protested. “That should count for something.”
“Not in a burg like Laurel Ridge. Now, if you were hunting down bank robbers, he might be impressed.” He followed his brother into the shop. Much as he loved riding his little brother, he was conscious of gratitude. Jamie had a good man to idolize in Mac. Mac was a lot like Dad—solid, dependable, honorable. When he and Jamie had come home to live, they’d been absorbed into the family as if they’d never been anywhere else.
“So, what brings the police chief here this afternoon? Looking for bad guys?” He leaned against the workbench, studying Mac’s strong-boned, impassive face.
“I talked to Allison Standish this morning,” Mac said, his straight brows lowering slightly. “She told me her version of what happened last night.”
“I don’t suppose it was much different from what I told you,” Nick observed.
The frown didn’t lift. “Look, how seriously should I take this woman? Do you think she really heard anything or was it just an overactive imagination?”
That wasn’t an option that had occurred to him. He’d taken it for granted that Allison’s account was accurate. “I doubt it,” he said slowly. “Mainly because she was really scared and angry when she ran into me. She wasn’t faking it.”
“If you say so, I’ll buy that she was scared. But what are the odds on overactive imagination? Did you actually hear anyone?”
Nick frowned, considering. “Didn’t hear anything, no. But I did find that door to the attic standing open, so it looked as if someone had been in there.”
“No reason why she couldn’t have opened it herself, is there?”
“No, but the one at the other corner of the building had been left open, too. And why would she say it if it wasn’t true?” Far be it for him to support the woman who might put him out of business, but he didn’t see any reason for Allison to make up that story.
“Imagination,” Mac said. “Not being used to the sounds an old building makes. Trying to draw attention to herself. Take your pick.”
Nick pushed down the voice that wanted to deny it heatedly. “Could be, I guess, but that doesn’t seem sufficient reason. I’d say she’s not the hysterical type. Or easily scared.”
“What about the way the building was left in Mrs. Standish’s will? I’ve been hearing rumors around town. What happens if Allison doesn’t claim the building?”
“From what I understand, it goes to Brenda Conner. That might give Brenda a reason for trying to scare Allison away, but no reason that I can see for Allison to invent such a story.” Was he really defending her?
Mac mulled that over for a couple of minutes. “Seems like there might be a lot of people with a reason to want Ms. Standish gone.”
“True. Maybe even me.”
“You? Why you?”
Nick shrugged. “I guess I might figure Brenda would be easier to deal with.”
“Pretty vague, don’t you think?” Mac spread his hands out, palms open. “The story doesn’t amount to much of anything, even so. A bunch of solid citizens aren’t likely to be prowling around to scare her, even if they aren’t happy about her ownership. But I’ll keep an eye on the place, anyway.”
Nick nodded. It might be just as well if he did the same.
* * *
ALLISON PAUSED AT the entrance to the bookshop, glancing around, caught as always by the sheer pleasure of being surrounded by books. Though she had to confess that she bought most of her books online in recent years, there was still nothing like a visit to an actual bookstore to get the juices flowing.
A display of regional history books and pamphlets attracted her attention, but before she could reach the rack she was intercepted.
“Ms. Standish!” A man came hurrying from the back between the racks of books, his white hair ruffled and his expression both eager and apprehensive. “I’ve been expecting you to stop by. I’m Ralph Mitchell.”
“Of course.” She extended her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Mitchell. I’m sorry I didn’t get in sooner. There’s so much to deal with...” She let that trail off, hoping it was an acceptable excuse.
“Naturally, naturally. And you must call me Ralph. Everyone does.” He pumped her hand, his eager eyes seeming to take in every detail of her appearance so intently that it was as if he memorized it.
Allison did a little noticing of her own. Mitchell looked so much like the popular concept of a bookshop owner that he was almost a caricature. Wire-rimmed glasses slid down a pink nose, and he peered anxiously over the top of them. His white hair was worn a little long, and it stood up as if his head was lost in a cloud.
“It was such a shock to all of us to lose our dear Evelyn.” His voice actually shook a little, and his hands trembled. “She was very good to us.”
“I’m sure she was.” Allison’s thoughts flickered to that loan her grandmother had made to the bookshop owner. Perhaps they had been close friends, and he was genuinely mourning her.
“You have my deepest sympathy in your loss,” he added.
She nodded, not sure what to say. The truth was that her grandmother had never been anything to her but a name, so how could she be expected to mourn her? There probably wasn’t a soul in Laurel Ridge who hadn’t known Evelyn Standish better than she had.
“You have a lovely shop here,” she said, feeling a change of subject might be the best response. “You seem to be well stocked for a small-town store.”
“We try, we try,” he said, glancing around with satisfaction. “Evelyn was a great reader, you know, and she encouraged me to branch out a little in what I carried.”
The quilt shop, the bookstore—her grandmother seemed to have had a variety of interests and had been willing to back up those interests financially.
“I hope you plan to continue as Evelyn would have wanted,” he said, his tone wistful. “It’s not easy for an independent bookshop to compete with the chains and the online stores, but Evelyn felt a bookshop was important to the community.”
“Yes, I’m sure she did.”
Mitchell was putting her on the spot, and she didn’t like it. “I really haven’t had time to gather all the information I need to make plans yet. My grandmother’s bequest came as a surprise to me, you understand.”
“Ms. Standish.” A peremptory male voice sounded from behind her. She was certainly in demand today. Allison turned.
“I’m Thomas Blackburn. I’d like to speak with you.” The man was probably about the same age as Ralph Mitchell and his hair was just as white. But there the resemblance ended. Mitchell looked like nothing so much as a slightly anxious rabbit, while Blackburn—tall, erect, faultlessly dressed—had hawk-like features with eyes that pierced and judged.
“Mr. Blackburn.” She acknowledged his words with a nod. “I’m
