by Marta Perry
“I did not mean to get Hank in trouble,” Sarah said. “I’m sure he was just looking for me, as he said.”
“I’m not blaming you, or Mitchell either, for that matter.” Leo patted her hand again. “But I know very little about that young man, and I’d prefer that you not let anyone in unless I tell you to.”
Sarah nodded, her gaze on the tabletop, and Jacob knew she was feeling at fault.
“I’ll take care of collecting his key,” Leo said. “Now, as to the work. Tomorrow you can start sorting through the clothes and packing them in boxes to go to the thrift store.” He glanced around the kitchen, shaking his head. “I’d like to auction off the whole lot, but that wouldn’t be right, so we’ll have to take our time and go through everything. Any papers you might find should be put aside for me to see.” He rubbed at the line that had deepened between his snowy eyebrows, as if finding all of this too much.
Sarah, obviously seeing the signs of stress as well, reached out to pat his sleeve. “If you are upset about sorting Mr. Strickland’s things—”
“No, no, it’s not that.” Leo’s face warmed as he smiled at her. “At my age, you expect your friends and clients to start dying off. The reason I’m upset came in today’s mail. I received a note from Richard, saying he wanted to change his will.”
That must have given him a start, knowing his friend was dead and then getting a letter from him. No wonder he seemed upset.
“But…I thought he was leaving everything to the historical society. He often talked about that.” Sarah’s bright eyes had clouded.
Leo sighed, shaking his head. “That was the way the last will read, and of course it’s valid, since we didn’t draft a new one.”
“But if he wanted to make changes…” Sarah fell silent, obviously turning the possibility over in her mind.
“Even if he left a list of proposed alterations, it doesn’t change anything. I just wish I knew what he was thinking.” He smiled, but it seemed to take an effort. “He didn’t mention anything about it to you, then?”
Sarah shook her head. “I suppose he might have wanted to leave something to Hank. He wouldn’t have known about him when he made up his last will. But that’s the only thing I can imagine.”
“Like you, I’m troubled by any changes in Richard’s regular behavior, but I expect we’ll find there was some reason for everything.” Leo waved his hands in a shooing motion. “I’ve kept you long enough. Go on home now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Jacob followed Sarah out to the buggy. He’d been worried about her when he’d arrived, and he was more worried now that he’d heard about Hank being in the house. Leo Frost hadn’t liked it, either.
Jacob helped Sarah into the high seat and stood for a moment staring up at her. The black bonnet framed her face, seeming to dampen all her brightness.
“Why didn’t you tell Mitchell to get out when you found him in the house?” The words escaped before he thought them through.
Sarah gaped at him. Little wonder. He was acting ferhoodled, for sure, out of worry about her.
“How could I do that?” Her quick temper flared. “It is not my house. And Hank was a relative of Mr. Strickland. You are being foolish.”
“Ach, well, maybe you are being foolish, too, staying on here,” he snapped back. “I wish I’d never encouraged it.”
Sarah’s chin tilted up. “It’s none of your business what I do, Jacob. Now take me home, please.”
He swung himself up to the seat next to her. Fuming and being foolish both at the same time. What was he going to do about his sweet, stubborn Sarah?
* * *
AT LEAST, SARAH DECIDED the next day, she had something positive to do. Sorting through Mr. Strickland’s clothing was depressing, but it was better than wandering around the house looking for something out of order. She’d done that so much that she’d begun to see problems everywhere, say nothing of hearing every creak the old house made.
She glanced at the large stacks on the four-poster bed—shirts, pants, suits, ties, all neatly folded. Bearing Leo Frost’s words in mind, she had kept her eyes open for any papers, but the dresser and closet had contained only clothes. Mr. Strickland had been meticulous, despite the fact that he’d seldom thrown anything away.
Sarah got up from sitting on the floor, and stretched her back. All the clothing was ready to be packed, but she had no boxes.
The grocery store kept a stack that anyone who needed them could have. She’d best take a walk and pick up a few boxes. Too bad she hadn’t thought of that when Jacob had dropped her off. He could have loaded some in the buggy.
She headed for the stairs, detouring first to open the door to the study. It tended to swing shut, and she pushed the heavy doorstop into place and then trotted down the stairs and out to the kitchen to get her bonnet.
Springville was small enough that it didn’t take much more than ten minutes to walk from one end to the other. She strolled past the drugstore and the fabric shop, an old-fashioned one that catered to the many Amish quilters in the area. The spring sunshine was warm on her shoulders, relaxing her.
She hadn’t realized how depressing it would be cooped up in that house alone all day. Mr. Strickland might have been cranky, but he’d loved to talk, sometimes following her around as she worked, telling her his views on the latest political scandal or expounding on the mistakes of the township supervisors. She’d liked it best when he talked about Springville’s early days, or when he’d relived the memories brought on by each of the curios he’d saved.
The stack of boxes was at the side of the market, as usual, and she took as many as she could carry, waving her thanks through the window to the clerk at the front register.
She’d reached McKay’s Antiques when she heard someone behind her.
“Sarah…Sarah Weaver. Wait a minute.”
Sarah didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Maude Stevens, president of the Spring Township Historical Society, had been related to Richard Strickland through her late husband, and she was one of the few people whose visits he’d tolerated.
But tolerated was the right word. Mr. Strickland had always complained that he could see her beady eyes assessing the property she coveted for the historical society.
Sarah turned, juggling the boxes, and waited while the woman chugged up to her. In her middle sixties, Maude Stevens was built somewhat like the church wagon that carried benches from one Amish home to another for worship—square and squat. Today she wore a hat, a concoction of feathers and net that Sarah stared at in awe. Maude must have been at the Women’s Club luncheon at the inn—that was the only thing Englische women wore hats to anymore.
“Glad I caught you.” Maude put a possessive hand on her arm, nearly causing Sarah to lose her grip on the boxes. “Wait till I catch my breath.”
Sarah nodded. She could hardly refuse. To do Maude justice, her eyes weren’t really beady. They were as shiny as two black pebbles one of the kinder might bring in from the creek.
“What are all the boxes for? You’re not giving away anything from Richard’s house, I hope.” The woman seemed to have recovered from her race down the street.
“Mr. Frost asked me to pack up the clothing.” Best to make it clear that the lawyer was in charge, Sarah thought. “I’ve been doing that today.”
“Clothes.” Maude dismissed Sarah’s reply with a wave of her hand. “That doesn’t matter, but nothing else must be disposed of unless I see it first.�
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Sarah blinked, unsure how to respond. “I thought Mr. Frost was responsible for that.”
“Leo Frost was just Richard’s attorney,” Maude said, dismissing him with the same gesture she’d used for the clothing. “According to Richard’s will, the bulk of his property will go to me…I mean the historical society, which I represent. As such, I should be the one to supervise any disposition of the house contents. You can’t be expected to know what’s of value, Sarah. And I, after all, am a relative.”
“Not quite correct, is it, Maude, dear?” The question came silkily. Donald McKay had stepped out of his antiques shop, apparently listening in on their conversation without embarrassment. “It was your husband who was distantly related to Richard. Your late husband. I’m sure I remember Richard making it clear that you had no claim on his estate at all.”
“That’s not true.” Maude’s face seemed to swell, its ruddy color darkening. “Well, it’s true enough that it was my husband who was Richard’s blood kin, but he always treated me like a…like a dear niece.”
That was so false that Sarah could only stare at her. Mr. Strickland had put up with her visits with ill-concealed impatience.
“Really?” Donald McKay’s pale eyebrows lifted above his gold-rimmed glasses. “I find that so surprising.” His voice was almost a purr, as if he’d borrowed it from the tortoiseshell cat that slept in his front window. “I seem to recall hearing Richard say—”
“I must be off.” Maude interrupted him hastily, not wanting to hear what he remembered. “I’ll stop by the house later, Sarah. Remember, don’t get rid of anything without my approval.”
She was gone before Sarah could find a reply. The only consolation was that it would be up to Leo Frost to deal with her.
Sarah glanced at Donald and found his blue eyes twinkling at her from behind his glasses. He smoothed his sparse blond hair with one hand.
“I hope you appreciate the favor I just did for you, getting rid of our dear Maude that way.”
Once again, she didn’t know how to respond. She should not admit to being glad to see Maude steam off down the street. “I’m sure she means well,” Sarah said finally.
McKay chuckled. “That’s what’s called damning with faint praise,” he said. “Maude makes it sound as if she, not the historical society, is the beneficiary. I’m sure that’s how she thinks it should be.”
“It was up to Mr. Strickland to leave his property as he wished,” Sarah said, reminded again of the fact that he’d wanted to change his will before he died.
“True enough,” McKay said. “At the risk of sounding too much like Maude, I’d be willing to come and help you sort out the valuables from the trash in Richard’s collections. There are some antiques that should be safeguarded when the house is empty.”
That at least she knew how to answer. “I’m sure the house will be safe. I’m there during the day, you know. And at night, Mr. Frost has asked the police to drive by and check on it, in addition to Hank Mitchell being in the garage apartment.”
“That relieves my mind,” McKay said. “I’m glad Leo is being cautious. But about valuing the antiques…”
“That would be up to Mr. Frost,” she said quickly. “He told me not to let anyone in the house without his approval.”
“How farsighted of him,” McKay murmured. “I’ll speak to him about it, then.”
“Thank you for the offer.” The boxes were becoming unwieldy, and the house had begun to look like a sanctuary. “I must go now.”
McKay nodded, stepping back inside the shop. The sleeping cat opened one eye, looked at him and closed it again.
Readjusting the boxes, Sarah scurried down the street. It was normal, surely, for people to offer their help. In the case of a death in the Amish community, the family would immediately be surrounded by other Amish, ready to take over care of the farm, the children, or anything else that must be done.
It was natural, she assured herself. So why did it make her feel so uncomfortable?
CHAPTER FOUR
BY THE TIME SARAH reached the house, the boxes were slipping out of her arms. Seeing her struggle with them, Hank dropped his hedge clippers and loped over to rescue them.
“You should have told me you needed these. I could’ve been your pack mule.” He balanced the boxes easily, giving her a smile that made him look like a mischievous ten-year-old.
“Danki—thank you,” she corrected, switching to English. “They’re not heavy, just unwieldy.”
“As long as I’m living in the garage apartment, I’m supposed to be doing the chores around here.” He shrugged. “I don’t suppose that lawyer mentioned anything to you about when I have to leave.”
“No. No, he hasn’t.” It hadn’t occurred to her that Hank would be losing his apartment with Mr. Strickland’s death. “I’m sorry.”
“No problem,” he said easily, waiting while she unlocked the door. “I guess I’ll just be moving on.” He leaned against the door frame. “Will you miss me, Sarah?”
She kept her gaze on the key. “I will be sorry to lose my job,” she said. The door opened, and she held out her hands for the boxes. “But I wish you well in whatever you do next.”
“I’ll carry these in for you.” Hank started to move past her.
“I’m sorry.” She stepped in front of him, mindful of Leo Frost’s orders. “I’m not supposed to let anyone in the house unless Mr. Frost tells me to.”
Hank’s expression of surprise was almost comical. “But…I’m always in and out. How am I supposed to get the plant food and the watering cans from the mudroom if I can’t come in?”
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “You should talk to Mr. Frost about it. I’m sure he’ll understand.” Or would he? Leo hadn’t seemed especially pleased with Mr. Strickland’s decision to let his young relative stay here.
“Guess I’ll have to talk to him. Frost doesn’t expect you to do the heavy work of sorting and clearing, does he? That’s not right, especially when I’m here.”
“That is sehr kind of you, Hank. I’m glad you understand that I must do as he says.”
At least, she supposed she did. Maude Stevens seemed to think she should be giving the orders.
Nodding at Hank, Sarah closed the door and gathered up the boxes. If Mrs. Stevens was right… She stopped, shook her head and headed for the front stairs. That was for the Englische to sort out, not her.
By the time she’d reached the stairs, she realized she’d need the packaging tape, which was kept in the utility drawer in the kitchen. Dropping the boxes, she started back there, glancing at the telephone stand as she passed. And stopped, staring. When she’d left the house, she’d noticed that there were several messages on the machine, and had made a mental note to ask Leo what to do about them. Now the message indicator said zero. Someone had been in the house while she was gone.
* * *
SARAH WAS BEING QUIETER than usual this evening. Jacob glanced at her as she sat at the kitchen table across from him, her head bent over the record books from the shop. It had been her daad’s idea that Jacob should show Sarah how he’d been keeping the books, so that she could take over once her job had ended.
That, too, was her father’s idea. Jacob wasn’t so sure it was what Sarah herself intended.
She’d enjoyed the freedom working in town gave her. He knew his Sarah. She’d be looking for some way of continuing that freedom.
She smoothed a strand of hair ba
ck under her kapp, and his gaze followed the movement, imagining that silky strand flowing through his fingers.
She made a penciled check mark against one item in a column, and he leaned a little closer to see what she questioned. The repair to Simon Esch’s mower, it looked like.
There was a fine line between her eyebrows, and he didn’t think it had anything to do with the fact that Simon hadn’t yet paid for his mower repair.
“Was ist letz, Sarah? You are troubled,” he said quietly, not wanting her parents, in the next room, to hear.
She glanced around the lamplit kitchen, as if assuring herself that her younger sisters were safely engaged in a board game in the living room, where her mother sat with her mending and her father read the latest issue of The Budget for news of the Amish community. Darkness pressed against the kitchen windows, and the overhead gas lamp cast a golden glow on Sarah’s face.
“I had three different people offering to help sort things in the house today, and it’s hard to find a way to say no to them. But Leo was very clear about it—no one is to come in unless he gives the okay.”
“Who were they?” Jacob could guess that one of them would have been Hank, who always seemed to be hanging around Sarah.
“Maude Stevens,” she said. “Reminding me that her late husband was a relative of Mr. Strickland’s. And Mr. McKay from the antiques shop, who seemed to feel he was the only one who could properly value the old pieces in Mr. Strickland’s house. And Hank, of course.”
Of course. “I hope you told them all to talk to Leo Frost,” he said. “It is his responsibility to deal with them, not yours.”
“I know, but what can I do when—”
She broke off, her head lifting, and in an instant he heard the sound, as well. A horse whinnying somewhere outside.