by Marta Perry
So it could have been a nasty trick played by someone who wanted to mess with her, but there was no proof. Allison shifted her focus to another problem.
“You said you could do a temporary fix. Why not permanent?”
“Take a look around.” He swung his lamp in a circular movement, illuminating one dank, dusty wall after another. “No electricity when this place was built. It was put in later and tinkered with over the years. I took a quick look at the records before I came over, and the last time we did any substantial work here was close to thirty years ago. With all the electronic gadgets in use upstairs, what the system needs is a complete overhaul, not more tinkering.”
“That sounds expensive.” Allison seemed to feel the weight of the building pressing down on her.
He shrugged. “You can get a couple estimates before you decide. Meantime, I’ll get you up and running.”
That sounded like an invitation to her to get out of his way. She went gladly enough, edging her way up the steps and out into a cool, cloudy April morning. She stood for a moment, eyeing Blackburn House as it loomed over her. An overhaul of the electrical system would be a major expense. Litwhiler had mentioned funds available for repairs and maintenance. She’d have to talk with him about exactly what that would cover.
White elephant. The words came unbidden to her mind. The house could so easily become a money pit. That’s what she’d thought from the beginning.
A car pulled into the parking area beside the workshop. Nick’s car. Allison spun and headed around the building for the front door. She had no intention of running into Nick until she was sure she could do it without last night’s kiss foremost in her mind. And that could take a while.
The power was back on in less than the promised half hour, and Blackburn House returned to business as usual. Allison settled down to peruse the contents of the next file drawer in Evelyn’s office.
It was midmorning when she came up for air, aware that her stomach was complaining. She’d stinted on breakfast because she’d been meeting the electrician so early. Maybe Sarah would like to join her for a coffee and a snack from the bakery.
Allison skirted around a middle-aged couple making their way up the stairs, probably to call at one of the offices. She nodded, and they both stared at her, the woman turning her head to watch as Allison went down the steps. Obviously her celebrity or notoriety, whichever it was, hadn’t worn off yet.
Sarah greeted her with a smile. “I hoped you’d stop in soon. Did you have a nice time last night?”
“Last night?” Allison felt her cheeks warm. Sarah couldn’t know about that kiss, could she?
“Having supper at Jim and Ellen Whiting’s.” Sarah brushed off a bit of the fabric fluff that inevitably was attracted to her dress. “My little brother saw you go by.”
“Yes, right.” She tried to close the door of her thoughts on Nick. It didn’t work. “Nick pointed out where you live. I had a lovely time with them.” And nobody needed to know about the lovely time she’d had outside in the dark. “I thought I’d bring back a coffee or tea from the bakery. Do you want anything?”
“I’ll save you the trip.” Sarah beckoned her toward the back room. “I brought a shoofly pie from home, and it won’t take a minute to put the teakettle on the gas ring.”
“Sounds great if you’re sure I’m not interrupting you.”
Sarah shook her head. “I’ll get the kettle on. By the way, there’s some mail for you. I put it beside the cash register.”
Allison detoured to pick up the mail tucked under the edge of the cash register. That was one of the oddities of Amish life she’d noticed—Sarah used a modern phone and an electric cash register in the shop, but the small fridge and tabletop burners in the back room were gas. She had yet to figure out how the rules for being Amish worked. Sarah probably wouldn’t be offended if she asked, but Allison hated to admit her ignorance.
She picked up the single envelope, frowning at it. Her name, in care of the quilt shop, was typed, not computer generated, which seemed odd. Who used a typewriter any longer? She ripped open the envelope to find a single page written in a small, tight hand. Glancing at the bottom, she checked the signature line. Your grandmother, Evelyn Standish.
Allison took a startled step back, bumped into the counter, and stayed there, staring at the handwriting.
Dear Allison,
You will be surprised to hear from me after so many years of silence.
That was putting it mildly. Allison’s immediate reaction was to rip up the letter and toss it in the wastepaper basket.
She didn’t, of course. She smoothed out the page and began to read.
I’m sure you’re also surprised that I have decided to leave you something in my will, after having ignored you for so many years. Having ascertained that your stepfather is well-off, I had not intended to, but I’ve begun to feel that would be unfair to you. You are hardly responsible for the fact that Hugh was such an unsatisfactory son. I put up with his foolishness for as long as I could, but when his actions bordered on the criminal, I had to draw the line. I’m sure anyone would agree that my actions were justified, and I could hardly be expected to welcome his subsequent marriage or the arrival of a granddaughter I’d never see.
Allison’s fingers tightened on the fine, monogrammed stationery. So Hugh had been an unsatisfactory son. He’d been an unsatisfactory father, too, but that didn’t mean she wanted to hear anyone else condemn him. She nearly tossed the letter aside, but she couldn’t quite do that.
As I look back on my life, I realize that my greatest regret was never having put my pride aside in order to have a relationship with my only granddaughter. I hope this bequest may help to make up for my actions in some small way.
It was signed formally. Your grandmother, Evelyn Standish. Well, at least she’d been wise enough not to presume on a relationship that had never existed by signing it Grandmother.
She’d been wondering what made Evelyn Standish decide to leave something to her. Now she knew. The tone of the letter was that of an old woman looking back at her life and attempting to justify her choices. But there was also an underlying sorrow that wouldn’t allow Allison to dismiss it too readily.
Odd, that Evelyn hadn’t left the letter with her attorney for delivery to her. Instead, she’d apparently entrusted it to someone with instructions to post it after Allison had arrived in Laurel Ridge.
What if she hadn’t come? Would she ever have seen it?
Shaking her head, Allison started to slide the letter back into the envelope, but she noticed something written on the back.
She unfolded it again. The pen strokes were uneven and sprawled, as if the postscript had been added hurriedly. The addition was dated, and she realized with a sense of shock that it had been added just a few days before Evelyn’s death.
My dear Allison,
It is only fair to mention that some things about Blackburn House have disturbed me in recent days. Perhaps worried would be a better word. I’m not sure what is going on, but I expect to find out shortly. I only hope I can resolve this, so that your inheritance won’t cause you more trouble than pleasure.
So something had bothered Evelyn, presumably during the last weeks of her life. Something to do with prowlers in the building? Or something else entirely that Allison couldn’t begin to guess at?
Carrying the letter, she hurried to the back room, where Sarah had a kettle boiling, sending up gentle puffs of steam. Sarah was cutting wedges from the golden-brown, crumbly shoofly pie. She looked up, and something in Allison’s face seemed to arrest her attention.
“Allison? Is something wrong?”
Allison fluttered the page in her hand. “This letter is from my grandmother. Did she ask you to mail it for her?”
Sarah’s lips formed an oh of surprise. “No. I had no idea sh
e wrote to you.” Her face seemed to clear. “I’m glad that she wanted to communicate with you, even if it was only in a letter. Does it answer any of your questions?”
Allison frowned, wondering how much to say. But that was silly. She could trust Sarah, and if she expected to learn anything from her, she’d have to.
“I suppose, in a way. She talks about regretting that she’d never gotten to know me.”
“Ach, that’s good. I’m glad.”
“But that’s not all.” Allison frowned down at the paper. “She’s added a postscript. I’d like for you to read it and see if it means anything to you.” She held it out to Sarah.
Sarah, seeming perplexed, took the letter. Her head bent as she read it.
When she looked up again, Sarah’s expression struck Allison like a blow. Sarah’s face had gone white, and her eyes darkened. The paper quivered in her hand.
“Sarah?” Allison grabbed her arm. “What is it? You know something, don’t you?”
“I...I thought it was nothing. But if she wrote that to you...” Sarah stopped, took a deep breath and nodded. “The last day, when she came into the shop, I could see your grossmammi was worried. I asked her if I could help. She said no. She said there was something wrong here, in Blackburn House, and that she meant to get to the bottom of it. She said that by the next day, she’d know what she ought to do.”
Allison felt as if she couldn’t breathe. “What did she say? That next day? What did she tell you?”
“Nothing.” Sarah shook her head, her eyes wide. “The next morning, when the custodian came to open the building, he found her. She was lying at the bottom of the stairs.” Her gaze flickered toward the central staircase. “She was dead.”
Allison grabbed the counter to steady herself. “But I was told she died from a stroke.” That was what the attorney had said, what the obituary had said.
“The doctors said she probably had a stroke while she was on the stairs and fell. No one ever hinted at anything different. But I...I wondered.”
An elderly woman, a stroke, a fall. No one would question it.
But clearly Sarah did. And she did.
She had to talk this through with Sarah. Had to find out exactly what the coroner had thought. Had to find out what it was that worried her grandmother about Blackburn House. Because if it had something to do with her grandmother’s death, she couldn’t just walk away. Maybe they hadn’t had a relationship, but however much she might resent her grandmother’s actions, she wouldn’t think much of herself if she didn’t do what she could.
One thing became obvious. She wouldn’t be leaving Laurel Ridge anytime soon.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ALLISON’S THOUGHTS HAD stopped their useless spinning by the time she sat opposite Sarah at the table in the small back room of the quilt shop, a mug of tea cradled in her hands. Sarah pushed the plate of shoofly pie toward her.
“You should eat something. You’ve had a shock.”
Allison managed a smile. “Is food the universal remedy among the Amish?”
“That’s certain sure.” Sarah’s concerned expression eased a little. “But it only makes sense, ain’t so? You can always face trouble better if you’re not hungry or tired.”
If that was the case, she should have been eating steadily since she arrived in Laurel Ridge. But Allison took a bite of the molasses-rich pie, figuring it was easier than arguing. Besides, she wanted Sarah relaxed enough to answer her questions. The need to know, to do something, pounded at her, but she suspected that rushing Sarah would accomplish nothing. She had yet to see Sarah hurry at anything, but she accomplished a great deal. Did all the Amish take such a steady approach to life? Or were some of them like her, propelled forward by the need to act?
As Allison took a sip of the fragrant tea, some of her tension eased. The room behind the shop was small to begin with, and seemed even smaller with the sheer amount of stuff it held. In addition to the table and tiny kitchen area, the room was lined with shelves holding, she’d guess, everything that Sarah didn’t have room for in the shop—a sewing machine, bolts of fabric, spools of binding, boxes of quilt batting. An entire shelf was taken up by books on quilting.
Sarah saw the direction of her gaze. “My grossmammi taught me to quilt the traditional Amish patterns, but with all the Englisch customers we have, I decided I needed to educate myself about different kinds of quilting.” She smiled. “Besides, it fascinates me.”
“I can see why.” Allison took another sip, letting its warmth soothe her. “Did my grandmother have an interest in actually making quilts?”
Sarah shook her head. “She always said she didn’t have the patience.” She hesitated, seeming to steel herself. “It’s all right. I know you want to ask me questions about Evelyn’s dying. You’d best go ahead.”
Allison nodded. Sarah seemed more shaken about discussing her grandmother’s death than Allison did. But that was hardly surprising. She had actually known and liked Evelyn Standish.
“Did my grandmother give you any hint of how she thought she was going to get an explanation for whatever was troubling her? She must have had some specific plan, if she said that she expected to have answers by the next day.”
“That’s so. Evelyn always had a plan.” Worry lines appeared between Sarah’s eyebrows, marring the usual serenity of her face. “She didn’t really say so, but I had the impression she was going to talk to someone. But I suppose she might have been getting information some other way, ain’t so?”
“True, but let’s assume for the moment that she did plan to talk to someone. Did anything about her words or attitude hint at whether it might be a man or a woman?”
“No, no. Nothing so definite.” Sarah pushed the idea away with her hands. “But she was here. In Blackburn House, I mean. Here when she told me, and here when she died.” Sarah’s gesture took in the building around them.
“She might have planned to talk to someone in the building, then. Or she might have asked someone to meet her here after hours for a private talk.” Someone who might not want to be seen having a private conversation with Evelyn? That was possible, but it didn’t seem to lead anywhere.
“If it was someone in the building,” Sarah began, her voice hesitant, “well, couldn’t she talk to them anytime? She wouldn’t have to come back late in the evening for it.”
Actually, the same logic applied. “If they wanted privacy, meeting after hours might be the best solution.” She frowned. This didn’t seem to be going anywhere. “It could be something other than meeting someone here, I suppose,” she said, thinking aloud. “She might have intended to do some research on the computer, or go through her files.” She stopped, a spark striking. “Or go through someone else’s files. She’d have had keys to all the businesses, right?”
“But Evelyn wouldn’t go through someone else’s things.” Sarah looked horrified at the thought.
“She might if she thought someone was doing something illegal in Blackburn House. Or even something unethical,” Allison said. “She apparently had pretty high standards.” High enough that she’d broken the bonds with her only son when she’d caught him doing something wrong. Or maybe because he wouldn’t stop acting in a way that ran counter to her ethics.
Her mother had never spoken of her father’s rift with his family, except to say that there’d probably been wrong on both sides. Allison suspected it hadn’t been easy for her mother to maintain that attitude, but just as she’d never criticized her father to Allison, she’d never complained about his mother. It had frustrated Allison when she was young, but as an adult, she had to admire it.
“I suppose,” Sarah said, doubt in her voice. “But I don’t see how you’ll be able to find out.”
“I haven’t figured that part out yet,” Allison admitted. “Tell me something. If you were as upset as you say,
why didn’t you talk to the police about your feelings?”
Sarah’s frown deepened, and she traced a circle on the tabletop with her finger. “I don’t know if you can understand. It’s something engrained in the Amish, maybe because our people were persecuted for so many years. We obey the laws, but we don’t seek out Englisch justice. For an Amish woman to go to the police...” She held out her hands, palms up. “It’s just not done.”
Sarah was right. She didn’t understand it. “But to withhold information from the police is wrong.”
Sarah shook her head. “I wouldn’t do that. If Mac had asked me anything, I’d have told the truth. But it seemed so clear to everyone what had happened, and the doctor said it was an accident. The police were satisfied.”
The police, in this case, meaning Mac Whiting. She was used to thinking of police in terms of investigation teams, forensic specialists and all the paraphernalia she assumed accompanied a death in an urban area. Police work was clearly different in a place like Laurel Ridge.
She studied the serene oval that was Sarah’s face, noting the steadfast quality of the blue eyes that met hers calmly, waiting. Sarah believed what she believed, and arguments wouldn’t change her.
“I can see why you wouldn’t want to speak to the police with nothing to back you up,” she said carefully. “But now there’s the letter my grandmother sent. If I were to show it to Mac Whiting, may I tell him that Evelyn also spoke to you?”
Sarah considered for a moment. Then she nodded. “If Mac comes to me with questions, it’s only right that I answer them.”
“Good.” Allison was aware of a wave of relief. She wasn’t going to be the only one rocking the boat. “I can’t ignore it. Maybe I never had a relationship with her, but she was my grandmother. I have to do something.” That letter, harsh as it was in places, had made her understand the woman, at least a little.