by Unknown
Rachel patted her hand. "It must be so difficult."
"Sixty-one years, we had." She sighed. "I never thought I'd be the one to go on without him."
"I'm sorry if our coming has been difficult. Perhaps we could come another time to look for it—"
"That won't be necessary." Tyler's voice had an odd note. "I've found it." He carried a manila file folder to her.
She took it, almost afraid to look. Please Lord. Not my father. He couldn't have, could he?
She forced herself to scan the page. The medal was listed, with a minute description. The date Albright had purchased it. Her heart thudded. A year after John Hostetler died.
And the seller. Phillip Longstreet, of Longstreet's Antiques.
* * *
Tyler came down the stairs, suppressing the urge to take them a couple at a time. The Unger mansion, even in its incarnation as an inn, seemed to discourage that sort of thing. Nothing wrong with that, except that at the moment his muscles tensed with the need to do something—anything that would resolve this situation and lead him to the truth.
Rachel came out of the family side as he hit the hallway, almost as if she'd been listening for him. Her green eyes were anxious as they searched his face.
"Did you talk to Chief Burkhalter? What did he say?"
His jaw tightened. There was nothing, he supposed, that dictated that he had to tell Rachel. But she'd gone out of her way to help him, in spite of what must have seemed like very good reasons to tell him to get out.
Besides, he'd gotten to like the idea that he wasn't in this alone. "I talked to him." He grimaced. "He pointed out that there could be several perfectly innocent ways for Longstreet to come by that medal."
"And one guilty one." She shook her head. "I couldn't believe it when I saw his name. And I still can't, not really. He's been a fixture in the community his entire life. Surely, if there was anything to be known, someone would have talked about it by now."
"People can do a good job of keeping a secret when their lives depend on it."
She paled, as if she hadn't considered that outcome. "Your grandfather died from a heart attack, but if it was brought on by the robbery, it could be considered murder."
"Exactly." He shrugged. "I can't blame Chief Burkhalter for moving cautiously. Longstreet is well-known around here. But I've had the sense from you that he's not entirely respected."
"I certainly never meant he was dishonest. Just—maybe a bit too eager to make a good deal. If there had been rumors of anything else—well, I haven't heard them. But Zach Burkhalter would have. He knows what's going on. You can rely on him."
"He said he'd investigate."
"But you're not satisfied." She seemed to know him as well as he knew himself.
"No." His hands curled into fists. "I can't just wait around, hoping he's asking the right questions. I have to do something."
Rachel put her hand on his arm, as if she'd deter him by force, if necessary. "What?"
"See Longstreet. Get some answers myself, before he has time to make up some elaborate cover story."
Her fingers tightened. "Tyler, you can't do that. The chief would have a fit. You'd be interfering in his investigation."
"That's probably true."
"But you're going anyway." She shook her head. "Then I'm going with you."
He frowned. "I don't want to be rude, but I didn't invite you."
"I'm not going to let you confront Phil Longstreet and get yourself in trouble." Her smile flickered. "It would reflect badly on the inn if you were arrested while staying here."
"Or on you? You've been seen in my company quite a bit."
Her eyes widened and then slid away from his. "All the more reason to keep you out of trouble." Her voice wasn't quite steady.
He resisted the impulse to touch her. What was wrong with him? He couldn't pursue a romantic relationship and confront a thief at the same time.
"I'm not going to be violent. Just talk to him."
"You should still have an independent witness," she said. "I'll get my jacket. Are you going to walk over?"
He nodded, waiting while she hurried off to get a jacket. He could leave without her, but she'd just follow him. And what she said made a certain amount of sense. If Longstreet let anything slip, it would be as well to have a third party hear it.
He heard her coming, saying something firm to the dog, who probably scented a walk in the offing.
"Later," she said, pushing an inquiring muzzle back and shutting the door. She turned to him. "I'm ready."
Outside, the air was crisp and cold. It was already dusk—they'd been longer getting back from their meeting with Mrs. Albright than he'd expected. Christmas traffic, Rachel had said.
"I hope Mrs. Albright wasn't tired too much by our visit." Rachel seemed to be reading his thoughts.
"She wouldn't have needed to turn it into a tea party." A few flakes of snow touched his face, and he tilted his head back to look up. "Snow. Are they predicting much?"
"A couple of inches by morning. Good thing we went over to New Holland today." She smiled. "As far as the tea party was concerned—you have to understand that's her way. She wouldn't have talked with you at all, probably, if Grams hadn't been the intermediary."
"Something else I owe to you and your grandmother. I appreciate it." Especially since none of them knew where this investigation would lead. Would it stop at Longstreet? Somehow he doubted it.
"About Mrs. Albright—" Rachel's mind was obviously still on their encounter with the elderly woman. The Christmas lights on the window of the florist shop they were passing showed him her face in images of green and red. "She jumped to some conclusions. About us, I mean. I hope that didn't embarrass you."
"No. But you look as if it did you." The rose in her cheeks wasn't entirely from the Christmas lights.
Her gaze evaded his. "Of course not. Setting young people up in pairs is a favorite local hobby of elderly women. I didn't want you to think—well, it's ridiculous, that's all."
Without a conscious decision, his hand closed over hers. "Is it so ridiculous, Rachel?"
She looked up, and a snowflake tangled in her hair. Another brushed her cheek. "We hardly know each other." She sounded breathless.
"Timewise. But we've come a long way in a short period of time." All the more reason to be cautious, the logical part of his mind insisted, but he didn't want to listen.
"Maybe too far." It came out in a whisper that seemed to linger on the chill air.
"I don't think so." He wanted to touch the snowflakes that clustered more thickly now on her hair. Wanted to warm her cold lips with his.
But they'd reached the corner. And across the street was the antique shop, its lights spilling out onto the sidewalk that was covering quickly with snow.
He'd come here for answers, he reminded himself. Not romance. And some of the answers had to be found inside that shop.
* * *
The bell over the door jingled, announcing their arrival. Rachel could only hope that Phil would attribute her red cheeks to the temperature outside, instead of seeing the hint of something more. He was usually far too observant about the state of other people's feelings—probably part of what made him a success as a dealer.
Still, in a few minutes he'd have far more to think about than the state of her emotions. Apprehension tightened her stomach and dispelled the warmth that had flooded her at Tyler's words.
As for Tyler—a swift glance at his strong-boned face told her he'd dismissed it already. Well, that was only appropriate. They had far more serious things to deal with right now.
"Rachel. Tyler." Phil emerged from behind the counter, a smile wreathing his face. He came toward them, hands extended in welcome. "How nice this is. I was beginning to think I might as well close early. The threat of snow sends people scurrying to the grocery for bread and milk instead of to an antique shop."
"We walked over, so the snow wasn't an issue." She brushed a damp curl back from her cheek. Maybe she
shouldn't have said anything, but she could hardly avoid greeting a man she'd known for years.
"Well, what can I do for you this evening?" He rubbed his hands together. "A little Christmas shopping for your grandmother? I have some nice porcelain figures that just came in."
She glanced at Tyler, willing him to take the lead. His face was taut, giving nothing away but a certain amount of tension.
"Actually there was something I wanted to talk with you about. A piece of military memorabilia that I ran across recently."
Phil shook his head, his smile still in place. "Afraid I can't help you there. China, silver, period furniture, that's my area. You'd have to see someone who specializes in military."
He was talking too much, being too helpful. The instinctive reaction was so strong she couldn't doubt it. Phil's normal attitude with a customer who expressed interest in something he didn't have was to try to turn them to something he did.
Did Tyler realize that? Probably so.
"I already know about the object. A Bavarian military medal, early 1700s. Sound familiar?" His tone wasn't quite accusing.
Phil turned the question away with a smile. "Sorry. As I said, not my area."
It wasn't, Rachel realized. That made it all the more unusual that it had passed through his hands.
"It came from the collection of Stanley Albright, over in New Holland. You've dealt with him, I suppose?" Tyler would not be deflected or halted. He just kept driving toward his goal.
Phil's smile finally faded. "I knew Albright, certainly. Every dealer in the area knew him. Just like every dealer knows his widow is starting to sell off some of his things. I keep up with the news, but that's too rich for my blood, I'm afraid."
He tried a laugh, but it wasn't convincing. Rachel's heart chilled. Up until this moment she'd convinced herself that there was some mistake, that Phil would explain it all away.
He'd try, she knew that much. But she wouldn't believe him.
"You didn't sell him anything?" Tyler's tone was smooth, but she sensed the steel behind it.
"No, can't say I ever had the pleasure." Phil took a casual step back, groping behind him to put his hand on a glass display case filled with a collection of ivory pillboxes.
"Odd. Because Mrs. Albright says you sold him just such a medal about twenty-two years ago."
Phil was as pale as the ivory. "That's ridiculous. I tell you I never handled anything like that. Mrs. Albright must be—what, ninety or so? She's probably mixed up. She never knew anything about his collection, anyway."
He was talking too much, giving himself away with every defensive word. Tyler should have left this to Chief Burkhalter, or at least made sure Burkhalter was around to hear this. Zach Burkhalter would know Phil was lying, just as she did.
"That might be true." Tyler's voice was deceptively soft. "The thing is, I'm not taking her word for it. If you know anything about Albright's collection, you should know he kept meticulous records. It was there—his purchase from you, a description of the medal, even the date he bought it."
Phil turned away, aimlessly touching objects on the countertop, but she saw his face before he could hide his expression. He looked ghastly.
"I suppose you know what significance this is supposed to have, but I'm sure I don't. I suppose it's possible that the odd military piece might have passed through my hands at some point in my career. I really don't remember."
"Don't you?" Tyler took a step closer, his hands clenched so tightly that the knuckles were white. "Funny, I'd think you'd remember that. The medal belonged to my grandfather. It was stolen from his house the night he died."
He'd gone too far—she knew that instantly. He couldn't be positive the medal had gone missing that particular night, even if he were morally sure of it.
Phil straightened, grasping the significance as quickly as she did. He swung around to face Tyler, his face darkening.
"I've been accused of a lot of things, but this is a first. I doubt very much that you could convince anyone, including the police, that the medal was stolen, or that it disappeared the night he died. Your grandfather could have sold it himself."
"Are you saying you got it from him?"
"No, certainly not. But he could have sold it to someone else."
"He didn't. He wouldn't. It was important to him. He wouldn't have let it go."
Phil shrugged, seemingly on surer ground now. "We just have your opinion for that, don't we? The old man was on the outs with everyone, even his own family. Who knows what he might have done? All your detective work, running from Bethlehem to New Holland—"
Before she could guess his intent, Tyler's hand shot out, stopping short of grabbing the front of Phil's expensive cashmere sweater by an inch. Phil leaned back against the showcase, losing color again.
"I didn't mention Bethlehem. How did you know we went there?" He shot a glance at Rachel, but she wasn't sure he saw her. At least, not her as a person, just a source of information. "Could he be the man you saw watching us?"
Startled, she stared at Phil, certainty coalescing. "No. Not him. But I know who it was. I knew he looked familiar. It was one of those men who were loading the truck that first time we came. The men you said worked for you, Phil."
Now Tyler did grab the sweater. "Did you send him to watch us? Did he try to push Rachel down the stairs?"
"No, no, I wouldn't. If he—if he was there, it didn't have anything to do with me."
"You were involved. You had the medal. You sold it, months after my grandfather died. I suppose you thought it would disappear into a private collection and never surface again. But it did. Now, where did you get it?"
"Tyler, don't." Her heart thudded, and she tugged at his arm. "Don't. You shouldn't—"
He wasn't listening. Neither of them were.
Phil shook his head from side to side. "I didn't. I didn't do anything. I bought it." He glanced at Rachel, a swift, sidelong gaze. "I bought it like I bought a lot of little trinkets around that time."
"Who?" She found her voice. "Who sold it to you?"
"I'm sorry, Rachel."
He actually did sound sorry. Sorry for her. Her heart clutched. She wanted to freeze the moment, to stop whatever he was going to say next. But she couldn't.
He cleared his throat, looking back at Tyler. "I bought the medal from Rachel's father."
THIRTEEN
If her head would just stop throbbing, maybe Rachel could make sense of what everyone was saying. Her mind had stopped functioning coherently at the instant Phil made that outrageous claim about her father. The next thing she knew, she was sitting in the library at the inn, Grams close beside her on the couch, clutching her hand.
Zachary Burkhalter sat across from them. The police chief should look uncomfortable with his long frame folded into that small lady's armchair, but at the moment he was too busy looking annoyed with Tyler.
Tyler. Her heart seemed to clench, and she had to force herself to look at him. He sat forward on the desk chair that had been her grandfather's, hands grasping its mahogany arms, waiting. If he was moved by the chief's comments, he wasn't showing it. He simply waited, face impassive, emotionless.
That was a separate little hurt among all the larger ones. Such a short time ago, he'd said—hinted, at least, that there was a future for them. Now, he thought her father was a murderer.
"I told you I'd investigate." Burkhalter's tone was icy. "If you'd been able to restrain yourself, we might have been able to gather some hard evidence. You can't just go around accusing respectable citizens of murder."
"You can't." Tyler didn't sound as if he regretted a single action. "I'm not the police. At least I got an admission from him. What hard evidence do you expect to unearth at this point?"
"Probably none, now that you've jumped in with both feet and tipped Longstreet off that he's under suspicion. If there is anything, he had a chance to get rid of it before I could get a search warrant."
"Is Phillip under arrest?" Grams's v
oice was a thin echo of her usual tone, and her hands, clasped in Rachel's, were icy.
Burkhalter's expression softened when he looked at her. "No. The district attorney isn't ready to charge him with anything at this point. We're looking for the man who works for him—the one you thought was following you in Bethlehem. He may shed some light. And it's possible we might trace some of the things that have been stolen recently to him."
Rachel cleared her throat, unable to remember when she'd last spoken. Shock, probably. Anger would be better than this icy numbness, and she could feel it beginning to build, deep within her.
"What does Longstreet say now?" Impossible to believe she was talking about someone she'd considered a friend, someone she'd worked with and argued with on a project that had been so important to both of them.
And all the time—all those meetings when he'd sat across from her, when they'd shared a smile at some ridiculous suggestion from Sandra, when they'd talked plans for Churchville's future—all that time he'd been hiding this.
"He sticks to his first statement. Says he bought the medal, and some other small collectible pieces, from your father shortly before he left town. Claims to have been guilty of nothing more than not inquiring too closely where the objects came from."
Tyler stirred. "He knew. He had to."
"He's confident we won't prove it at this late date." Burkhalter turned to Grams. "I don't want to distress you, Mrs. Unger, but I have to ask. Longstreet implied that some of the things he bought might have come from this house. Did you ever suspect your son-in-law of stealing from you?"
Grams's hands trembled, and Rachel's anger spurted to the surface. "Leave her alone. Can't you see how upset she is? You have no right—"
"No, Rachel." Her grandmother stiffened, back straight, head high, the way she always met a challenge. "Chief Burkhalter has his duty to do, as do I." The fine muscles around her lips tensed. "We had suspicions, that summer. Things disappeared, perhaps mislaid. A silver snuffbox, an ivory-inlaid hand mirror, a few pieces of Georgian silver. My husband thought that my daughter's husband was responsible."
"Did he accuse Hampton?" Tyler was as cold as if he spoke of strangers. Well, they were strangers to him. Just not to her. Her heart seemed to crack.