Chapter 2
Billingsly was looking at his cell phone and didn’t see Rachel until he nearly collided with her. He stopped short inches from contact, and his face reddened. He knew he was in trouble. “Rachel.”
She glared at him. “I called the office several times for you this week. I left voice messages and I emailed you. You haven’t gotten back to me, Bill.”
“I’ve been busy. I get a lot of emails.” He made a dismissive gesture. “And I was out of town on business. It’s been hectic. You know. All the news that’s fit to print and so forth,” he joked.
She didn’t smile. “And some that isn’t.” She indicated the cafeteria table she and Mary Aaron had just vacated. “We need to talk. Now.”
His phone alerted him to the arrival of a text message, and he looked down at it. “This really isn’t a good time.” He glanced up and around the room as if looking for someone, then back at her. The smirk was gone from his face. “Why don’t you drop by the office? Later in the week, maybe?”
“I’ve already been to your office, Bill. I went Wednesday. Then again yesterday. The receptionist keeps saying you were out.”
“As I said, out-of-town business.”
“Right.” She nodded as if in total understanding. “The odd thing is, your Lexus was parked in your usual spot.”
“Honestly, Rachel, I really don’t have time to chat right now. Unless . . .” His tone became playful, though his pale eyes remained flat and expressionless. “Unless you’ve stumbled upon another dead body. In that case—”
She made fists and clamped them tightly against her sides. “That’s not even a little bit funny.”
He smiled thinly. “Murder’s always good for selling newspapers. And Amish murders are better yet. Newswise, I mean. Bad for the victim, of course.”
As a child, she’d been taught forbearance and forgiveness, but she doubted that she could ever extend grace to Billingsly. Right now, Rachel wanted desperately to smack his smirking face. “Has anyone ever told you what an egotistical jerk you are?”
His mouth pursed. “I think you’ve said quite enough.”
“I haven’t said nearly enough.” She raised her voice, and several strangers sitting at the next table over drinking hot chocolate looked their way. “You’ve been avoiding me because you don’t want to talk about that nasty gossip column you’ve been printing.”
“You’re making a scene, Rachel. People are staring.”
“Let them. Let them hear what I think of your disregard for this town and the Amish community.” She took a step closer to him, feeling her cheeks grow hot. “Do you have any idea how much damage you’ve caused, printing your hearsay? Why someone hasn’t sued you for libel, I don’t know.”
“It has to be untrue to be libel,” Billingsly responded coolly.
His arrogance made her even angrier. “How can you sleep at night, putting things like that in print? Maybe it’s because you’re a bully at heart. Is that why you enjoy this sort of thing? You enjoy taking advantage of vulnerable people who won’t fight back? Is that it, Bill? Because it’s not like this is the first time we’ve seen this from you. Last summer you used Beth Glick’s murder to sell papers. And you didn’t care how deeply you hurt the Amish doing it.”
“The citizens of Stone Mill deserve to know the truth of what’s happening in their neighborhood. If it’s news, I publish it. I’m not responsible for people’s dirty secrets. I just print it. Not my fault if it sells papers.”
“Whose business is it that Joab and Annie’s son broke with the Amish? So what if he’s living in a trailer park with his girlfriend? Why would you shame Joab and Annie in front of their church?”
“You’re not putting that on me. Joab shamed himself when he lied to his wife and his friends,” Billingsly argued. “We’re supposed to think the Amish are such good people. The Amish are no different from the rest of us. Joab lied to his bishop, his neighbors, and his wife. And that’s news.” He lifted a shoulder. “Besides, Aunt Nellie never uses names. Readers come to their own conclusions.”
“Doesn’t use names! What does that matter? Your gossip column identified Joab as a bearded miller who drives a piebald horse.” She raised her chin defiantly. “How many millers in this valley still make stone-ground flour? How could it be any other man but Joab Herschberger? He and his wife are good people. Joab’s brothers and his elderly parents live in Stone Mill. Their grown kids are here. Now Joab and Annie may sell and move west because of what you did.”
“Not because of what I did,” Billingsly flung back. “Because of what Joab did.”
Rachel was so angry now that she felt like steam was going to blow out her ears. “It’s going to stop.” She pointed forcibly at the floor, ignoring the fact that she’d now drawn quite an audience. “And it’s going to stop now. Your column has caused enough heartache in this community. Promise me that you’ll never print it again, or—”
“Or what?” he scoffed. “What are you going to do? Have your cop boyfriend arrest me for telling the truth?” His eyes narrowed, and he lowered his voice so that no one around them could hear him. “Let me give you some advice, Rachel. Can I do that?”
He went on before she could respond. “You need to stop worrying so much about your Amish friends’ reputations and start worrying about your own. You know why? Huh? Because Nellie has plenty of material and there’s one column she’s eager to see in print. A juicy tidbit about a nosy innkeeper with an insider trading conviction . . .”
Rachel blanched, suddenly feeling nauseated. “What did you say?” she breathed.
“You heard me. How would you like seeing your B&B on the front page of next Saturday’s edition? You think that might dent your halo in this town? I bet the Associated Press would pick up that story.” He thrust his head forward so that his nose was almost touching hers. “How good would that be for your business?”
She caught her breath, feeling as though she was going to implode or explode—she didn’t know which. “Are you threatening me, Bill Billingsly?” she demanded loudly, not caring who heard her.
“Not threatening,” he said quietly. “Promising.” He turned as if to walk out of the cafeteria in the direction of the gym, then halted. A strange expression flickered across his features.
She glanced past him to see what had distracted him. Striding into the cafeteria was a burly, bearded man in green camo pants and an army jacket, a beret pulled over his head. She instantly recognized him as Jake Skinner, one of her guests at the B&B, a Vietnam War veteran who hadn’t spoken more than twenty words to anyone since he’d checked into Stone Mill House.
Abruptly, Billingsly turned and strode away in the opposite direction. He walked between several tables to the service area, where kids picked up school lunches and placed them on trays. Without looking back, he pushed through a half door, and disappeared in the direction of the school’s industrial kitchen.
Rachel looked back in Jake Skinner’s direction, but lost sight of him in a party of tourists being herded toward the refreshment area by a tour guide waving a flag stamped with the outline of an Amish buggy.
“This way,” the guide called to his charges. “We meet back here in half an hour for the buggy tour.”
Rachel circumnavigated the group, her curiosity at the editor’s flight quickly vanishing under a wave of anger. Billingsly had just threatened to publicly expose an incident that she’d thought was behind her. Would he do it? Would he plaster her face and Stone Mill House on the front page of his vicious rag? And if he did, what would it mean for her future?
“The snow’s really coming down outside,” Rachel observed, staring out the kitchen window for a moment, then turning back to Mary Aaron. “Glad my guests are all settled in for the night. I don’t think anyone ought to be driving in this.”
“Ya,” Mary Aaron agreed as she filled a thermos with milk that would be placed in the dining room for guests who rose early in the morning. “And a good thing I don’t have to walk home in this weather. Listen to that wind. Dat said the almanac was calling for a blizzard this weekend.”
“According to Evan, the weather service isn’t expecting a blizzard, but there may be whiteout conditions in some parts of the county.”
It was after nine p.m. Evan had taken Rachel and her cousin out for dinner at the local Mennonite diner, which had been packed, then dropped them off at the B&B and headed home. Rachel had invited him in for a cup of tea, but he’d declined, saying he wanted to get to bed early. He was starting a week on the seven-to-three shift the following day.
Mary Aaron had offered to spend the night at the B&B and help Rachel do whatever needed to be done the following day. Ada, Rachel’s cook and housekeeper, wouldn’t be in the next morning because it was a Sunday, and Rachel would have her hands full. Usually on Sundays, Rachel could count on her part-time, non-Amish, high school girls, but one girl had taken the weekend off to go to a cousin’s wedding in Philadelphia and the other had called in sick. Rachel and Mary Aaron would be on their own seeing to the needs of the inn.
Stone Mill House offered a buffet brunch daily, and afternoon tea some days of the week, but not regular sit-down meals. Still, if snow kept everyone indoors, Rachel’s guests would need to eat. Her fridge and cabinets were well stocked, but she was no cook. Mary Aaron was technically bound by the same rules Ada and the other Amish women of the community followed. She was expected to refrain from unnecessary work on the Sabbath, but not being baptized yet, she was allowed a little leeway.
“Would you like a cup of tea before bed?” Rachel asked, filling a glass jar with homemade biscotti. She was standing beside Mary Aaron at the kitchen counter. “A cookie maybe?”
Rachel was half hoping that Mary Aaron would decline and head to bed once they had the dining room ready for morning. Rachel was feeling as if she could use a few moments to herself, just to get her head straight. It had been a great day, all in all. The Winter Frolic was off to a better start than anyone, including her, had expected. And she’d really enjoyed the horse-drawn sleigh ride with Evan. But she couldn’t get Billingsly’s threat out of her mind.
It wasn’t something she wanted to discuss with Evan or even Mary Aaron. The incident Billingsly had referred to had happened a long time ago. In a different lifetime, really. When she’d lived in a high-rise apartment complex, worked for Lehman Brothers, and dated Christopher. In corporate business, actions weren’t always black and white, especially in those days. Rachel didn’t want to have to get into a conversation with Mary Aaron or Evan or any of her friends or relatives about what had happened because they could so easily misunderstand . . . and think the worst of her.
“Ne, I’m stuffed like a Christmas goose after all I had to eat at the frolic, and then the chicken stew and biscuits at the diner.” Mary Aaron patted her abdomen, then picked up the thermos and carried it out of the kitchen and into the dining room.
Rachel followed her with the jar of biscotti. A coffeemaker and a stack of Ada’s muffins covered in plastic wrap were already on the elegant oak serving buffet that Rachel had refinished herself after buying it at a yard sale. As Rachel arranged a set of mugs near the coffeepot, the light from the wall sconce reflected off her diamond, and Mary Aaron exclaimed with delight.
“Pretty, it is, your betrothal ring,” she said, switching to the familiar Deitsch they often reverted to when they were alone. “Has your mother seen it yet?”
“No,” she admitted. “But I’m not going to hide it from her and my father. I’m not Amish anymore. There’s nothing wrong with wearing a ring given to me by the man I’m going to marry.”
Her cousin patted her arm. “Poor Rachel. Caught somewhere between your world and mine.”
Rachel closed her eyes for a second, suddenly feeling tired. “Something like that.”
“Hard it must be.” Mary Aaron paused. “You’re really going to do it then? Marry your Englisher policeman? We wondered. The two of you have been walking out for what? Two years?”
“Something like that,” Rachel admitted. She removed her apron. “It’s been a while.”
“And you’re sure he’s right for you?”
She opened her eyes to look at her cousin. “And you don’t think he is? I thought you liked Evan.”
“I do.” Mary Aaron straightened a wicker basket of paper napkins. “I’m just asking if you’re absolutely sure. Because for a long time—”
“Yes?”
“You weren’t,” Mary Aaron said gently.
“Evan’s the right man for me. He’s the man I want to marry,” she said. Mary Aaron was right. For a long time, Rachel hadn’t been sure about her relationship with Evan. But, looking back, she knew that was more a reflection of her own indecision than him.
“And he makes you happy?”
Rachel nodded. “He does. He’s a wonderful man, and I hope that my mother and father will understand and come to love him as I do.”
“It will be hard for them, Aunt Esther and Uncle Samuel. So long as you are single, they can still hope that you will come back to the church . . . to the community.”
“I won’t. I can’t. It’s not me anymore. I respect the faith”—Rachel sighed—“but I can’t live like that. Not ever again.”
Mary Aaron’s lips curved into a gentle smile, one that lit her eyes with affection. “Then you should marry your Evan. Our life is not an easy one. It’s not for everyone. But it will take time for your mother and father to accept him as a son-in-law. When he becomes your husband, they must face that there is no more chance.”
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.