by Unknown
"Yes." He frowned. "I can't help but wonder if it had anything to do with the earlier crime, although I guess that's not very likely."
"No." But he detected a spark of interest in the chief's eyes. "If they thought they'd left any hint to their identity, they've had twenty years to take care of it."
"You think it's a coincidence, then."
Burkhalter considered for a moment. "Let's say I think it's a coincidence. But that I don't like coincidences."
It would not be a good idea to get on this man's bad side. Well, they both wanted the same thing, so that shouldn't be an issue.
He looked back down at the file. It contained a list of items that were presumed to have gone missing, the phrases so generic as to be useless. One side table. One rocking chair. He read a little farther. "There's mention here of a strong box that was found broken open and taken in for examination. No indication that it was ever returned to my mother. Any idea where that might be?"
Burkhalter held out his hand for the file, scanning it quickly. "If it didn't go back to the family, it's hard to tell. There are a few more files I can check. And the basement of this building is filled with all kinds of stuff that no one has ever properly documented. I'll have someone take a look around, but there's no guarantee we'll find it."
"I'd appreciate that." He rose. He'd been here long enough and found out very little. There wasn't much left to find after all this time. The sense of frustration was becoming familiar.
Burkhalter rose, too. "I'll let you know if we come up with anything. You're still at the inn?"
"Yes. I'm not leaving until I've disposed of the property. That's been left hanging for too long." Because his mother hadn't been able to forget how her father died, but she also hadn't known how to deal with it. Or hadn't wanted to.
"Folks will be glad to see that place taken care of." Burkhalter's eyes narrowed. "I just hope you're not planning to do any more police work on your own. If you know anything that might be helpful, even on a crime this old, you have a responsibility to divulge it."
Information? His mother's suspicions hardly fell into that category, and revealing them could harm innocent people.
"There's nothing, I'm afraid."
He had a feeling that Chief Burkhalter didn't entirely buy that, but he seemed to accept it for the moment.
"You'll let me know if anything occurs to you." It was more of an order than a request. "I'll be in touch if I find any reference to that strong box."
Tyler shook hands, thanking him, but without any degree of confidence that the strong box, or anything else, would appear. Everywhere he turned, it seemed all he found was another dead end.
* * *
Rachel tugged at the blue spruce she was trying to maneuver through the front door. Even with gloves on, the sharp needles pricked her, and as wide as the doorway was, it didn't seem—
"Having a problem?"
She'd seen Tyler pull in and had hoped she'd have the tree inside before he felt he had to come to the rescue. With the knowledge of his grandfather's Amish roots fresh in her mind, she'd have liked a little more time to decide how to approach the subject.
She managed a smile. "Large doorway, larger tree. It didn't look this big in the field."
"They never do." He replied easily enough, but she had the sense that some concern lurked.
Where had he been? She'd love to ask, but that would be prying.
"I seem to be stuck for the moment." She eyed the tree, halfway through the door. "I'm afraid you'll have to go around to the side."
"We can do better than that." He brushed past her, grasping the tree before she could caution him. "Ouch. You have one sharp Christmas tree."
She held up her hands, showing him the oversize gardening gloves she wore. "Blue spruce is my grandmother's favorite, and that's what I always remember being in the parlor when I was a child."
He paused in the act of pushing the tree through the door, turning to regard her gravely. "That's important to you, isn't it? Preserving the family traditions, that is."
Her throat tightened. If he knew a little more about her parents, he'd understand her longing to have the Christmas she remembered from her early childhood.
"I like family traditions." She could only hope she didn't sound defensive. "I just hope our guests will appreciate ours."
"It sounds as if you have plenty to choose from." With a final lift, he shoved the tree through into the entrance hall. Rachel followed quickly, closing the door against the chill air.
"True enough. Grams is of Moravian ancestry, and to them, celebrating Christmas properly is one of the most important parts of their heritage."
"What about the Amish?" He lifted the tree at the bottom, seeming to assume he'd help her put it up. "Don't they have a lot of Christmas customs?"
The casual way he asked the question affirmed her belief that he didn't know about his grandfather's background. The need to tell him warred with her natural caution. What if she told him, and that knowledge influenced his decisions about the property in a negative way?
She grasped the upper part of the trunk and nodded toward the parlor, where the tree stand was ready. "The Amish, along with the other plain sects, don't do the type of decorating that the rest of the Pennsylvania Dutch do. Their celebration is focused on home and school. The children do a Christmas play that's a huge event for the Amish community."
He nodded, but again she had the sense that he was really thinking of something else.
"If I lift it into the stand, do you think you can steady it while I tighten the clamps?"
"You don't need to help, really." She shouldn't be relying on him, even for something as minor as this.
"I'm a better bet than enlisting your grandmother or the housekeeper." He hoisted the tree, lifting it into the stand.
"I'm sure you have other things to do." But she reached carefully through the branches to grasp the trunk where he indicated.
Tyler shed his jacket and got down on the floor, lying on his back to slide under the tree. The branches hid his face to some extent, and his voice sounded muffled.
"I've done all I can today, in any event. I had a talk with your police chief."
She wasn't sure how she felt about that, especially if he'd seen fit to tell Zach Burkhalter about his mother's suspicions.
"Was he helpful?" She hoped she sounded neutral.
She must not have succeeded, because Tyler slid out far enough to see her face.
"I didn't say anything about your family." He frowned. "He seems pretty shrewd. He probably knew I was holding something back."
"Yes, he is." Her thoughts flickered back to the problems they'd gone through in the spring. Burkhalter had suspected, correctly, that they'd been withholding information then. "Did he have anything you didn't already know?"
"He was open about sharing the files." Tyler's hands moved quickly, tightening the tree stand's clamps around the base of the spruce. It was a good thing. Her leg ached from the effort of holding the heavy tree upright.
"But…?"
"But apparently his predecessor wasn't very efficient. It looked to me as if he'd just gone through the motions of investigating."
"I'm sorry. I know how much that must frustrate you."
Tyler slid back out from under the tree, giving it a critical look. "Seems fairly straight to me. What do you think?"
She let go and stepped back. "Wonderful. Thank you so much." Her gaze met his. "Really, I'm sorry the chief wasn't able to help you."
He shrugged. "I didn't expect much, to be honest. If there'd been anything obvious, the case would have been resolved a long time ago."
"I suppose so." But she knew he wasn't as resigned as he'd like to appear. He struck her as a man who succeeded at things that were important to him, and fulfilling a promise to his dying mother must be one of those.
The fact that his grandfather had been Amish didn't seem to relate at all, but how could she judge what might be important to him? She
had to tell him, and now was as good a time as any.
She took a breath, inhaling the fresh aroma of the tree that already seemed to fill every corner of the room. "There is something that Grams mentioned to me. Something I think you ought to know, if you don't already."
He shot her a steely look, and she shook her head in response.
"I don't think it can have anything to do with his death. But did you know that your grandfather had been Amish?"
His blank stare answered that. "Amish? No. Are you sure? I don't remember seeing any Amish people at the funeral, and I'd have noticed something like that at that age."
"He'd left the church by then." She suspected he wouldn't be content with that.
"Left the church? You mean they shunned him?" His voice showed distaste. "They wouldn't even come to his funeral?"
She was probably doing this all wrong. "From what Grams said, the choice was his, not theirs. Please don't think the Amish—"
"I don't think anything about them, one way or the other. Why should it matter to me? It's not as if my grandfather ever wanted a relationship with me. I'm doing this for my mother."
How much of his mother's personality had been determined by that bitter old man? Instinct told her Tyler needed to deal with those feelings, but she felt unable to reach him without crossing some barrier that would turn them into more than casual acquaintances.
"Families can be wonderful, but they can be hurtful, too." Like Daddy, leaving them without a goodbye. Or Mom, taking them away from the only security they'd ever known.
His hand came out and caught hers, holding it in a firm, warm grasp. "I guess you know something about it, don't you?"
"A bit. For me, my grandparents were the saving grace. I don't know who I'd be without them."
"My dad was the rock in our family. Anything I know about how to be a decent Christian man, I learned from him."
"You still miss him," she said softly, warmed by the grasp of his hand and the sense that he was willing to confide in her.
They had crossed that barrier, and it was a little scary on the other side.
He nodded. "He died when I was in my last year of high school, but I measure every decision against what I think he'd expect of me."
"If he knows, he must be glad that he had such an influence on your life."
"I hope he does." His voice had gone a little husky. He cleared his throat, probably embarrassed at showing so much emotion.
"You know," she said tentatively, "maybe knowing a little more about why your grandfather was the way he was would help you understand your mother, as well." She gave a rueful smile. "Believe me, if I could figure out what made my parents tick, I'd jump at the chance."
He seemed to become aware that he was still holding her hand, and he let go slowly. "I'll think about it. But there is something else you can do for me."
"Of course. What?"
"Your grandmother said you'd let me see your grandfather's ledgers. I'd appreciate that."
She felt as if someone had dropped an ice cube down her back. It took a moment to find her voice.
"Of course. I'll get them out for you." She turned away. She'd been wrong. They hadn't moved to a new relationship after all. Tyler still suspected her grandfather, and to him she was nothing but a source of information.
* * *
She had told Tyler she'd have the ledgers ready for him this evening, but that was beginning to look doubtful. Rachel looked up toward the ceiling of the church sanctuary, where a teenager perched at the top of a ladder, the end of a string of greenery in his hand. She was almost afraid to say something to him, for fear it would throw off his balance.
"That's fine, Jon. Just slip it over the hook and come back down."
He grinned, apparently perfectly at ease on his lofty perch. "Am I making you nervous, Ms. Rachel?"
"Definitely," she replied. "So get down here or I'll tell Pastor Greg on you."
Still grinning, he hooked the garland in place and started down, nimble as a monkey. She could breathe again.
She wasn't quite sure how she'd allowed herself to be talked into helping with the youth group's efforts to decorate the sanctuary for Advent. Supervising the teenagers' efforts might be harder than doing it herself, except that she'd never have gotten up on that ladder. The memory of flying off that stepladder when she'd put up the inn's Christmas lights was too fresh in her mind. She still didn't understand how that could have happened. How could she have missed something so obvious?
She moved back the center aisle, assessing their progress. In spite of a lot of horseplay and goofing off, the job was actually getting done. Swags of greenery cascaded down the cream-colored pillars that supported the roof, huge wreaths hung on either side of the chancel, and candleholders in each window had been trimmed with greenery. All that was left to do was to put new candles in all the holders.
She glanced at her watch. That was a good thing, since it was nearly nine, and she'd been told to send the kids off home promptly at nine.
"Okay, everyone, that's about it," she called above the clatter of voices. "You've done a fantastic job. Just put the ladders away, please, and you'd better cut along home."
Jon Everhart paused, holding one end of the ladder. "Do you want me to stay and turn off the lights for you?"
"Thanks anyway, Jon. I'll do it. After all, I just have to walk across the street to get home."
Of course the kids didn't leave that promptly, but by ten after nine the last of them had gone out the walk through the cemetery to the street.
She picked up the box of new candles and started along the side of the sanctuary, setting them carefully in the holders. Maybe it was best that she do them herself in any event. Not that the kids hadn't done their best, but she'd feel better if she made sure the tapers were secure in the holders. On Christmas Eve every candle would be aflame, filling the sanctuary with light and warmth.
The sanctuary was quiet—quieter than she'd ever experienced. She seemed to feel that stillness seeping into her, gentling the worry that ate at her over the problem presented by Tyler and her continuing anxiety about the financial state of the inn.
She looked at the window above her, showing Jesus talking with the woman at the well. His face, even represented in stained glass, showed so much love and acceptance. In spite of her tiredness, she felt that caring touch her, renewing her.
I've come so close to You since the accident. Maybe the person who hit me actually did me a favor. He couldn't have intended it, but the accident forced me to stop running away spiritually.
She knew why she'd done that, of course. She spent years unable to refer to God as Father, until she'd finally realized that it made her think of her own father, absent most of the time and fighting with Mom when he was around.
Tyler had his own issues with his parents, but at least he'd had a positive relationship with his father for most of his young life. Did he realize how fortunate he was in that? Or was he too wrapped up in his inability to satisfy his mother's demands?
She started down the opposite side of the sanctuary, securing candles in holders. She should finish this up and get back to the inn. It wasn't really all that late. She could still locate the pertinent ledgers and turn them over to Tyler. Let him strain his vision all he wanted, reading through her grandfather's meticulous notes. He wouldn't find anything to reflect badly on Grandfather, no matter how hard he looked.
She was putting the last candle in place when the lights went out. A startled gasp escaped her. She froze, feeling as if she'd suddenly gone blind.
Slowly her vision adjusted. The faintest light filtered through the windows, probably from the streetlamp at the gate to the churchyard. Dark shadows fell across the sanctuary, though, and if she tried to cut across to where she knew the light switches were, she'd probably crash right into a pew.
Here she stood with a box full of candles and not a single match to light one. The sensible thing was to feel her way along the wall until she got t
o the front pew where she'd left her handbag. The small flashlight she kept in her bag would help her reach the light switches.
Running her left hand along the cool plaster, reaching out with her right hand to touch the pews, she worked her way toward the front of the sanctuary. Why would the lights go out, anyway? It wasn't as if they were in the midst of a lightning storm.
Still, Grams had often said that the church building, just about as old as the inn, had similar problems. Maybe the overloaded circuits had chosen this moment to break down.
Or the explanation might be simpler. Mose Stetler, the custodian, could have come in, thinking they'd all left, and switched the lights off.
She paused, one hand resting on the curved back of a pew, its worn wood satiny to the touch. "Mose? Is that you? I'm still in the sanctuary."
Really, he should have checked to see if anyone was here before going around switching off lights.
No one answered. If it was Mose, he apparently couldn't hear her.
She took another step and stopped, her heart lurching into overdrive. Someone was in the sanctuary with her.
Ridiculous. She was being foolish, imagining things because she was alone in the dark. She took another step. And heard it. A step that echoed her own and then stopped.
She should call out. It must be someone on a perfectly innocent errand—Mose, or even the pastor, come to see that the church had been properly locked up. She should call out, let them know she was there.
But some instinct held her throat in a vise. She couldn't—she really couldn't speak. Stupid as it seemed, she was unable to make a sound.
Or was it so stupid? She'd already called out, and no one had answered. Whoever was there, he or she seemed anxious not to be heard or identified.
She drew in a cautious breath, trying to keep it silent. Think. A chill of fear trickled down her spine. She'd become disoriented in the dark. How far was she from the double doors at the rear of the sanctuary? How far from the chancel door that led out past the organ to the vestry?
Her fingers tightened on the pew back, and she strained to see. Directly opposite her there was a faint gleam coming through the stained glass. Surely that was the image of Jesus with the woman at the well, wasn't it? She could just make out the shape of the figure.