Marta Perry: A Christmas to Die For

That was logical, although it didn’t entirely take away her startled sense that he knew more about them than she’d expect from a casual visitor.

“The name may be wishful thinking on my part, but yes, I have two sisters. Andrea is the oldest. She was married at Thanksgiving, and she and her husband are still on a honeymoon trip. And Caroline, the youngest, is an artist, living out in Santa Fe.” She touched the turquoise and silver pin on her shirt collar. “She made this.”

Tyler stopped, bending to look at the delicate hummingbird. He was so close his fingers almost touched her neck as he straightened the collar, and she was suddenly warm in spite of the chill breeze.

He drew back, and the momentary awareness was gone. “It’s lovely. Your sister is talented.”

“Yes.” The worry over Caro that lurked at the back of her mind surfaced. Something had been wrong when Caro came home for the wedding, hidden behind her too-brittle laugh and almost frantic energy. But Caroline didn’t seem to need her sisters any longer.

“The place looks even worse than I expected.” Tyler’s words brought her back to the present. The farmhouse, a simple frame building with a stone chimney at either end, seemed to sag as if tired of trying to stand upright. The porch that extended across the front sported broken railings and crumbling steps, and several windows had been boarded up.

“Grams told me the house had been broken into several times. Some of the neighbors came and boarded up the windows after the last incident. The barn looks in fairly good shape, though.”

That was a small consolation to hold out to him if he really hadn’t known that his mother let the place fall to bits. Still, a good solid Pennsylvania Dutch bank barn could withstand almost anything except fire.

“If those hex signs were meant to protect the place, they’re not doing a very good job.” He was looking up at the peak of the roof, where a round hex sign with the familiar star pattern hung.

“I don’t think you’d find anyone to admit they believe that. Most people just say they’re a tradition. There are as many theories as there are scholars who study them.”

Tyler went cautiously up the porch steps and then turned toward her. “You’ll have to climb over the broken tread.”

She grasped the hand he held out, and he almost lifted her to the porch. She whistled to the dog, nosing around the base of the porch. “Come, Barney. The last thing we need is for you to unearth a hibernating skunk.”

“That would be messy.” Tyler turned a key in the lock, and the door creaked open. He hesitated for an instant and then stepped inside. She followed, switching on the flashlight that Grams had reminded her to bring.

“Dusty.” A little light filtered through the boards on the windows, and the beam of her flashlight danced around the room, showing a few remaining pieces of furniture, a massive stone fireplace on the end wall, and a thick layer of dust on everything.

Tyler stood in the middle of the room, very still. His face seemed stiff, almost frozen.

“I’m sorry if it’s a disappointment. It was a good, sturdy farmhouse once, and it could be again, with some money and effort.”

“I doubt I’d find anyone interested in doing that.” He walked through the dining room toward the kitchen, and she followed him, trying to think of something encouraging to say. This had to be a sad homecoming for him.

“There’s an old stone sink. You don’t often see those in their original state anymore.”

He sent her the ghost of a smile. “You want to try out the pump?”

“No, thanks. That looks beyond repair. But I can imagine some antique dealer drooling over the stone sink. Those are quite popular now.”

“I suppose I should get a dealer out to see if there’s anything worth selling. I remember the house as being crowded with furniture, but there’s not too much left now.”

“My grandmother could steer you to some reputable dealers. Didn’t your mother take anything back with her after your grandfather died?”

She couldn’t help being curious. Anyone would be. Why had the woman let the place fall apart after her father died? Grief, maybe, but it still seemed odd. Surely she knew how valuable a good farm was in Lancaster County.

“Not that I remember.” He turned from a contemplation of the cobwebby ice box to focus on her. “You spoke of break-ins. Was anything stolen?”

“I don’t know. My grandmother might remember. Or Emma Zook, since they’re such close neighbors. She’s our housekeeper.”

“The Amish woman who was in the kitchen this morning? According to the lawyer who handled my grandfather’s will, the Zooks leased some of the farmland from his estate. I need to get that straightened out before I put the place on the market. I should talk to them. And to your grandmother.”

Something about his intent look made her uneasy. “I doubt that she knows anything about their leases.”

“According to my mother, Fredrick Unger offered to buy the property. That would make me think your family had an interest.”

There was something—an edgy, almost antagonistic tone to his voice, that set her back up instantly. What was he driving at?

“I’m sure my grandfather’s only interest would have been to keep a valuable farm from falling to pieces. Since he died nearly five years ago, I don’t imagine you’ll ever know.”

“Your grandmother—”

“My grandmother was never involved in his business interests.” And she wasn’t going to allow him to badger her with questions. “I can’t see that it matters, since your mother obviously didn’t want to sell. Maybe what you need to do is talk to the attorney.”

Her own tone was as sharp as his had been. She wasn’t sure where the sudden tension had come from, but it was there between them. She could feel it, fierce and insistent.

Tyler’s frown darkened, but before he could speak, there was a noisy creak from the living room.

“Hello? Anybody here?”

“Be right there,” she called. She’d never been quite so pleased to hear Phillip Longstreet’s voice. She didn’t know where Tyler had been going with his questions and his attitude, and she didn’t think she wanted to.

Tyler didn’t miss the relief on Rachel’s face at the interruption. The speed with which she went into the living room was another giveaway. She might not know what drove him, but she’d picked up on something.

Or else he’d been careless, pushing too hard in his drive to get this situation resolved.

He followed her and found her greeting the newcomer with some surprise. “Phillip. What are you doing here?”

The man raised his eyebrows as she evaded his attempt to hug her. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He held out his hand to Tyler. “Phillip Longstreet. You may have noticed Longstreet Antiques on Main Street in the village.”

He was in his late forties or early fifties at a guess, but he wore his age well—fit-looking, with fair hair that showed signs of gray at the temples and shrewd hazel eyes behind the latest style in glasses.

“This is Tyler Dunn.” She glanced at him, and he thought he read a warning in her eyes.

“Nice to meet you. Were you looking for Ms. Hampton?”

“It’s always pleasant to see Rachel, but no, I wanted to meet the new owner.” Longstreet shrugged, smiling. “I like to get in before the other dealers when I can.”