tired brain played with the idea that Laurel Ridge didn’t exist, that her legacy was one last spiteful act on the part of the grandmother who’d never acknowledged Allison’s existence while she was alive.
Pondering the possibility, Allison nearly missed the sign. She stopped, backed up and read the words she’d been looking for. Laurel Ridge, 2 Miles. Relief swept over her, and she put the car in gear.
“Cheer up, Hector. The end is in sight.”
A doubtful scratch at the carrier’s door was his only response.
A few minutes later she was driving down Laurel Ridge’s main, and maybe only, business street. Storefronts were dark and foot traffic nonexistent. Apparently Laurel Ridge shut down early. The only sign of life was a café and, across the street, a bed-and-breakfast with a porch light left on. Probably for her, since she’d booked a room there for the week.
As she pulled to the curb, Allison’s gaze was caught by the building next to the bed-and-breakfast. In contrast to the homey Victorian charm of the white clapboard inn, this building loomed over the street, three stories of Italianate classic architecture dwarfing the smaller buildings around it. She could just make out the brass plate attached to the wrought-iron gate. Blackburn House. So this was her inheritance.
An Italianate mansion dating from the 1850s. The attorney’s voice, dry and pedantic, sounded in her mind. It belonged to Laurel Ridge’s founding family. Your late grandfather purchased it from the Blackburn family fifty years ago. He had it zoned commercial and divided to form several shops and offices.
The attorney’s voice had sounded disapproving, either of the property or, more likely, of her.
Allison had mentally translated his description into old and dilapidated, with the architectural integrity of the original house compromised by ill-conceived renovations. But from the outside, at least, the building looked well kept, its paint flawless, small lawn smooth and green, and early spring daffodils in bloom along the front walk. A porch wrapped around the sides of the building, and a round tower anchored each end of the front.
Allison slid out and hauled the cat carrier from the backseat. “There it is, Hector. What do you think of it?”
Hector’s snarl was probably meant to express his displeasure with his confinement, but it echoed her feelings quite well.
At least she ought to be able to realize some profit from the place when she put it on the market. Aside from a few random gifts that had been totally unsuited to either her age or interests, her father hadn’t contributed much but a name and an accumulation of genes to her life. Maybe his mother had decided to make a last gesture toward rectifying his failure with her bequest.
“We may as well have a look. Don’t you think so?” Talking to the cat was becoming a habit. Was that a sign that she’d eventually turn into an old maid with no one in her life but cats? At least Hector didn’t betray her or smash her dreams to bits.
Holding the cat carrier in one hand and fishing for the keys the lawyer had sent her with the other, Allison advanced on the door of Blackburn House.
* * *
NICK WHITING STEPPED OUT into the cool April evening, the lock clicking behind him on the door to the old Blackburn carriage house, now the workshop of Whiting and Whiting Cabinetry. The only way he’d convinced his father to go home in time for supper was to assure Dad he’d stop back later to check on the shipment of brushed pewter cabinet knobs that had been guaranteed delivery today.
It was important for Nick to be home for supper with Jamie, important to supervise his son’s first-grade homework and to go through the bedtime rituals with him. When you were six, that sort of thing mattered.
Not that Mom or Dad wouldn’t have been happy to take over, but where his son was concerned, Nick didn’t take shortcuts. Jamie might have lost out in the mother department, but he’d always know he could rely on his dad.
So he’d settled Jamie in the twin bed in the room Nick and his brother had shared as kids, tucking him under the tractor quilt that was Jamie’s favorite. And then he’d driven the mile back into town to the shop.
The package had been leaning against the door, probably having arrived soon after they’d left. He stowed it away in the workshop, pleased the supplier had come through. This meant they could finish Mrs. Phelps’s new kitchen cabinets tomorrow, unless she changed her mind yet again. He’d lingered in the shop for a few minutes, looking over the finished cabinets one last time. He liked checking the progress of the work on hand, enjoyed running his palm over the warm maple and the elegant curves of their custom cabinets.
Nick grinned into the dark. He’d seen his dad do the same thing often enough. It must be a Whiting family trait, one that had somehow skipped his brother, Mac. Double-checking the door, Nick headed for his car, thinking about the wedge of cherry pie Mom would have saved for him.
A light from one of the windows of Blackburn House caught his eye as he rounded the corner of the building, and he paused. First floor—it was in the bookstore. Ralph or his clerk must be working late, maybe unpacking a new shipment of books. Even as he thought it, the light switched off. Five steps later the light reappeared, in the quilt shop this time.
He stopped, frowning. Sarah Bitler wasn’t likely to be in her shop at this hour. Sarah was Amish, and she didn’t like driving her buggy along the country roads after dark. Apprehension slid along Nick’s skin like a touch, and he reached into his pocket for his keys.
The light went out and the pattern repeated as another came on, this time in his showroom. Someone was getting into the businesses on the first floor of Blackburn House. Yanking his keys out, Nick ran for the back door.
A prowler? It could be the custodian, he supposed, but Fred Glick was usually gone by this hour, and making a final pass through the building wasn’t characteristic of his lackadaisical approach to his job.
The rumors that had been making the rounds in town popped into his mind. Laurel Ridge couldn’t seem to decide whether it was being plagued by a prowler, a Peeping Tom or a sneak thief. Maybe now he’d get the answer to that question.
Nick held the knob firmly as he unlocked the back door, wary of any betraying creak as he eased it open. Stepping inside, he considered his brother Mac’s reaction if Nick actually caught the prowler. Mac, Laurel Ridge’s police chief, had been skeptical from the start about the rumors, saying it was probably a manifestation of cabin fever after the long winter.
Nick slipped past the storerooms at the back of the building and slowly opened the door that led to the front part of the house. The wide hallway that ran from this point to the front of the building was deserted, but a patch of light lay on the marble floor. Staying in the shadow cast by the wide center staircase, Nick moved silently forward. To judge by the location of the light, the intruder was in their showroom. He heard the sound of movement, as if something brushed against a cabinet.
If he went to the showroom door, he’d be seen instantly. But he could slip in the door that led from the hallway to the office behind the showroom, and he might be able to get close enough to see without being seen. Pulse racing, Nick crossed to the office door and fumbled for the key. He realized he was enjoying this small adventure, and he had to laugh at himself. Maybe a guy never outgrew all those cops versus bad guys scenarios of childhood.
Holding his breath, Nick pushed open the door and sidled into the office. No one was here, but a stream of light spilled from the open door into the showroom. He
