Marta Perry: A Christmas to Die For

He bent over, printing the information in quick, black strokes, frowning a little. He looked tired and drawn, she realized, her quick sympathy stirring.

“That’s great, thanks.” She imprinted the credit card and handed it back to him. “You indicated in your reservation that you weren’t sure how long you’d want the room?”

She made it a question, hoping for something a little more definite. With all the work she’d been doing to lure guests for the holiday season, the inn still wasn’t booked fully. January and February were bound to be quiet. In order to come out ahead financially, they needed a good holiday season. Her money worries seemed to pop up automatically several times a day.

“I don’t know.” He almost snapped the words. She must have shown a reaction, because almost immediately he gave her a slightly rueful smile. “Sorry. I hope that doesn’t inconvenience you, but I have business in the area, and I don’t know how long it will take.”

“Not at all.” The longer she could rent him the room, the better. “Perhaps while you’re here, you’ll have time to enjoy some of the Christmas festivities. The village is planning a number of events, and of course we’re not far from Bethlehem—”

“I’m not here for sightseeing.” His gaze was on the dying fire, not her, but she seemed to sense him weighing a decision to say more. “That business I spoke of—there’s no reason you’d recognize my name, but I own the property that adjoins yours on one side. The old Hostetler farm.”

She blinked. “I didn’t realize—” She stopped, not sure how to phrase the question. “I thought the property belonged to John Hostetler’s daughter.”

Who had annoyed the neighbors by refusing to sell the property and neglecting to take proper care of it. The farmhouse and barn had been invaded by vandals more than once, and the thrifty Amish farmers who owned the adjoining land been offended at the sight of a good farm going to ruin.

“My mother,” he said shortly. His face drew a bit tighter. “She died recently.”

That went a long way toward explaining the tension she felt from him. It didn’t excuse his curtness, but made it more understandable. He was still grieving his mother’s death and was now forced to deal with the unfinished business she’d left behind.

“I’m so sorry.” She reached out impulsively to touch his arm. “You have my sympathy.”

He jerked a nod. “I’m here to do something about my grandfather’s property. My mother let that slide for too long.”

It would be impolite to agree. “I’m sure the neighbors will be glad to help in any way they can. Are you planning to stay?”

“Live there, you mean?” His eyes narrowed. “Certainly not. I expect to sell as soon as possible.”

Something new to worry about, as if she didn’t have enough already. The best offer for the Hostetler farm might easily come from someone who wanted to put up some obnoxious faux Amish atrocity within sight of the inn.

“That’s too bad. It would have been nice to hear that family would be living there again.”

She’d made the comment almost at random, but Tyler Dunn’s expression suggested that she’d lost her mind.

“I don’t know why you’d think that.” He bit off the words. “I’m hardly likely to want to live in the house where my grandfather was murdered.”

Tyler closed his laptop and glanced at his watch. A little after eight—time for breakfast and another encounter with the Unger family.

He stood, pushing the ladder-back chair away from the small table, which was the only spot in the bedroom where one could possibly use a computer. He must be the first person who’d checked into the Three Sisters Inn for business purposes. Most of the guests would be here to enjoy staying in the elegant mansion, maybe pretending they were living a century ago.

The place looked as if it belonged in a magazine devoted to historic homes. The bedroom, with its canopy bed covered by what was probably an Amish quilt, its antique furniture and deep casement windows, would look right on the cover.

From the window in his room, he had a good view of Churchville’s Main Street, which was actually a country route along which the village had been built. The inn anchored the eastern edge of the community, along with the stone church which stood enclosed in its walled churchyard across the street. Beyond, there was nothing but hedgerows and the patchwork pattern of plowed fields and pasture, with barns and silos in the distance.

Looking to the left, he could see the shops and restaurants along Main Street, more than he’d expect given the few blocks of residential properties, but probably the flood of tourism going through town accounted for that. The inn had a desirable position, almost in the country but within easy walking distance of Main Street attractions. It was surprising they weren’t busier.

He opened the door. The upstairs landing was quiet, the doors to the other rooms standing open. Obviously, he was the only guest at the moment. Maybe that would make things easier.

Had it been a mistake to come out so bluntly with the fact of his grandfather’s murder last night? He wasn’t sure, and he didn’t like not being sure. He was used to dealing with facts, figures, formulas—not something as amorphous as this.

At least he’d had an opportunity to see Rachel Hampton’s reaction. He frowned. Her name might be Hampton, but she was one of the Unger family.

If his mother had been right—but he couldn’t count on that. In any event, he’d understood what she’d wanted of him. The impossible.

He started down the staircase, running his hand along the delicately carved railing. The downstairs hall stretched from front to back of the house. To his right, the door into the library where he’d registered last night was now closed. On his left, a handsome front parlor opened into another parlor, slightly smaller, behind it, both decorated with period furniture.

He headed toward the rear of the building, where Rachel had indicated he’d find the breakfast room. He’d cleared his calendar until the first of the year. If he couldn’t accomplish what he planned by then, he’d put his grandfather’s farm on the market, go back to his own life and try to forget.

The hallway opened out into a large, rectangular sunroom, obviously an addition to the original house. A wall of windows looked onto a patio and garden, bare of flowers now, but still worth looking at in the shapes of the trees and the bright berries of the shrubs. The long table was set for one.

Voices came from the doorway to the left, obviously the kitchen. He moved quietly toward them.

“…if I’d known, maybe I wouldn’t have opened my mouth and put my foot in it.” Rachel, obviously talking to someone about his arrival.

“There was no reason for you to know. You were just a child.” An older voice, cultured, restrained. If this woman was hiding something, he couldn’t tell.

A pan clattered. “You’d best see if he’s coming down, before these sticky buns are cold.”

That was his cue, obviously. He moved to the doorway before someone could come out and find him. “I’m here. I wouldn’t want to cause a crisis in the kitchen.”

“Good morning.” The woman who rose from the kitchen table, extending her hand to him, must be Rachel’s grandmother. Every bit the grande dame, she didn’t look in the least bothered by what he might or might not have overheard. “Welcome to the inn, Mr. Dunn. I’m Katherine Unger.”

“Thank you.” He shook her hand gently, aware of bones as fine as delicate crystal. The high cheekbones, brilliant blue eyes, and assured carriage might have belonged to a duchess.

Rachel, holding a casserole dish between two oversize oven mitts, had more color in her cheeks than he’d seen the night before, but maybe that was from the heat of the stove.