A Christmas to Die For (21 page)

God is always there to take your hand. Grams's words echoed and comforted.

I don't see my way through this. Lord. I don't know how many more hard lessons there are to learn. Please, hold my hand.

Comforted. Yes, that was what she felt. She didn't see any farther, but she didn't feel alone.

Barney danced along the sidewalk, dodging shoppers—some locals that she knew, a few tourists. The Christmas lights shone cheerfully, and in every window she saw posters for the Holiday Open House Tour.

Funny. It had occupied an important place in her mind for weeks, as if its success marked her acceptance as part of this community. Now it was almost here, and she didn't feel her customary flicker of panic. There were too many more important things to worry about. The tour would go on, no matter what happened in the private lives of its organizers.

She passed Sandra and Bradley Whitmoyer's spacious Victorian, ablaze with white lights and evergreens, a lighted tree filling the front window. Across the snowy street, Longstreet's Antiques seemed to be closed, the shop dark.

Would the police have searched thoroughly? She couldn't imagine Zach Burkhalter undertaking anything without doing it well, and he'd probably love to tie recent antique thefts to Phil. But he didn't think there was enough evidence to charge Phil with anything from the past. That had been clear from his manner.

It had also been clear that he pitied her. That he agreed with Tyler's assessment. That her father had been guilty of that terrible thing.

She stopped, staring at the shop. Barney pressed against her leg, whining a little.

Odd. The shop was dark, but she could glimpse a narrow wedge of light from the office. Phil must still be there.

If she talked to him again—just the two of them. Not Tyler. Not the police. Just two people who had been friends. Would he tell her about her father? Would he help her understand this?

She shouldn't. Chief Burkhalter had been angry enough with Tyler for his interference. He'd be furious with her if she did any such thing.

It was her father. She had a right to know. And the idea of being afraid to talk to Phil, of all people, was simply ridiculous. Snapping her fingers to Barney, she crossed the street, her boots crunching through the ruts left by passing cars.

She reached for the knob, expecting the door to be locked, but the knob turned under her hand. She'd have expected Phil to stay open tonight, like the other shops, but if he'd closed, why hadn't he locked up?

She stepped inside, reassured by the tinkle of the bell over the door and the feel of the dog, pressing close beside her.

"Phil? It's Rachel. Can I talk with you for a minute?"

No answer. The door to the office was ajar, a narrow band of light shining through it, reflecting from the glass cases.

"Phil?" she shivered in spite of the warmth of the shop, starting toward the light.

And froze at a rustle of movement somewhere in the crammed shop.

Her hand clenched Barney's collar. She felt the hair rise on the ruff of his neck, heard a low, rumbling growl start deep in his throat.

Danger,
that's what he was saying.
Danger.

She held her breath, though it was too late for that. If someone lurked in the shadows, she'd already announced herself, hadn't she?

She took a careful step toward the outside door, hand tight on Barney's collar, trying to control him. He strained against her, growling at something she couldn't see in the dark.

A step matched hers. Someone on the other side of an enormous Dutch cabinet moved when she did. Fear gripped her throat. Scream, and hope someone on the street heard before he reached her? Let Barney go?

She hesitated too long. Before she could move, a dark figure burst from behind the cabinet, arm upraised. She stumbled backward, losing her hold on the dog, she was falling, he'd be on her—

Barney lunged, snapping and snarling. Something crashed into a glass display case, shattering it, shards of glass flying. Dog and man grappled in the dark, and she fled toward the office, bolted inside, slammed and locked the door, breath coming in sobbing gasps.

Barney—But she couldn't help him. She had to call—

She turned, blinking in the light while she fumbled in her bag for her phone. And stopped.

Phil Longstreet lay on the floor between his elegant Sheraton desk and the door. His arms were outflung, hands open. Blood spread from his head, soaking into the intricate blue-and-wine design of the Oriental carpet.

Tyler wrenched the steering wheel and spun out of the snowy driveway at the inn, tension twisting his gut. He'd come back to the inn from supper to find Katherine in shock. Phil Longstreet was in the hospital, and Rachel was at the police station.

Incredible. Surely the police couldn't believe that Rachel—gentle, nurturing Rachel—could harm anyone. But he doubted that the police made their decisions based on someone's apparent character.

Think, don't just react, he admonished himself. Katherine Unger had rushed to him the instant he walked in the door. Her incoherent explanation of events had been interspersed with Emma's equally hard-to-understand pleas for her to be calm, to go and lie down, to stop exciting herself.

Finally he'd gotten both of them enough under control to get the bare facts they knew. Rachel had gone out with the dog for a short walk on Main Street. A half hour later, just when her grandmother was starting to worry, a policeman had appeared at the inn with the dog, saying that Phillip Longstreet had been injured and that Rachel was at the station, helping the police inquiry.

Emma had to restrain Katherine from rushing out into the snowy night without even a coat.

"Go after her, please, go after her." She'd grasped his arm, holding on to him as if he were a lifeline. "Someone has to be with her, to protect her. Please, Tyler. She needs you."

He clasped her hands between his. "I'll take care of her." He glanced at Emma. "And you'll take care of Mrs. Unger."

"
Ja,
I will." Emma put her own shawl around Katherine's shoulders and drew her toward the library. "Come. You come. Tyler will do it."

Now he was forced to slow down, watchful of the small group of pedestrians who hovered on the edge of the street, trying to see what was happening inside the antique shop. He passed a police car and then pulled to the curb in front of the police station, heedless of the No Parking sign.

He raced across the sidewalk, up the two steps and shoved the door open. A young patrolman looked up from the desk, telephone receiver pressed against his ear.

"Rachel Hampton. Where is she?"

"She's with the chief." He glanced toward the door to the inner office with what seemed a combination of fear and excitement. "They can't be disturbed."

"Is there an attorney with her? Because if not, I'm certainly going to disturb them."

"Now, sir—"

The door opened and Zach Burkhalter came out, closing it behind him, looking at Tyler with an annoyed glare.

"Mr. Dunn. Now, why am I not surprised that you've turned up here?"

"You're talking to Rachel Hampton. If she doesn't have an attorney with her—"

"Ms. Hampton isn't being charged with anything. And she said she doesn't want an attorney."

Tyler's eyes narrowed. "I'd like to hear that from her." Maybe it was better if he didn't look too closely at the emotions that drove him right now.

Burkhalter's annoyance seemed to fade into resignation. He opened the door. "Go ahead."

A few more steps took him into the room, and the sight of Rachel sent everything else out of his mind. She sat on a straight-backed chair in the small office, huddled into the jacket that was wrapped around her shoulders. It wasn't cold in the room, but she shivered as she looked up at him.

"Tyler." She blinked, as if she were close to tears. "Phillip…did you hear about him? About what happened?"

"Shh. It's all right." He knelt next to her chair, taking her icy hands in his and trying to warm them with his touch.

A sidelong glance told him that Burkhalter had left the door open, and there was no sound from the outer office. They'd hear anything that was said here.

"But Phillip—"

He put his hand gently across her lips. "Don't. Just tell me what the chief asked you."

The truth was that he liked Burkhalter—he judged him a good man and probably a good cop. But he
was
a cop, and that's how he thought.

"He wanted me to tell him exactly what happened." Her eyes were wide and dark with shock. "I told him. I was out for a walk with Barney, and I saw that the office light was on at the antique shop. I thought I should talk to Phil. Just as a friend, that's all, to try and understand."

"The shop was unlocked?" His mind worked feverishly. She'd already told this to the police, so it was as well that she told him, too. He had to understand what they were dealing with.

She nodded. "I went in, calling his name. He didn't answer. And then I realized someone else was there, in the shop."

Fear jagged through him. "Did he hurt you?"

"I'm all right." But she didn't sound all right. "Barney went after him. Gave me time to run into the office and lock the door."

"Did you see his face? Who was it?"

She shook her head. "I never got a look at him. And then I saw Phil lying on the floor. His head—" She stopped, biting her lip.

He smoothed his hands over hers. "What did you do next? Did you try to help him?"

"I was afraid of making things worse. I thought I shouldn't touch the things on his desk, so I used my cell phone to call the police."

If she hadn't touched anything else in the office, that was good, but she'd undoubtedly been in there before, maybe touched things then.

Her fingers gripped his suddenly. "The paramedics wouldn't tell me anything, but it didn't look good. They took him to the hospital. Someone must know by now how he is."

Burkhalter came back into the office on her words, as if he'd been listening. For an instant he eyed Tyler, kneeling next to Rachel, as if he weighed their feelings for each other.

Well, good luck figuring that out. He didn't know, himself. He just knew that Rachel needed help and he was going to make sure she got it.

"What about it, Chief?" He rose, standing beside Rachel, his hands on her shoulders. "The hospital must have been in touch with you."

The chief's stoic expression didn't change for a moment. Then he shrugged. "Longstreet is in serious condition with a head injury."

"Is he conscious?"

"No." He bit off the word.

That meant that the police had no idea when or if Longstreet would be able to talk to them. He tightened his grip on Rachel's shoulders. "I'm sure Ms. Hampton has already helped you as much as she can. It's time she was getting home."

"If we went over her story again, we might—"

"She's told you everything. She's exhausted and upset, and she probably should be seen by a doctor. Is she being charged with anything?"

Rachel moved at that, as if it was the first time she'd realized that she might be under suspicion. His grip warned her to be still.

Burkhalter leaned against his desk, arms crossed, looking at them. "Charged? No. But from my point of view, she quarreled with Longstreet earlier in the day. She was upset about his accusations against her father. She went to the shop."

"But I didn't—"

His grip silenced her. "She's not saying another word without an attorney present." Somehow he didn't think Burkhalter wanted to press this, not now, at least.

Burkhalter eyed him. "Actually, you had a quarrel with Longstreet today, too. And a reason to have a grudge against him."

"And I was at the Brown Bread Café having dinner this evening, which you can easily check."

The chief looked at him for a long moment, then he nodded. "You can go now, both of you. We'll talk again. Please be available."

He took Rachel's arm as she rose, but she seemed steady enough now. She looked at Burkhalter with something of defiance in her eyes.

"I won't be going anywhere, Chief Burkhalter. I have a business to run." She turned and walked steadily out of the office.

Tyler followed her through the outer office, holding the door while she went out into the street. It was dark, cold and still. The crowd had dissipated, so Rachel wouldn't have to endure their curious gazes.

"My car is right here." He piloted her to the door. "Your grandmother—"

Her knees seemed to buckle, and he caught her, folding his arms around her and holding her close. "It's okay," he murmured. "It's okay."

She shook her head, her hair brushing against his face. "I don't know what to do. Why is this happening?"

He pressed his cheek against her hair. "It's going to be all right. Don't worry."

Fine words. The trouble was, he didn't have any idea how to make them come true.

I
t took a gigantic effort to keep smiling when she felt that everyone who came through the door for the open house was staring at her. Rachel handed out leaflets about the history of the Unger mansion to the latest group, hoping that their curiosity was about the house, not her.

"Please enjoy your visit. If you have any questions, be sure to ask one of the guides."

A couple of her volunteer guides had, oddly enough, become unavailable today, probably as a result of last night's events. But Emma and Grams had stepped into the breach. She'd worried about letting Grams exert herself, but she'd actually begun to regain some of her zest as she talked to people about the house she loved.

And then there was Tyler. She was aware of him moving quietly through the visitors, lending a hand here, there and everywhere. They'd managed a few minutes alone to talk earlier, trying to make sense of all this.

If Phil feared that Tyler's investigations might reveal he'd bought stolen property, he might have a reason to try to stop him. But why would he have anything against her?

Everything that happened to her could have been coincidence. Accident.