wife—it sounded like a ridiculous version of doctor, lawyer, Indian chief.
He glanced down the road in the direction of the antique shop, but there was nothing to be seen. Churchville slept. Not even a car went by to disturb the night. He'd heard of places so small they rolled up the sidewalks at night. Churchville was apparently one of them.
Presumably Rachel and her grandmother were asleep as well, off in the other wing of the building.
He couldn't help wondering how she'd adjusted from the pressure-cooker atmosphere of a trendy restaurant kitchen to the grueling work but slower pace of running a B&B in the Pennsylvania Dutch countryside. Still, she'd shown him how dedicated she was.
Dedicated to her family, most of all. And yet, from what she'd said, her relationship with her father had been as strained as his with his mother. Maybe that made her other relatives more precious to her.
At least he'd eventually grown up enough to pity his mother for resorting to emotional blackmail with the people she loved. He'd learned to look at her demands in a more objective way. But now he was back in the same trap, trying to fulfill her impossible dying request. No, not request. Demand.
Looked at rationally, the proposal was ridiculous. He'd known that from the start, even colored as the moment had been by shock and grief.
Still, he'd had to deal with the property, and he'd told himself he'd find out what he could about the circumstances of his grandfather's death and then close the book on the whole sad story.
Now that he was here, he realized how much more difficult the situation was than he'd dreamed. Rachel's grandmother's integrity was obvious, and he couldn't imagine her covering up a crime, any more than he could imagine the personality that dominated the portrait over the mantel committing one.
This was a wild-goose chase. A sad one, but nothing more. Moreover, it could hurt innocent people, if Rachel's opinion was true, and he saw no reason to doubt that.
He closed the shutters again, feeling as if he were closing his mind to the whole uncomfortable business. He'd make a few inquiries, maybe talk to the local police and check the newspaper files. And at the end of it he'd be no wiser than he was now.
The shutters still stood open on the window that looked out the side of the house, so he went to close them. And stopped, hand arrested on the louvered wood.
Where was that light coming from?
Below him was the gravel sweep of the drive, well-lit by the security lighting, his car a dark bulk. There was the garage, beyond it the lane that led onto Crossings Road.
The pale ribbon of road dipped down into the trees. From ground level, he wouldn't have seen any farther, but from this height the shallow bowl of the valley stretched out. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he could make out the paler patches of fields, darker shadows of woods. That had to be the farmhouse—there was nothing else down on that stretch of road.
A faint light flickered, was gone, reappeared again. Not at ground level. Someone was in the house, moving around the second floor with a flashlight.
He spun, grabbing his car keys, and rushed into the hall. He pounded down the stairs, relieved there were no other guests to be disturbed by him.
In the downstairs hall he paused briefly. He should call the police before heading out, should tell Rachel what was going on before she heard him and thought someone was breaking in.
He tried the library door, found it unlocked, and hurried through to the separate staircase that must lead to the family bedrooms. If she was still awake—
A light shone down from an upstairs hall.
"Rachel?"
Soft footsteps, and she appeared at the top of the stairs, clutching a cell phone in one hand. At least she was still dressed, so he hadn't gotten her out of bed.
"What's wrong?" Her eyes were wide with apprehension.
"Someone's in my grandfather's house. I could see the light from my window."
She didn't try
He glanced down the road in the direction of the antique shop, but there was nothing to be seen. Churchville slept. Not even a car went by to disturb the night. He'd heard of places so small they rolled up the sidewalks at night. Churchville was apparently one of them.
Presumably Rachel and her grandmother were asleep as well, off in the other wing of the building.
He couldn't help wondering how she'd adjusted from the pressure-cooker atmosphere of a trendy restaurant kitchen to the grueling work but slower pace of running a B&B in the Pennsylvania Dutch countryside. Still, she'd shown him how dedicated she was.
Dedicated to her family, most of all. And yet, from what she'd said, her relationship with her father had been as strained as his with his mother. Maybe that made her other relatives more precious to her.
At least he'd eventually grown up enough to pity his mother for resorting to emotional blackmail with the people she loved. He'd learned to look at her demands in a more objective way. But now he was back in the same trap, trying to fulfill her impossible dying request. No, not request. Demand.
Looked at rationally, the proposal was ridiculous. He'd known that from the start, even colored as the moment had been by shock and grief.
Still, he'd had to deal with the property, and he'd told himself he'd find out what he could about the circumstances of his grandfather's death and then close the book on the whole sad story.
Now that he was here, he realized how much more difficult the situation was than he'd dreamed. Rachel's grandmother's integrity was obvious, and he couldn't imagine her covering up a crime, any more than he could imagine the personality that dominated the portrait over the mantel committing one.
This was a wild-goose chase. A sad one, but nothing more. Moreover, it could hurt innocent people, if Rachel's opinion was true, and he saw no reason to doubt that.
He closed the shutters again, feeling as if he were closing his mind to the whole uncomfortable business. He'd make a few inquiries, maybe talk to the local police and check the newspaper files. And at the end of it he'd be no wiser than he was now.
The shutters still stood open on the window that looked out the side of the house, so he went to close them. And stopped, hand arrested on the louvered wood.
Where was that light coming from?
Below him was the gravel sweep of the drive, well-lit by the security lighting, his car a dark bulk. There was the garage, beyond it the lane that led onto Crossings Road.
The pale ribbon of road dipped down into the trees. From ground level, he wouldn't have seen any farther, but from this height the shallow bowl of the valley stretched out. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he could make out the paler patches of fields, darker shadows of woods. That had to be the farmhouse—there was nothing else down on that stretch of road.
A faint light flickered, was gone, reappeared again. Not at ground level. Someone was in the house, moving around the second floor with a flashlight.
He spun, grabbing his car keys, and rushed into the hall. He pounded down the stairs, relieved there were no other guests to be disturbed by him.
In the downstairs hall he paused briefly. He should call the police before heading out, should tell Rachel what was going on before she heard him and thought someone was breaking in.
He tried the library door, found it unlocked, and hurried through to the separate staircase that must lead to the family bedrooms. If she was still awake—
A light shone down from an upstairs hall.
"Rachel?"
Soft footsteps, and she appeared at the top of the stairs, clutching a cell phone in one hand. At least she was still dressed, so he hadn't gotten her out of bed.
"What's wrong?" Her eyes were wide with apprehension.
"Someone's in my grandfather's house. I could see the light from my window."
She didn't try
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