A Christmas to Die For (2 page)

Voices came from the doorway to the left, obviously the kitchen. He moved quietly toward them.

"…if I'd known, maybe I wouldn't have opened my mouth and put my foot in it." Rachel, obviously talking to someone about his arrival.

"There was no reason for you to know. You were just a child." An older voice, cultured, restrained. If this woman was hiding something, he couldn't tell.

A pan clattered. "You'd best see if he's coming down, before these sticky buns are cold."

That was his cue, obviously. He moved to the doorway before someone could come out and find him. "I'm here. I wouldn't want to cause a crisis in the kitchen."

"Good morning." The woman who rose from the kitchen table, extending her hand to him, must be Rachel's grandmother. Every bit the grande dame, she didn't look in the least bothered by what he might or might not have overheard. "Welcome to the inn, Mr. Dunn. I'm Katherine Unger."

"Thank you." He shook her hand gently, aware of bones as fine as delicate crystal. The high cheekbones, brilliant blue eyes, and assured carriage might have belonged to a duchess.

Rachel, holding a casserole dish between two oversize oven mitts, had more color in her cheeks than he'd seen the night before, but maybe that was from the heat of the stove.

The third person in the kitchen wore the full-skirted dark dress and apron and white cap of the Amish. She turned away, evading his gaze, perhaps shy of a stranger.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Unger. I suppose your granddaughter told you who I am."

"Yes. I was very sorry to hear of your mother's death. I knew her when she was a girl, although I don't suppose she remembered me. I don't remember seeing her again after she graduated from high school."

"Actually, she spoke of you when she talked about her childhood." Which hadn't been often, for the most part, until her final days. He'd always thought she'd been eager to forget.

"I'm sure you'd like to have your breakfast. Rachel has fixed her wild-mushroom and sausage quiche for you."

"You can have something else, if you prefer," Rachel said quickly. "I didn't have a chance to ask—"

"It sounds great," he said. "And I'm looking forward to the sticky buns, too." He smiled in the direction of the Amish woman, but she stared down at the stovetop as if it might speak to her.

Rachel, carrying the steaming casserole dish, led the way to the table in the breakfast room. He sat down, but before he had a chance to say anything, she'd whisked off to the kitchen, to reappear in a moment with a basket of rolls.

He helped himself to a fresh fruit cup and smiled at her as she poured coffee. "Any chance you'd pour a cup and join me? It's a little strange sitting here by myself."

This time there was no mistaking the flush that colored her cheeks. That fair skin must make it hard to camouflage her feelings. "I'm sorry there aren't any other guests at the moment, but—"

"Please. I need to apologize, and it would be easier over coffee."

She gave him a startled look, then turned without a word and took a mug from a mammoth china cupboard that bore faded stenciling—apples, tulips, stars. It stood against the stone wall that must once have been the exterior of the house.

Her mug filled, she sat down opposite him. "There's really no reason for you to apologize to me."

Green eyes serious in a heart-shaped face, brown hair curling to the shoulders of the white shirt she wore with jeans, her hands clasped around the mug—she looked about sixteen instead of the twenty-nine he knew her to be. He'd done his homework on the residents of Three Sisters Inn before he'd come.

"I think I do. You were being friendly, and I shouldn't have thrown the fact of my grandfather's death at you."

"I didn't know." Her eyes were troubled, he'd guess because she was someone who hated hurting another's feelings. "We left here when I was about eight, and I didn't come back until less than a year ago, so I'm not up on local history."

"I guess that's what it seems like." He tried to pull up his own images of his grandfather, but it was too long ago. "Ancient history. I remember coming for the funeral and having the odd sense that conversations broke off when I came in the room. It must have been years before I knew my grandfather had been killed in the course of a robbery."

She leaned toward him, sympathy in every line of her body. "I'm sure it's hard to deal with things so soon after your mother's death. Is there any other family to help you?"

"I'm afraid not." He found himself responding to her warmth even while the analytical part of his mind registered that the way to gain her cooperation was to need her help. "I hate the thought of seeing the farm again after all this time. It's down that road I was on last night, isn't it?"

He paused, waiting for the offer he was sure she'd feel compelled to make.

Rachel's fingers clenched around the mug, and he could sense the reluctance in her. And see her overcome it.

"Would you like me to go over there with you?"

"You'd do that?"

She smiled, seeming to overcome whatever reservation she had. "Of course. We're neighbors, after all."

It took a second to adjust to the warmth of that smile. "Thanks. I'd appreciate it."

Careful. He took a mental step back. Rachel Hampton was a very attractive woman, but he couldn't afford to be distracted from the task that had brought him here. And if she knew, there might very well be no more offers of help.

The dog danced at Rachel's heels as she walked down Crossings Road beside Tyler that afternoon. At least Barney was excited about this outing. She was beginning to regret that impulsive offer to accompany Tyler. And as for him—well, he looked as if every step brought him closer to something he didn't want to face.

Fanciful, she scolded herself, shoving her hands into the pockets of her corduroy jacket. The sun was bright enough to make her wish she'd brought sunglasses, but the air was crisp and cold.

"There's the lane to the farmhouse." She pointed ahead to the wooden gate that sagged between two posts. If there'd ever been a fence along the neglected pasture, it was long gone. "Is it coming back to you at all?"

Tyler shook his head. "I only visited my grandfather once before the time I came for the funeral. Apparently, he and my mother didn't get along well."

From what Grams had told her this morning, John Hostetler hadn't been on friendly terms with anybody, but it would hardly be polite to tell Tyler that. "That's a shame. This was a great place to be a kid."

Her gesture took in the gently rolling farmland that stretched in every direction, marked into neat fields, some sere and brown after the harvest, others showing the green haze of winter wheat.

He followed her movement, narrowing his eyes against the sun. "Are those farms Amish?"

"All the ones you see from here are. The Zook farm is the closest—we share a boundary with them, and you must, as well." She pointed. "Over there are the Stolz-fuses, then the Bredbenners, and that farthest one belongs to Jacob Stoker. Amish farms may be different in other places, but around here you'll usually see a white bank barn and two silos. You won't see electric lines."

He gave her an amused look. "You sound like the local tour guide."

"Sorry. I guess it comes with running a B&B."

He looked down the lane at the farmhouse, just coming into view. "There it is. I can't say it brings any nostalgic feeling. My grandfather didn't seem welcoming when we came here. If my mother ever wanted to change things with him—well, I guess she left it too late."

Was he thinking again about his grandfather's funeral? Or maybe regretting the relationship they'd never had? She knew a bit about that feeling. Her father had never spent enough time in her life to do anything but leave a hole.

"You said something this morning about conversations breaking off when you came in the room—people wanting to protect you, I suppose, from knowing how your grandfather died."

He nodded, a question in his eyes.

"I know how that feels. When my father walked out, no one would tell us anything." She shook her head, almost wishing she hadn't spoken. After all these years, she still didn't like thinking about it. But that was what made her understand how Tyler felt. "Maybe they figured because he'd never been around much anyway, we wouldn't realize that this time was for good, but the truth would have been better than what we imagined."

His deep-blue eyes were so intent on her face that it was almost as if he touched her. "That must have been rough on you and your sisters."

She registered his words with a faint sense of unease. "I don't believe I mentioned my sisters to you."

"Didn't you?" He smiled, but there was something guarded in the look. "I suppose I was making an assumption, because of the inn's name."

That was logical, although it didn't entirely take away her startled sense that he knew more about them than she'd expect from a casual visitor.

"The name may be wishful thinking on my part, but yes, I have two sisters. Andrea is the oldest. She was married at Thanksgiving, and she and her husband are still on a honeymoon trip. And Caroline, the youngest, is an artist, living out in Santa Fe." She touched the turquoise and silver pin on her shirt collar. "She made this."

Tyler stopped, bending to look at the delicate hummingbird. He was so close his fingers almost touched her neck as he straightened the collar, and she was suddenly warm in spite of the chill breeze.

He drew back, and the momentary awareness was gone. "It's lovely. Your sister is talented."

"Yes." The worry over Caro that lurked at the back of her mind surfaced. Something had been wrong when Caro came home for the wedding, hidden behind her too-brittle laugh and almost frantic energy. But Caroline didn't seem to need her sisters any longer.

"The place looks even worse than I expected." Tyler's words brought her back to the present. The farmhouse, a simple frame building with a stone chimney at either end, seemed to sag as if tired of trying to stand upright. The porch that extended across the front sported broken railings and crumbling steps, and several windows had been boarded up.

"Grams told me the house had been broken into several times. Some of the neighbors came and boarded up the windows after the last incident. The barn looks in fairly good shape, though."

That was a small consolation to hold out to him if he really hadn't known that his mother let the place fall to bits. Still, a good solid Pennsylvania Dutch bank barn could withstand almost anything except fire.

"If those hex signs were meant to protect the place, they're not doing a very good job." He was looking up at the peak of the roof, where a round hex sign with the familiar star pattern hung.

"I don't think you'd find anyone to admit they believe that. Most people just say they're a tradition. There are as many theories as there are scholars who study them."

Tyler went cautiously up the porch steps and then turned toward her. "You'll have to climb over the broken tread."

She grasped the hand he held out, and he almost lifted her to the porch. She whistled to the dog, nosing around the base of the porch. "Come, Barney. The last thing we need is for you to unearth a hibernating skunk."

"That would be messy." Tyler turned a key in the lock, and the door creaked open. He hesitated for an instant and then stepped inside. She followed, switching on the flashlight that Grams had reminded her to bring.

"Dusty." A little light filtered through the boards on the windows, and the beam of her flashlight danced around the room, showing a few remaining pieces of furniture, a massive stone fireplace on the end wall, and a thick layer of dust on everything.

Tyler stood in the middle of the room, very still. His face seemed stiff, almost frozen.

"I'm sorry if it's a disappointment. It was a good, sturdy farmhouse once, and it could be again, with some money and effort."

"I doubt I'd find anyone interested in doing that." He walked through the dining room toward the kitchen, and she followed him, trying to think of something encouraging to say. This had to be a sad homecoming for him.

"There's an old stone sink. You don't often see those in their original state anymore."

He sent her the ghost of a smile. "You want to try out the pump?"

"No, thanks. That looks beyond repair. But I can imagine some antique dealer drooling over the stone sink. Those are quite popular now."

"I suppose I should get a dealer out to see if there's anything worth selling. I remember the house as being crowded with furniture, but there's not too much left now."

"My grandmother could steer you to some reputable dealers. Didn't your mother take anything back with her after your grandfather died?"

She couldn't help being curious. Anyone would be. Why had the woman let the place fall apart after her father died? Grief, maybe, but it still seemed odd. Surely she knew how valuable a good farm was in Lancaster County.

"Not that I remember." He turned from a contemplation of the cobwebby ice box to focus on her. "You spoke of break-ins. Was anything stolen?"

"I don't know. My grandmother might remember. Or Emma Zook, since they're such close neighbors. She's our housekeeper."

"The Amish woman who was in the kitchen this morning? According to the lawyer who handled my grandfather's will, the Zooks leased some of the farmland from his estate. I need to get that straightened out before I put the place on the market. I should talk to them. And to your grandmother."

Something about his intent look made her uneasy. "I doubt that she knows anything about their leases."

"According to my mother, Fredrick Unger offered to buy the property. That would make me think your family had an interest."

There was something—an edgy, almost antagonistic tone to his voice, that set her back up instantly. What was he driving at?

"I'm sure my grandfather's only interest would have been to keep a valuable farm from falling to pieces. Since he died nearly five years ago, I don't imagine you'll ever know."

"Your grandmother—"