A Christmas to Die For. Marta Perry

Чтение книги онлайн.

Читать онлайн книгу A Christmas to Die For - Marta Perry страница 6

A Christmas to Die For - Marta  Perry Mills & Boon Love Inspired

Скачать книгу

a moldering ruin that had never, as far as he could tell, been a happy home.

      The dog leaped down from the porch, nearly pulling Rachel off balance, and he caught her arm to steady her.

      “Easy. Does he really need to be on the leash?”

      “I wanted to discourage any more digging around the porch. I’m afraid you may have something holed up in there for the winter.”

      “Whatever it is, let it stay.” He took the leash from her hand and helped her over the broken step to the ground. “I won’t bother it.”

      She glanced at him as they walked away. “You must be saddened to see the place in such a state.”

      He shrugged. “I only saw it twice that I recall. It would have been worse for my mother than for me. She grew up here.”

      “Do you think—” She stopped, as if censoring what she’d been about to say.

      “That’s why she let it fall to pieces?” He finished the thought for her. “I have no idea. I’d have expected my dad to intercede, but—” he shrugged “—I didn’t know she still owned the place until a few weeks ago, and by then she was in no shape to explain much. Maybe she just wanted to forget, after the way her father died.”

      Rachel scuffed through frost-tipped dead leaves that the wind had scattered over the road. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually heard how it happened.”

      “From what my mother told me, he apparently confronted someone breaking into the house. There was a struggle, and he had a heart attack. He wasn’t found until the next day.”

      She shivered, shoving her hands into her pockets. “It’s hard to think about something like that happening here when I was a child. It always seemed such an idyllic place.”

      They walked for a few moments in silence, their footsteps muted on the macadam road. He glanced at her, confirming what he heard. “You’re limping. Did you twist your ankle getting off that porch?”

      “It wasn’t that.” She nodded toward the bend in the road ahead of them, the wind ruffling her hair across her face so that she pushed it back with an impatient movement. “I had an accident just up the road back in the spring.”

      He frowned down at her. “It must have been a bad one. Did you hit a tree?”

      She shook her head. “I was jogging, too late in the evening, I guess. A car came around the bend—” She stopped, probably reliving it too acutely.

      That explained why she’d stepped back into the trees when he’d come down the lane last night. “How badly were you hurt?”

      “Two broken legs.” She shrugged. “Could have been worse, I guess. It only bothers me when I’m on my feet too long.”

      “I hope the driver ended up in jail.”

      “Hit and run,” she said briefly.

      Obviously she didn’t want to talk about it any further. He couldn’t blame her. She didn’t want to remember, any more than he wanted to think about the way his grandfather died, or the burden his mother had laid on him to find out why.

      “I guess this place isn’t so idyllic after all.”

      “Bad things happen anywhere, people being people.”

      “Yes, I guess they do.” Of course she was right about that. It was only the beauty that surrounded them that made violence seem so out of place here.

      Rachel was thankful when the business part of the “Christmas in Churchville” meeting was over. The strain of mediating all those clashing egos had begun to tell on her after the first hour.

      Now the battling committee members wandered around the public rooms of the inn, helping themselves to punch and the variety of goodies placed on tables in both the back parlor and the breakfast room. She’d figured out a long time ago that if you wanted to keep people circulating, you should space out the food and drink.

      She and Grams had put cranberry punch on the round table next to the fireplace in the back parlor, accompanied by an assortment of cheeses, grapes and crackers. The breakfast room had coffee, tea and hot chocolate on the sideboard, along with mini éclairs and pfeffernüsse, the tiny clove and cardamom delicacies that were her grandmother’s special holiday recipe.

      Would Tyler come down? Thinking of him alone in his room, she’d suggested he join them for refreshments. He’d know when the business meeting was over, she’d told him, when the shouting stopped.

      Her committee members weren’t quite that bad, but they did have strong opinions on what would draw the holiday tourists to spend their money in Churchville.

      She checked on the service in the parlor and walked back toward the breakfast room. Tyler was in an odd position here—part of the community by heritage and yet a stranger. He probably wouldn’t be around long enough to change that. He’d sell the property and go back to his life in Baltimore.

      Hopefully he wouldn’t leave problems behind in the form of whoever bought his grandfather’s farm. The neighbors disliked seeing it derelict, but there were certainly things they’d hate even more.

      “Rachel, there you are.” Phillip intercepted her in the doorway, punch cup in hand. Fortunately the cup made it easier to escape the arm he tried to put around her. “I wanted to speak with you about the Hostetler place.”

      “So does everyone else, but I don’t know anything. Tyler hasn’t told me what his plans are for the property.”

      “You know I’m all about the furniture, my dear. I remember a dough box that my uncle tried to buy once from old Hostetler. If there’s anything like that left—”

      “You saw the living room. Most of the furniture is already gone.”

      “I didn’t see the rest of the house.” His voice turned wheedling. “Come on, Rachel, at least give me a hint what’s there.”

      “Sorry, I didn’t see anything else.” She slipped past him. “Excuse me, but I have to refill the coffeepot.”

      Phillip was nothing if not persistent. That probably explained how he managed to make such a success of the shop. His uncle had been a sweet old man, but he’d never had much of a head for business, from what Grams said.

      She snagged a mug of hot chocolate and a pfeffernüsse for herself, turning from the table to find Sandra Whitmoyer bearing down on her. As wife of Churchville’s most dedicated, as well as only, physician, Sandra seemed to feel the chairmanship of the decorating subcommittee was hers by right. Luckily no one else had put up a fight for it.

      “Rachel, we really must keep our eyes on the rest of the shop owners along Main Street. It would be fatal to allow anyone to put up a garish display.”

      “I’m sure you’ll do a wonderful job of that, Sandra.” She had no desire to turn herself into the decorating police. “I have my hands full already, preparing the inn and organizing the open house tour.” Maybe a little flattery was in order. “You have such wonderful taste. I know everyone will be seeking your advice. And they’ve all agreed to go along

Скачать книгу