A Christmas to Die For (18 page)

Someone bumped into her, murmuring an apology, and she realized she was blocking traffic in the hallway. People had begun pouring from the display rooms toward the stairs. It must be a tour group, or there wouldn't be so many at once.

Clutching the awkward box firmly against her, she stepped back to let them pass, pressing against the nearest wall. She'd wait until they were gone, and then she'd go down.

She felt it then. The hair lifted on the back of her neck, as if a cold draft blew on her, but there was no draft. Someone was watching her.

She shrugged, trying to push off the feeling. She was in the middle of a crowd. Of course people looked at her as they went by, probably wondering why she was so inconsiderate as to stand there when they were trying to get down the stairs. She could hardly make an announcement, citing the awkward box she carried and the leg that was not always stable on stairs. She wouldn't if she could—she didn't care to let anyone know that.

But this wasn't just a sense of being frowned at by someone who wished she'd move. This was a return of the feeling she'd had that dark night in the sanctuary—the automatic response of the mouse that glimpses the hawk.

Turning a little, she scanned the crowd. Lots of gray heads—this was probably a seniors' tour group, come to enjoy a day of Bethlehem's Christmas celebration. A scattering of families, too—a father in a bright-red anorak carrying a toddler in a snowsuit on his shoulders, a pair of parents wrestling with a stroller and a balky preschool-age child. And a few students, laughing, jostling their neighbors even as they ignored them a bit too obviously. No one stared at her, and there wasn't a soul she knew.

But the feeling persisted, growing stronger by the moment. Then a fresh group swept around the corner, also headed for the stairs, clogging the corridor, and Rachel was carried along with it, helpless as a leaf in the current.

She struggled for a moment and then gave up and let herself be taken along. She had to meet Tyler downstairs in any event, and at least this would take her away from that feeling, whatever caused it.

Maneuvering through the crowd, trying to find something to hold on to, she reached the balcony railing just as she was pushed toward the top step. She grabbed the railing, clutching it with a sense of relief.

At least she had something to hold on to. She'd make it down the stairs all right. Goodness knew it would be impossible to fall—the packed bodies in their winter coats would certainly keep her upright no matter what she did.

An eddy in the crowd pressed her against the railing. It pushed uncomfortably into her side, sending the corner of the box poking into her ribs. She lifted the container, trying to get it out of the way, taking her hand from the railing for a moment.

The crowd lurched, for all the world like a train about to go off the track. Irrational fear pulsed through her. She hated this. She had to get out of it, get away from this feeling of helplessness.

Another, stronger push from behind her, this time doubling her over the waist-high railing. The box flew from her hands, flipping into the air and then going down, down, until it spattered on the tile floor below.

She tried to hold on to the railing, but it was round, smooth, shiny metal, sliding under her fingers. She didn't have breath to cry out. Someone shoved her again, harder, she was going to go over, she couldn't stop herself, she'd go plummeting down to that hard tile floor, she glimpsed Tyler's startled face in the crowd below, looking up at her—

And then a strong hand grasped her arm and pulled her back. "Easy, now. Are you okay? Get a little dizzy, did you?"

A bronzed face, looking as if its owner spent most of the year on a golf course. He gripped her firmly, smiling, but with apprehension lurking in his eyes.

"Of course she got dizzy." His wife, probably, a small round dumpling of a woman with masses of white hair under a turquoise knit cap. "No wonder, with this crowd. Just take it easy, my dear, and Harold will get you down safely."

Harold was as good as his wife's word, piloting her down the rest of the stairs with a strong hand on her arm. It was a good thing, because it seemed her balance had gone over the railing with the brochures.

And then they reached the bottom, and Tyler's arms closed around her. She lost the next few minutes, hearing a jumble of concern, recommendations that she go somewhere and have a nice cup of tea, Tyler's deep voice assuring her rescuers that he'd take good care of her.

Somehow, in spite of everything that stood between them, she didn't doubt it.

Tyler held Rachel firmly as the helpful couple left, pulling her close against his side. His breathing wasn't back to normal yet, and he was torn between the desire to kiss her and a strong urge to shake her for scaring him so badly.

"Are you okay? I thought for a minute you were going to take a header all the way to the floor." He tried for a light tone, hoping to disguise the panic he'd felt in that moment when he'd seen her falling and been unable to help her.

"So did I." Her voice trembled a little, and she shook her head impatiently. "Silly to be so scared, but it's such a helpless feeling when you're losing control."

His hand tightened on her arm. "Are you hurt?"

"No, not at all." Her smile wasn't quite genuine. "But my brochures—"

"They're over here." He led her into the shadow of the soaring staircase. "About where you'd have landed if someone hadn't grabbed you."

His uneasiness intensified. Either Rachel was accident-prone, or she'd been having a surprising run of misfortune lately.

He gathered up the brochures, stuffing them back into the box, his hands not quite steady. Coincidence, that bad things seemed to be happening to Rachel since his arrival? But not entirely—her accident had occurred before they met. That didn't reassure him.

He kept a firm grip on her as they exited the building. The streets were still crowded, and a band played Christmas carols on the corner. In the glow of the streetlamp and candles from the windows, her face was pale. He read the tension there, and something jolted inside him.

"What is it?" Anxiety sharpened his tone, and he drew her into the shelter of a shop doorway. "There's something more, isn't there?"

She pressed her lips together, staring absently down the crowded street. "It…I must have imagined it." She looked up at him, the color drained from her face. "I thought someone was watching me, upstairs. And when I nearly went over the railing, it felt as if someone pushed me." She shook her head. "I must have imagined it."

The shop door opened behind him, and they had to move to let a couple come out. The irresistible aroma of cinnamon and sugar wafted out with them. The place was a bakery, with several small round tables, empty now.

"Let's get inside and have some coffee. We need to talk about this."

His heart seemed to lurch at her answering smile. The smile trembled for an instant, and her eyes darkened as if she saw right into his heart.

He cleared his throat. He couldn't give in to the urge to kiss her here and now, could he? He held the door, touching her arm to steer her inside.

For an instant she stopped, half in and half out, her eyes focused on the street beyond the plate glass.

"What is it?" He glanced in that direction, seeing nothing but the flow of traffic and the jostling crowds.

"Nothing, I guess." She shook her head, moving past him into the shop. "I thought I saw someone staring at us. I told you my imagination worked overtime."

"Man or woman?"

"Man—youngish, wearing a dark jacket."

He paused, holding the door, scanning the street beyond. Someone had knocked him out trying to break into the farmhouse—someone had frightened Rachel with that stupid trick at the church. Maybe someone had even tampered with the Christmas lights.

Still, why would anyone care what they were doing in Bethlehem today?

He led Rachel to a table, placed the order, ending up getting hot chocolate and an assortment of cookies, and all the while his mind busied itself with the answer to that question.

Someone might well care what they were doing in Bethlehem, because they were following up on his grandfather's murder. And if someone had tried to push Rachel over that railing, it was his fault.

She wrapped her hands around the thick white mug, lifting it to sip gingerly and coming away with a feathering of cream on her lip. She looked at him, eyes wide and serious.

"I might feel better if you told me that was a ridiculous fear, and that no one could possibly have pushed me."

He captured one hand in his. "I might, but I don't like the way things are going. Someone might be worried about what we found out at the shop today. Might think we're getting too close."

She looked down at the frothy liquid. "In that case, you'd think it would be you they'd try to push down the stairs. You're the one who's determined to learn the truth."

"Yes." That bothered him, more than he wanted to admit. "The attack on me seems pretty explainable. Thieves or vandals, hitting me so that they could get away. But you. Why would anyone want to frighten or hurt you?"

"I don't know. I'm not convinced that someone does, not really." Her brow furrowed. "Except—Well I still feel the Christmas lights could have been an accident. But someone was in the church that night." She shivered a little. "And I can't prove it, but someone did push me on the stairs."

"If so—" He felt in his pocket for the medal and pulled it out. "You'd think they'd have been better served by trying to pick my pocket if they're worried about this."

She nodded, watching as he unwrapped the medal. "Let me have a look at it."

He shoved it across the table to her, and she bent over it, studying the surface and then turning it over. Maybe the distraction was good for her. The color seemed to return to her cheeks.

She frowned, staring at the back of it. "Is this some sort of worn inscription, or is it just scratched?"

He held it up to the light, rubbing it with his finger. "I don't know. Maybe if I clean it, we'll be able to make it out." He fingered it a moment longer and then wrapped the tissue paper around it again. "If it could talk, it might give me the answers I need."

"Maybe it will anyway." She seemed to make an effort to meet his eyes. "I'll ask Grams the best way to approach Mrs. Albright. She knows everyone."

"It might be better if you and your grandmother didn't get involved in this. I don't want you put into any further danger."

"Assuming the danger is real, and not just a figment of my imagination or a series of unfortunate accidents." She shook her head. "If I went to Zach Burkhalter—well, he might take it seriously, but what could he do?"

His fingers tightened on hers. "I should move out. Not see you again. Make sure that anyone who's interested knows you have no connection with me."

"And what good would that do?" Her voice was remarkably calm. "If this incident was real, not yet another accident, then it means that the target isn't you. It's me. And I don't know why."

"T
hank you, Mrs. Albright, but I really don't care for any more tea. Now if we could just—"

Rachel's frown didn't seem to be working, so she silenced Tyler with a light kick on the ankle. She smiled at the elderly woman across the piecrust tea table, holding out the delicate china cup.

"I'd love another cup. What a nice flavor. It's Earl Grey, I know, but it seems to have extra bergamot."

Mrs. Albright beamed as if Rachel were a favorite pupil. "That's exactly right. I get it from a little shop in Lancaster. If you think your dear grandmother would like it, I'll give you the address."

"That would be lovely." Rachel could feel Tyler seethe with impatience, and she gave him a bland smile. He didn't understand in the least how to deal with someone like Amanda Albright. He undoubtedly saw her as a contemporary of her grandmother, but she was at least ten or fifteen years older, and as delicate and fragile as a piece of the bone china on the tea table.

Elderly ladies in rural areas had their own rules of proper behavior. What Tyler didn't realize was that if he'd come alone, he'd never have gotten in the door, let alone be having tea in a parlor that was as perfect in its period detail as its mistress. Only her own vague memories of having been taken to tea with some of Grams's friends as a child had come to her rescue.

"You're running a bed-and-breakfast inn at the Unger house now, I understand. Just a nice, genteel occupation for a young girl, and I'm sure your grandmother is delighted to have you there."

Normally she'd have choked at the prospect of being called a young girl, but in this case it was best just to smile and nod. "I'm glad to be settled at home again."

Mrs. Albright nodded, eyes bright and curious as she looked from Rachel to Tyler. "And you, young man. What do you do?"

"I'm a partner in an architectural firm in Baltimore. Now about the collection—"

Rachel kicked him again. "Tyler has family ties here, though. His maternal grandparents were John and Anna Hostetler."

"Ah, of course." One could almost see the wheels turning as she ticked through the possibilities. "John had his faults, no one could deny that, but generally good, sturdy stock. Very appropriate."

Tyler had his mouth full of butter cookie at the time, and a few crumbs escaped when he sputtered in response.

Rachel set her cup down, hoping the tiny clatter masked his reaction and trying to stifle a smile of her own. She'd known what was going on from the moment they'd sat down on the petit-point chairs. Amanda Albright was sizing up Tyler's potential as a match for her dear friend Katherine's granddaughter.

Explaining that she and Tyler didn't have that kind of relationship would only confuse the issue, and Mrs. Albright probably wouldn't believe it, anyway. She had her own agenda, and nothing would deter her. It was different probably, in Tyler's brisk urban life, but in country places like this, the gossip around any young couple would include the suitability of the family lines for several generations back.