Dark Crossings (11 page)

He was gone before she could say that Jacob was always on time.
She paused, frowning at the stairs and barely seeing them. Hank had known that
Jacob was coming back for her. They’d been speaking
Englische
when they came in the house—she because that was what she
always spoke here, and Jacob because he’d naturally answer her in the same
tongue.

So Hank had heard them. Had he also heard her saying that she
thought something was wrong about Mr. Strickland’s death?

CHAPTER THREE

J
ACOB
ARRIVED
EARLY
to pick Sarah up for her ride home. Even knowing
she wouldn’t be ready yet, he’d been restless, having trouble concentrating on
the work at the machine shop. His thoughts returned again and again to her list
of oddities about Mr. Strickland’s death.

All of them were things that could be easily dismissed, for
sure. But Sarah was bothered, and so he was.

He slid down from the high buggy seat. Since Mr. Strickland’s
house had no place to stable a horse for the day, someone always had to bring
Sarah back and forth. This time, he was especially glad he was the one to do
so.

Hank Mitchell was clipping a hedge behind the house, a ball cap
pushed back on his curly brown hair, his tight jeans riding low on his hips. The
Englischer
was friendly enough, Jacob supposed.
Not his fault that Jacob was tired of hearing his name on Sarah’s lips.

When no one came in answer to his tapping, Jacob opened the
side door. “Sarah?
Wo bist du?
”
Where are you?

Steps sounded on the narrow back stairway that led from the
kitchen to the second floor, and she appeared, frowning a little.

“You are early, ain’t so?” She glanced at the clock.

“We finished up that reaper we were rebuilding, so your
daad
said I should leave. Maybe see if you needed any
help.”

Sarah’s shoulders lifted, her nose wrinkling. “I don’t even
have enough to do myself. Leo Frost was supposed to come this morning, but then
he called to say he was busy and would stop by later. He still hasn’t, so I was
chust
tidying up.”

The frown was still there, and Jacob sensed it didn’t have
anything to do with either his early arrival or Frost’s late one. “Something is
wrong,
ja?
” He hung his straw hat on the knob of the
ladder-back chair, prepared to wait as long as needed.

Sarah’s lips pressed together, and for a moment he thought she
wouldn’t answer. Then she nodded. “Things are not where they should be.”

“Things? What things?” She should know he would keep asking
until he had a better answer than that one.

“Things,” she said, waving her hands as if to take in the whole
house. “You know how Mr. Strickland had all these little decorations around,
like his seashells from when he went to the ocean as a boy, and the teapots his
mamm
collected.”

Jacob nodded. The
Englischer’
s
house had always seemed cluttered to him, with gimcracks on every table, but
Sarah said they gave the man pleasure. “Are they gone?”

His thoughts went immediately to theft. If a thief had gotten
into the house, that would explain why Mr. Strickland had tried to come down the
stairs that night.

“Not missing, no.” Sarah’s frown deepened. “Just moved.
Rearranged, some of them, like someone had looked at them and put them back in
the wrong place.”

“
Ach,
Sarah, Mr. Strickland
probably did it himself. Or you did, when you were cleaning.” Relief washed
through him. Not a thief lurking around the house, then.

“Jacob Mast, you know perfectly well I would put everything
back where it belonged. That’s the first thing I learned, working for Mr.
Strickland. Everything must be in place.”

“Maybe he did—” He tried to go on, but Sarah spoke over
him.

“It was because of his bad eyes, you see. He might pick a piece
up, hold it in his hands as if it comforted him. Even lift it a few inches from
his eyes to see it better. But always each piece went back exactly where it
belonged, so he could find it the next time.”

That made sense, Jacob supposed, but it still didn’t mean Mr.
Strickland couldn’t have changed his habits for some reason. But since Sarah was
already annoyed with him, maybe it wasn’t best to point that out.

“I see Mr. Frost coming up the walk now,” he said instead,
grateful for the interruption. “You should tell him.”

But Leo Frost, once he was settled at the kitchen table with a
cup of coffee, didn’t seem to take Sarah’s revelations that seriously. She told
him everything, including what she’d noticed the day before. He nodded, patted
her hand and promised to discuss it with Chief Byler.

Surprisingly, he paid more heed when Sarah mentioned that Hank
Mitchell had been in the house that morning. But no more than Jacob himself did.
He’d known he should have checked the entire place, and he’d let Sarah persuade
him not to. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Leo Frost’s blue eyes turned cold. “I suppose Richard gave him
a key, but I’ll have to get it back from him. I don’t like the idea of just
anyone being able to get in. Richard Strickland had a lot of worthless junk, but
he also owned some very valuable antiques.”

“I did not mean to get Hank in trouble,” Sarah said. “I’m sure
he was just looking for me, as he said.”

“I’m not blaming you, or Mitchell either, for that matter.” Leo
patted her hand again. “But I know very little about that young man, and I’d
prefer that you not let anyone in unless I tell you to.”

Sarah nodded, her gaze on the tabletop, and Jacob knew she was
feeling at fault.

“I’ll take care of collecting his key,” Leo said. “Now, as to
the work. Tomorrow you can start sorting through the clothes and packing them in
boxes to go to the thrift store.” He glanced around the kitchen, shaking his
head. “I’d like to auction off the whole lot, but that wouldn’t be right, so
we’ll have to take our time and go through everything. Any papers you might find
should be put aside for me to see.” He rubbed at the line that had deepened
between his snowy eyebrows, as if finding all of this too much.

Sarah, obviously seeing the signs of stress as well, reached
out to pat his sleeve. “If you are upset about sorting Mr. Strickland’s
things—”

“No, no, it’s not that.” Leo’s face warmed as he smiled at her.
“At my age, you expect your friends and clients to start dying off. The reason
I’m upset came in today’s mail. I received a note from Richard, saying he wanted
to change his will.”

That must have given him a start, knowing his friend was dead
and then getting a letter from him. No wonder he seemed upset.

“But…I thought he was leaving everything to the historical
society. He often talked about that.” Sarah’s bright eyes had clouded.

Leo sighed, shaking his head. “That was the way the last will
read, and of course it’s valid, since we didn’t draft a new one.”

“But if he wanted to make changes…” Sarah fell silent,
obviously turning the possibility over in her mind.

“Even if he left a list of proposed alterations, it doesn’t
change anything. I just wish I knew what he was thinking.” He smiled, but it
seemed to take an effort. “He didn’t mention anything about it to you,
then?”

Sarah shook her head. “I suppose he might have wanted to leave
something to Hank. He wouldn’t have known about him when he made up his last
will. But that’s the only thing I can imagine.”

“Like you, I’m troubled by any changes in Richard’s regular
behavior, but I expect we’ll find there was some reason for everything.” Leo
waved his hands in a shooing motion. “I’ve kept you long enough. Go on home now.
I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jacob followed Sarah out to the buggy. He’d been worried about
her when he’d arrived, and he was more worried now that he’d heard about Hank
being in the house. Leo Frost hadn’t liked it, either.

Jacob helped Sarah into the high seat and stood for a moment
staring up at her. The black bonnet framed her face, seeming to dampen all her
brightness.

“Why didn’t you tell Mitchell to get out when you found him in
the house?” The words escaped before he thought them through.

Sarah gaped at him. Little wonder. He was acting
ferhoodled,
for sure, out of worry about her.

“How could I do that?” Her quick temper flared. “It is not my
house. And Hank was a relative of Mr. Strickland. You are being foolish.”

“
Ach,
well, maybe you are being
foolish, too, staying on here,” he snapped back. “I wish I’d never encouraged
it.”

Sarah’s chin tilted up. “It’s none of your business what I do,
Jacob. Now take me home, please.”

He swung himself up to the seat next to her. Fuming and being
foolish both at the same time. What was he going to do about his sweet, stubborn
Sarah?

* * *

A
T
LEAST
, S
ARAH
DECIDED
the next day, she had something positive to
do. Sorting through Mr. Strickland’s clothing was depressing, but it was better
than wandering around the house looking for something out of order. She’d done
that so much that she’d begun to see problems everywhere, say nothing of hearing
every creak the old house made.

She glanced at the large stacks on the four-poster bed—shirts,
pants, suits, ties, all neatly folded. Bearing Leo Frost’s words in mind, she
had kept her eyes open for any papers, but the dresser and closet had contained
only clothes. Mr. Strickland had been meticulous, despite the fact that he’d
seldom thrown anything away.

Sarah got up from sitting on the floor, and stretched her back.
All the clothing was ready to be packed, but she had no boxes.

The grocery store kept a stack that anyone who needed them
could have. She’d best take a walk and pick up a few boxes. Too bad she hadn’t
thought of that when Jacob had dropped her off. He could have loaded some in the
buggy.

She headed for the stairs, detouring first to open the door to
the study. It tended to swing shut, and she pushed the heavy doorstop into place
and then trotted down the stairs and out to the kitchen to get her bonnet.

Springville was small enough that it didn’t take much more than
ten minutes to walk from one end to the other. She strolled past the drugstore
and the fabric shop, an old-fashioned one that catered to the many Amish
quilters in the area. The spring sunshine was warm on her shoulders, relaxing
her.

She hadn’t realized how depressing it would be cooped up in
that house alone all day. Mr. Strickland might have been cranky, but he’d loved
to talk, sometimes following her around as she worked, telling her his views on
the latest political scandal or expounding on the mistakes of the township
supervisors. She’d liked it best when he talked about Springville’s early days,
or when he’d relived the memories brought on by each of the curios he’d
saved.

The stack of boxes was at the side of the market, as usual, and
she took as many as she could carry, waving her thanks through the window to the
clerk at the front register.

She’d reached McKay’s Antiques when she heard someone behind
her.

“Sarah…Sarah Weaver. Wait a minute.”

Sarah didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Maude Stevens,
president of the Spring Township Historical Society, had been related to Richard
Strickland through her late husband, and she was one of the few people whose
visits he’d tolerated.

But
tolerated
was the right word.
Mr. Strickland had always complained that he could see her beady eyes assessing
the property she coveted for the historical society.

Sarah turned, juggling the boxes, and waited while the woman
chugged up to her. In her middle sixties, Maude Stevens was built somewhat like
the church wagon that carried benches from one Amish home to another for
worship—square and squat. Today she wore a hat, a concoction of feathers and net
that Sarah stared at in awe. Maude must have been at the Women’s Club luncheon
at the inn—that was the only thing
Englische
women
wore hats to anymore.

“Glad I caught you.” Maude put a possessive hand on her arm,
nearly causing Sarah to lose her grip on the boxes. “Wait till I catch my
breath.”

Sarah nodded. She could hardly refuse. To do Maude justice, her
eyes weren’t really beady. They were as shiny as two black pebbles one of the
kinder
might bring in from the creek.

“What are all the boxes for? You’re not giving away anything
from Richard’s house, I hope.” The woman seemed to have recovered from her race
down the street.

“Mr. Frost asked me to pack up the clothing.” Best to make it
clear that the lawyer was in charge, Sarah thought. “I’ve been doing that
today.”

“Clothes.” Maude dismissed Sarah’s reply with a wave of her
hand. “That doesn’t matter, but nothing else must be disposed of unless I see it
first.”

Sarah blinked, unsure how to respond. “I thought Mr. Frost was
responsible for that.”

“Leo Frost was just Richard’s attorney,” Maude said, dismissing
him with the same gesture she’d used for the clothing. “According to Richard’s
will, the bulk of his property will go to me…I mean the historical society,
which I represent. As such, I should be the one to supervise any disposition of
the house contents. You can’t be expected to know what’s of value, Sarah. And I,
after all, am a relative.”

“Not quite correct, is it, Maude, dear?” The question came
silkily. Donald McKay had stepped out of his antiques shop, apparently listening
in on their conversation without embarrassment. “It was your husband who was
distantly related to Richard. Your late husband. I’m sure I remember Richard
making it clear that you had no claim on his estate at all.”

“That’s not true.” Maude’s face seemed to swell, its ruddy
color darkening. “Well, it’s true enough that it was my husband who was
Richard’s blood kin, but he always treated me like a…like a dear niece.”

That was so false that Sarah could only stare at her. Mr.
Strickland had put up with her visits with ill-concealed impatience.

“Really?” Donald McKay’s pale eyebrows lifted above his
gold-rimmed glasses. “I find that so surprising.” His voice was almost a purr,
as if he’d borrowed it from the tortoiseshell cat that slept in his front
window. “I seem to recall hearing Richard say—”