsly was dead. And she was also certain her guest somehow knew Bill.

“You don't have to do that,” Rachel called.

The man shrugged. “Needs doing.”

Rachel headed for Billingsly's, deciding to walk on the street. A snowplow had been through already, so it was easier going than the sidewalk would have been. She quickened her pace as the wail of emergency vehicle sirens cut louder through the peaceful, tree-lined neighborhood. Could Billingsly really be dead? From what? Had the man suffered a heart attack shoveling snow?

As Rachel hurried, she became aware that Levi and Danny were following her; she heard their boots crunching on the new snow. “Go back to the house,” she called over her shoulder. They ignored her, catching up, then surging ahead. Other neighbors were coming out of their homes, some still in bathrobes and slippers. Staring. Talking excitedly. Rachel broke into a trot. Billingsly couldn't possibly be dead.

 

Billingsly was definitely dead.

A few minutes later, Rachel stood in the midst of a gathering crowd of horrified onlookers. Although there were a few strangers, people in town for the Winter Frolic, she knew most of them, both Amish and English—among them several Amish couples; Jerry the mailman; Dr. Patterson the dentist; two of Eli Rust's sons; Blade, who lived with his family a block away; and a Canadian couple who were staying at Stone Mill. She had no idea how the Canadians had beat her there.

Two uniformed state troopers were already at the scene, trying to keep civilians out of the yard and away from the house, but it was a lost cause. A minute ago a paramedic vehicle had come to a halt in the middle of the street in front of the house, but they made no move to approach the victim. One of the troopers had met the paramedics on the sidewalk and was talking to them.

Rachel, like everyone else, couldn't stop staring. The entire scene was so bizarre that it was hard to believe it was real. Billingsly's stately home and the yard surrounding it looked like a painting on a calendar. Snow frosted the roof, the porch, and the surroundings, and ice coated the trees and shrubbery, making a beautiful winter montage. The yard was a pristine white, the perfect tableau, broken only by the curve of a small, dark object lying half buried in the snow at the side of the house.

Rachel's gaze kept returning to the front of the house. There were only two sets of footprints in the snow leading to the porch, one made by Eddie, Rachel assumed, and the other made by one of the troopers, who must have gone up the steps to check for a pulse. Eddie's tracks hadn't gone all the way up the stairs. It was obvious from his footprints where he had stopped, stared, then turned and run. His canvas bag of newspapers lay half buried in the snow at the bottom of the steps.

Everyone was talking excitedly, but in hushed tones. As Eddie had related, at first glance, Rachel would almost have taken the grotesque figure on the porch for one of the ice sculptures that had been springing up all over town all week. The thing had the distorted shape of a man. Upon closer inspection, a naked man. She glanced away, attempting to convince herself that this wasn't some publicity stunt that Billingsly had conjured up to cause a commotion and sell papers. But she couldn't help herself; she had to look again.

This was not an ice sculpture or a stunt.

Bill Billingsly was dead and not of natural causes. He was seated, his back to one of the large supporting pillars of his porch, his hands behind his back tied to the gray column. His legs were outstretched, as if he were lounging on the edge of the porch, his body parallel to the street. There was a length of rope wrapped around his ankles and calves.

Encased in ice.

And through ice, she could make out blue-and-white fabric tied around his mouth. A gag.

Rachel hated herself for standing there gawking at him, but she couldn't look away as the macabre image burned into her consciousness. She took in more details: Billingsly's dark, hairy legs and chest were as bare as his feet. He wore no hat or coat, though she could see now that he was wearing blue-and-green boxer shorts. And his eyes were open, as Eddie had reported. In fact, it was worse. Billingsly's eyes and mouth gaped as if in a final scream, crying out for help that never came.

Rachel couldn't help but begin to put together the facts she could assemble from the scene. Someone had obviously tied him to the porch; no one could do this to himself. She wanted to think that maybe he'd been killed and then left on the porch, but she suspected that wasn't the case. This looked too . . . staged. Staring at Billingsly's frozen body, she got the immediate and distinct impression that someone was making a statement.

“Could you step back, please?” One of the two troopers on the scene was trying to control the growing crowd. She was tall and attractive, even with her long blond hair tied back severely and no makeup on her face. Rachel had met her at a Christmas party she'd attended with Evan. She'd recently transferred from a troop farther west. Evan liked her; he said she was smart and had good instincts, that she was a good cop. Her name was Lucy . . . Lucy . . . Mars.

“Please,” Trooper Mars repeated, speaking with authority but not unkindly. “I need you to take a few steps back. If you could move to the sidewalk, that would be best.” She looked up and called out to several people cutting between the house next door and Billingsly's house. “We're asking that everyone stay off the property,” she insisted, waving them out of the side yard.

Rachel took a couple of steps back to stand on the sidewalk that had yet to be shoveled, her gaze still fixed on Billingsly's hideous form. When she'd first reached the house, she'd been aware of no sounds but the creaking of snow-clustered boughs and the steady pulse of her own heart. Now, she was almost overwhelmed by the noises around her: the familiar click of photos being snapped with smartphones, more sirens, the clang of a fire truck, a dog whining, and Jerry's disjointed voice, hoarse and rasping: “. . . I called it in. It was me . . . Walking my dog and the paperboy . . .” He walked toward the police cruiser with Trooper Mars, and his words were lost in the gathering hubbub of arriving firemen and more tourists and locals.

Rachel glanced to her left, and her gaze settled on her brother Levi, then on Danny. “You two need to go home.
Mam
and
Dat
will be very upset that I let you see this.” She herded them out of the crowd.

“Are you coming?” Danny asked.

“In a few minutes.” There were people everywhere now. Cars were pulling up, not just out front but on the side streets, too. In the alley behind Billingsly's house. People were walking all over the yard. “You two go on now,” she told her brothers. “Have Mary Aaron get you some breakfast. I'll see you for supper.”

“You're still coming?” Levi asked.

“Of course.” She stood there after the boys walked away, watching as several state troopers and the paramedics approached Billingsly's porch. They all stopped and studied the body. This had to be difficult for the paramedics, she thought. Being called to a scene where there was obviously nothing that could be done. She was no pathologist, but from his appearance, he'd been dead for hours.

A trooper and one of Billingsly's neighbors began to hastily put up crime scene tape, and she was pushed back farther by the crowd. There were people everywhere. Where had they all come from? she wondered. She didn't want to be there. She wanted to be anywhere else . . . but she'd been here last night. The thought came to her suddenly. She'd been here last night and would have to tell the police.

Billingsly hadn't been on the porch when she'd come the previous night, obviously. But he'd been home—she was sure of that. She stared at the house, taking notice that there were no lights on as there had been the night before, neither the porch light nor any interior lights; it was a dark enough day that had there been lights on inside, she would have been able to see them. So this had happened after he went to bed?