A Christmas to Die For (8 page)

"I don't suppose there's such a thing as an inventory," the chief asked.

"My grandfather's attorney did give me a list, but I don't know how complete it is." Tyler's smile flickered. "And given how little I know about Pennsylvania Dutch furniture, I doubt I could even figure out what's being described on the list."

"I can probably help you with that. Furnishing the inn made me something of an instant expert on the subject." She was faintly surprised to hear the offer coming out of her mouth. Didn't she already have enough to keep her busy?

"Sounds like a good idea," Chief Burkhalter said. "Let me have a copy of the list, and mark anything you and Ms. Hampton think has gone missing. At least that gives us a start."

His light illumined Tyler's face briefly. Was Tyler really that pale and strained, or was it just the effect of the glaring white light?

"You folks might as well get home." Burkhalter swung his torch to show them the way out. "We'll be a bit longer. Ms. Hampton, if you wouldn't mind taking Mr. Dunn, I'll have my officer drop his car off later. I don't think he should be driving."

"That's fine," she said, grabbing Tyler's arm before he could protest. "Let's go."

He must have been feeling fairly rocky, since he let her tug him down the stairs. When they reached the front porch, she took a deep breath of cold air. Even its bite was preferable to the stale, musty scent of decay inside.

No wonder Tyler disliked the place. His grandfather had been an unhappy, miserable man, by all accounts, and that unhappiness seemed to permeate the very walls of the house.

They stepped off the porch, and Tyler shivered a little when the wind hit him. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "So that's it. Minor-league housebreakers." He sounded—She wasn't sure what. Dissatisfied, maybe?

"I suppose so." She led the way to the car.

Maybe Tyler was thinking the same thing she was. Thieves, yes. That seemed logical.

But why now? That was the thing that bothered her the most. Why now?

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Tyler glanced at Rachel as they walked down Churchville's Main Street the next morning, headed for the antique shop.

She looked up at him, eyebrows lifting. "Why not? It'll be much easier for you to understand the look and value of the furniture on that list if you actually see some examples of Pennsylvania Dutch furniture. And the inn's furnishings aren't really the plain country pieces your grandfather had, for the most part. I have to pick up the final draft of the house tour brochure from Phillip, anyway."

"You're forgetting that I gave Phil Longstreet's name to the police last night. If they've come to call, he may not appreciate the sight of me."

"I'm sure Phil realizes that after the break-in, you had to mention anyone who'd been there. You certainly didn't accuse him of anything."

But he thought he read a certain reservation in her green eyes. She needed the goodwill of her fellow business people in the village. He'd been so focused on getting what he wanted that he hadn't considered how her efforts to help him might rebound against her.

"I don't want you to get involved in my troubles if it's going to make things sticky for you with people like Longstreet. And I sure don't want you involved if it means putting you at any risk."

They were on the opposite side of the road from the inn, because Rachel had wanted to take a digital photo of the inn's exterior decorations. He paused, turning to face her and leaning against the low stone wall that surrounded the church and cemetery.

"Because of what happened last night?" A frown puckered her smooth forehead. "But that was just—" She paused, shook her head. "I was going to say an accident, but it certainly wasn't that. Still, anyone who goes charging into a deserted house at night to investigate a prowler—"

"Deserves a lump on the head?" He touched the tender spot and smiled wryly. "You may have a point there. I just can't help but wonder if last night's episode had anything to do with my reason for being here."

She leaned against the wall next to him, her green corduroy jacket bright against the cream stone. Two cars went by before she spoke.

"Why now, that's what you mean. After all this time of sitting empty, why would someone choose to burglarize the place just when you've returned? I've been wondering about that myself."

She had a sharp mind behind that sensitive, heart-shaped face.

"Right. Assuming it had something to do with my return, or my reason for being here—"

She shook her head decisively. "Not that, surely. No one knows except Grams and me, and I assure you, neither of us goes in for late-night prowling. Everyone else thinks you're here just to sell the property."

He found he wanted to speak the thought that had been hovering at the back of his mind. "If someone had guilty knowledge of my grandfather's death, my coming to dispose of the property might still be alarming." He planted his hands against the top of the wall. "If there's even a chance of that, I shouldn't involve you."

"First of all, I think the chance that last night's thieves were in any way related to your grandfather's death twenty-some years ago is infinitesimal. And second, I'm not offering to mount guard on the farm at midnight. Helping you identify the furniture hardly seems like a threatening activity, does it?"

"Not when you put it that way. You're determined to help, aren't you?"

She nodded, but her mouth seemed to tighten. "Andrea is the superstar. Caro is the dreamer. I'm the one who helps."

"I didn't mean that negatively," he said mildly. "It's a quality I admire."

Her face relaxed in a genuine smile. "Then you're an unusual man." She pushed herself away from the wall. "Come on, let's put my helpfulness to use and check out some Pennsylvania Dutch antiques."

"Rachel?"

She glanced back at the query in his tone.

"Thanks. For the help."

"Anytime."

She started briskly down the street. He caught up with her in a few strides, and they walked in a companionable silence for a few minutes. Rachel was obviously taking note of the decorations on the shops, and twice she stopped to take photos.

"They've done a good job of making the place look like an old-fashioned Christmas," he commented. "I like the streetlights."

Churchville's Main Street had gas streetlamps that reminded him of the illustration for a Dickens novel. Each one had been surrounded with a wreath of live greens and holly, tied with a burgundy ribbon.

"You're just lucky you weren't here for the arguments when we made that decision," she said. "I thought Sandra Whitmoyer and Phillip Longstreet would come to blows."

"I couldn't imagine people would get so excited about it."

She raised her eyebrows. "You mentioned that you sometimes design churches. Don't you get into some passionate debates on that subject?"

He thought of one committee that had nearly canceled the entire project because they couldn't agree on the shape of the education wing. "You have a point there. People do feel passionate about things that affect their church or their home. I suppose the same applies when you're talking about a village the size of Churchville. They all feel they have a stake in the outcome."

She nodded. "It surprised me a little, when I came back after spending a lot of time in an urban setting. At first it bothered me that everyone seemed to know everyone else's business, but then I realized it's not just about wanting to know. It's about caring."

He was unaccountably touched. "That's a nice tribute to your community."

"I like belonging."

The words were said quietly, but there was a depth of feeling behind them that startled him. He would like to pursue it, but they'd come to a stop in front of Longstreet's Antiques, and Rachel's focus had obviously shifted to the job at hand.

"Don't show too much interest in any one thing," she warned as he opened the door, setting a bell jingling. "Unless you want to walk out the door with it."

He nodded, amused that she thought the warning necessary, and followed her into the shop.

L
ongstreet's Antiques always looked so crowded that Rachel thought Phil must use a shoehorn to fit everything in. When she'd said that to him, he'd laughed and told her that was one of the secrets of his business. When people saw the overwhelming display, they became convinced that they were going to find a hidden treasure and walk away with it for a pittance.

Even though she knew the motive behind it, the place exerted exactly that sort of appeal over her. She'd like to start burrowing through that box of odds and ends, just to see what was there. But she doubted that anyone ever got the better of Phil Longstreet on a deal. He was far too shrewd for that.

Thinking about bargains was certainly safer than letting her thoughts stray toward Tyler. She watched as he squatted beside a wooden box filled with old tools, face intent as he sifted through them. They'd gone so quickly to a level where she felt as if she'd known him for years instead of days.

But there was nothing normal about their friendship, if you could call it that. He'd come here for a purpose that involved her family, and she couldn't forget that. If anything he learned threatened her people—

He glanced up, catching her gaze, and smiled. A wave of warmth went through her. Maybe just for the moment she could shove other issues to the back of her mind and enjoy being with him.

"I'm ready for my lesson whenever you are, teacher." He stood, taking a step toward her.

Pennsylvania Dutch furniture, she reminded herself.

"Well, here's a good example of what's called a Dutch bench, which was on your list." She pointed to the black wooden bench with its decorative painting of hearts and tulips. "It's basically a love-seat-size bench with a back. It's a nice piece to use in a hallway."

He nodded, touching the smooth lacquer of the arm. "Now that I see it, I remember one like this. It was in the back hall. My grandfather used to sit there to pull his boots on before he went to the barn."

"It's not there now. I'd have noticed it when we were in the kitchen."

"No." He frowned. "Of course, it could have gone anytime in the past twenty years, and I wouldn't know the difference."

"A lot of small things might have disappeared without being noticed, even if the attorney visited the place occasionally. You should check on the dishes. According to the inventory, your grandfather had a set of spatterware."

His eyebrows lifted. "And I would recognize spatterware how?"

She glanced around, found a shelf filled with china, and lifted a plate down. "This is it. Fairly heavy, brightly painted tableware. Very typical of Pennsylvania Dutch ware."

Tyler bent over the plate, his hand brushing hers as he touched it. "So I'm looking for gaudy plates with chickens on them."

Laughter bubbled up. "I'll have you know that's not a chicken, it's a peafowl."

"I doubt any real bird would agree with that."

The amusement that filled his eyes sent another ripple of warmth through her. For a moment she didn't want to move. She just wanted to stand there with their hands touching and their gazes locked. His deep-blue eyes seemed to darken, and his fingers moved on hers.

She took a step back, her breathing uneven. It was some consolation that the breath he took was a bit ragged, as well.

"I…I should see where Phil has gotten to. Usually he comes right out when the bell rings." She walked quickly to the office door, gave a cursory knock and opened it. "Phil, are you in here?"

A quick glance told her he wasn't, but the door that led to the alley stood open, letting in a stream of cold air. She crossed to the door, hearing Tyler's footsteps behind her.

"Phil?"

A panel truck sat at the shop door, and two men were loading a piece of furniture, carefully padded with quilted covers. Phil stood by, apparently to be sure they did it right. He looked toward her at the sound of her voice.

"Rachel, hello. I didn't hear you. And Mr. Dunn."

"Tyler, please." He was so close behind her that his breath stirred her hair when he spoke. And she shouldn't be so aware of that.

"I wanted to let you know we're here. I can see you're busy, so we'll look around." She glanced at the man lifting the furniture into the van, but his head was turned away as he concentrated on his work. Youngish, long hair—not anyone she recognized.

"Fine." Phil made shooing motions with his hands. "Go back in where it's warm. I'll be with you in a few minutes."

"Okay." Shivering a little, she hurried back to the showroom, relieved when Tyler closed the office door on the draft. "It's good that he's occupied. We can look at a few more things without listening to a sales pitch." She took the inventory from Tyler's hand. "Let's see what we can find."

By concentrating firmly on furniture, she filled the next few minutes with talk of dower chests, linen presses and pie cupboards, because if she didn't, she'd be too aware of the fact that Tyler stood next to her, looking at her as often as at the pieces of furniture she pointed out.

Finally the office door opened and Phil came in, rubbing his hands together briskly. "There, all finished at last. That lot is headed to a dealer in Pittsburgh."

"Do you have some new help?" she asked.

Phil shook his head. "Just a couple of guys I use sometimes for deliveries. Now, what can I show you today?"

"How about showing me the brochure for the Christmas House Tour?"

"Now, Rachel, didn't I tell you I'd bring it over?"

"You did. You also said I'd have it yesterday."

She was vaguely aware of Tyler taking the inventory from her and sliding it into his pocket. Well, fair enough. She could understand his not wanting to share that information with anyone.

Phil threw his hands up in an exaggerated gesture. "Mea culpa. You're right, you're right, it's not finished yet."

"Phil, that's not fair." She didn't mind letting the exasperation show in her voice. This house tour had turned into a much bigger headache than she'd imagined. "You know that has to go to the printer, and the tour is coming up fast."