A Christmas to Die For (22 page)

Except that someone who worked for Phil had been there, in Bethlehem. And someone had attacked Phil and her.

Her head ached with trying to make sense of it. Tyler had listened to her attempts at explanation, but he hadn't offered any of his own. Because he believed her father guilty of murder? Even so, last night he hadn't hesitated to leap to her defense.

She'd been emotionally and mentally shattered, finding Phil in that state after everything else that had happened. Tyler had had every excuse to cut her adrift, even to suspect her of the attack on Phil, but he hadn't. He'd rushed to the rescue. Without him, she might well have stumbled into saying something stupid that would make Chief Burkhalter even more suspicious.

She smoothed out a wrinkle in the Star of Bethlehem quilt, trying to make herself think of something—anything—else. Christmas was only a few days away. Andrea and Cal would be back soon. She should call Caroline and urge her again to come home for Christmas. And wrapping the gifts—

It was no use. She could think of other things on the surface, but the fear and misgivings still lurked beneath. She was caught in a web of suspicion and pain, and she didn't see any way out.

The sound of the front door opening yet again had her turning to it, forcing a smile even though her face felt as if it would crack. Her expression melted into something more genuine when she saw Bradley Whitmoyer, bundled up against the cold, pulling his gloves off as he closed the door behind him.

She went forward, hand extended. "Dr. Whitmoyer, it's a nice surprise you could make it. I thought you'd be completely tied up helping Sandra with the visitors at your house."

"Bradley, remember?" The doctor managed a smile, but she thought it was as much a struggle as her own.

"It's all right," she said impulsively. "Maybe we should both agree to stop smiling before our faces break."

"That is how it feels, isn't it?" He seemed to relax slightly. "I thought I'd go mad if I heard another person say what a lovely tree we have. The only way I could get out of the house was to agree that I'd see how you're doing and report back to Sandra."

She'd take Sandra's interest as a gesture of support. That was better than assuming there was anything negative about her interest.

"As you can see, we're busy, but I think it's starting to dwindle down now. We've had a steady stream of visitors all afternoon, up and down the stairs, determined to see everything."

The fine lines of his face tightened. "I drew the line at that. Guests to our house may see the downstairs, that's all. The upstairs is strictly off-limits."

"Well, yours is a private house. We have to keep business in mind, and some of our house-tour people may be potential guests."

She was faintly surprised that he was willing to stand here talking so long. The busy-doctor persona seemed to be in abeyance at the moment, but she suspected he'd been out early, checking on any patients in the hospital.

"Will you tell me something?" She asked the question before she could lose her nerve.

"If I can."

"Phillip Longstreet. Do you know how he's doing?"

His face seemed to close. He wouldn't answer. He'd plead professional ethics and say he couldn't. But then he shrugged.

"He's not my patient, so I don't know any details. But then, if he were, I couldn't tell you anything." His smile had a strained quality. "The police have a guard on his door, so I didn't see him, but I spoke with a resident who said he's stable. Not awake yet, but otherwise showing signs of improvement."

Something that had been tight inside her seemed to ease.
Thank You, Lord.
"I'm glad. Do you think, when he wakes up, he'll be able to identify his attacker?"

But there Bradley's cooperation halted. "I couldn't begin to guess. I understand the police think they can trace a few things stolen in the recent robberies to the shop, so it may have been some thief he was involved with." He took a step through the archway into the front parlor. "The
putz
looks very nice. Are you getting tired of explaining it to people?"

Obviously Bradley had been as indiscreet as he would let himself be. "It does get a little repetitive after a while, doesn't it?" she said. "Refreshments are set out in the breakfast room. I hope you'll go back and help yourself, although people do seem to come to a halt there."

He nodded and disappeared from view into the back parlor. She turned around, the smile still lingering on her face, and drew in a startled breath. Jeff Whitmoyer stood behind her.

He didn't seem to notice her reaction. "Sending my brother back to have something to eat? He won't. He avoids sweets, along with most everything else that makes life fun."

"I should probably follow his example. I've already been dipping into the snickerdoodles." Nerves, probably. She'd had an irresistible urge for sugar all day. "Have you taken the tour of the house yet?"

"I'll pass. No offense, but I'm not really into admiring the
decor
." He exaggerated the word. "It drives my sainted sister-in-law crazy when I refer to her eighteenth century étagère as 'that thing against the wall.'"

"I can see how it would." Both Whitmoyer brothers were unusually talkative tonight. Jeff usually only talked this long when it was a matter of a job to do.

"I heard you were the one who found Phil last night," he said abruptly.

Probably everyone who'd come through the door had heard that, but no one else had ventured to bring it up. A headache she hadn't noticed before began tightening its coils around her temples. Jeff stood there, waiting for an answer.

"That's right. I'm afraid I can't talk about it. Chief Burkhalter asked me not to say anything."

Before Jeff could pry any further, Emma bustled up to her.

"Rachel, you are needed in the kitchen, please. I will watch the door." She took the handful of brochures and gave Rachel a gentle shove.

"Thank you, Emma." She gave Jeff a vague smile and escaped with a sense of thankfulness.

Nancy Zook was in the kitchen, washing dishes, her oldest daughter standing next to her, drying.

"Nancy, you needn't do those by hand. We can use the dishwasher."

"It makes no matter. We can be quick this way." She passed a dripping plate to her daughter.

"Your mother said I was wanted?"

"Oh,
ja,
Tyler thought we should stop putting more food out."

"Tyler?"

"Here." He leaned in the doorway at the mention of his name. "According to my watch, the house tour hours are about over. But if Nancy keeps feeding those people, they're never going to leave." He nodded toward the chattering crowd clustered around the table at the far end of the breakfast room.

She glanced at Black Forest mantel clock. "It really is time." Her whole body seemed to sag in relief. "Nancy, I agree. No more food for them. Take the rest of it home for your family, all right?"

"That will be nice for our second-Christmas visitors, it will," Nancy said. "You don't worry about the kitchen. We will finish the cleanup in here."

"But—"

"Don't argue." Tyler's hand brushed hers in a gesture of support that seemed to reverberate through her entire body. "When you get a chance, I want to show you the medal." He lowered his voice, stepping back into the hallway and drawing her with him. "Those scratches on the back—there was something there. Faint, but it looks like someone scratched a triangle with something else inside it."

She tried to focus her tired brain on it. "Does that mean something?"

He shrugged. "I'm not sure. The triangle is a symbol of the Trinity, of course. Maybe my grandfather felt better about having a military decoration if he added a Christian symbol." He frowned. "It doesn't have anything to do with the robbery, but I can't help thinking about what Eli's mother said. Wondering what she really meant."

"Maybe I can talk to Emma after everything calms down." If it ever did. "She might have some insight."

"Good idea." He touched her shoulder, a feather-light brush of his fingers. "I'm going upstairs to get that last group moving. Just sit down and put your feet up for a moment."

She couldn't do that, but she appreciated the thought. "Thank you."

For a moment longer he stood motionless, his hand touching her, and then something guarded and aware came into his eyes. He turned and headed for the stairs.

Rachel swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the lump that had formed in her throat. To say nothing of the hot tears that prickled her eyes.

No matter how kind and helpful Tyler was, the events of the past still stood like a wall between them. And she was afraid they always would.

It had taken more than a few minutes, despite Tyler's best intentions, to clear the house of visitors, but finally the last of them were gone. Nancy and Emma had insisted on cleaning up the kitchen. Rachel had intended to leave some of the cleanup until tomorrow, but her helpers wouldn't hear of it.

And she had to admit they were right. Dirty dishes left in the sink, chairs pulled out of their proper places, a glass left on a tabletop—all offended her innkeeper's sense of what was right. Andrea might consider her the least-organized person in the world where record-keeping was concerned, but the house had to look right or she wouldn't sleep.

Once the Zook family had taken their leave, chattering as happily as if they'd been to a party instead of working hard for hours, she tucked Grams up in bed, Barney dozing on the rug next to her.

She went back downstairs, knowing she couldn't go to bed yet. Sleep wouldn't come, and she'd just lie in the dark and worry.

She walked into the library, where the last embers of the fire were dying in the fireplace. She sank down on the couch facing it, too tired to throw another log on. Silence set in, and with it came the fear that was becoming too familiar. And the questions.

I don't know what to think, Lord. How could the father I idolized have done these things?

One of the words she'd just used stopped her.
Idolized.
That was not a word to be used lightly, was it? Natural enough for a child to love her father, even if he hadn't been what the world would consider a good father.

But idolize? That smacked of something forbidden in her faith. Thoughts crept out of hiding, images from the past. How often had she let her feelings about her father's abandonment get between her and a relationship with someone else?

Is that really what I've been doing, Lord? I didn't mean to. I just never saw it.

Before she could pursue that uncomfortable line of thought, she heard a step. Tyler came in. One look at his face told her this endless day was not yet over. It was set in a mask, behind which she could sense something dark and implacable moving.

"We have to talk."

She steeled herself. What now? "If this is about the attack on Phillip—"

He dismissed her idea with a curt gesture of one hand. "No. Not Longstreet. You."

"Me?" Her voice came out in a squeak. "What about me?"

His jaw was hard as marble. "Showing people around the house was educational. Very. One woman in that last group especially admired the desk in the upstairs hall."

"It's a nice piece." She had to struggle to sound normal.

"Yes. And you let me believe it had been sitting in that spot for a couple of generations. But it hasn't, has it?"

"I didn't—" The attack, coming on ground she'd totally forgotten in the sweep of other events, took her off guard.

"I told you it reminded me of one that had been in my grandfather's house. When that woman was babbling on about the style and finish, I remembered it. I remembered hiding under that desk while my grandfather and mother shouted at each other. I had a brand-new penknife that my father had given me, and I used it to carve my initials on the underside, in the corner, where no one would see. T.D. Guess what, Rachel? They're still there."

She could face this attack better on her feet. She stood, facing him. She wouldn't be a coward about it.

"I didn't know. How could I know that the desk came from your grandfather's house?"

"You knew that it hadn't been standing in the upstairs hall for a hundred years. You could have told me that."

She could have. She hadn't.

"Tyler, try to understand. I didn't know, then, what you—"

What you would come to mean to me. No, she couldn't say that. Not now.

"I didn't know whether it meant anything that it was here. I found the desk in one of the outbuildings when I was decorating the inn. You've seen those buildings—they're crammed with cast-off furniture. It was just another piece."

He wasn't buying it. "After I mentioned the similarity to my grandfather's desk, you had to have known it might be significant. You should have told me."

"And could I have trusted you not to make too much of it?" Anger and tears were both perilously near the surface. "You've been so obsessed with finding out the truth, that you haven't cared who got hurt in the process. Our having the desk could be perfectly innocent. My grandfather might have picked it up at a sale anytime."

"Or not. It could be confirmation that someone from this house was involved in my grandfather's death." He was armored against her by his anger and determination. "You didn't tell me the truth, Rachel. All along, you've only been helping me as a way of protecting your own family. Isn't that right?"

Her head was throbbing with the effort to hold back tears. "You can't believe that."

"I can't believe anything else." The words had an echo of finality about them. He turned toward the hall. "In the morning I'll look for another place to stay until all of this is settled."

He walked out, and she heard his steps mounting the central staircase. She listened, frozen, until they faded away. Then she sank back onto the sofa and buried her face in her hands.

Forgive me, Father. Please forgive me. I know that Tyler never will. I'll try to accept that. I was wrong. But I have to protect my family, don't I?

Tears spilled through her hands, dropping to her lap. Do you? The question formed in her heart. Can you protect your family by hiding the truth?