Marta Perry - A Christmas to Die For

And what difference would it make, the voice of doubt asked. You have one whole guest at the moment.

Tyler had gone off to Lancaster this morning to see the attorney who’d handled his grandfather’s estate. He’d seemed eager to resolve the situation with the farm. Well, why not? He probably had plans for Christmas in Baltimore.

Once he left, she’d have zero guests. There were a few people scheduled for the coming weekends, but not nearly enough. They’d hoped for a good holiday season to get them through the rest of the winter, but that wasn’t happening.

If she could get some holiday publicity up on the inn’s Web site, it might make all the difference. Andrea had intended to do that, but the rush to get ready for the wedding had swamped those plans. And she could hardly call her big sister on her honeymoon to ask for help. They had already invested all they could afford in print ads in the tourist guides, and the Web site was the only option left.

She fastened a spray of pine in place, taking satisfaction in the way the dark green contrasted with the pale stone walls. This she could do. Decorate, cook gourmet breakfasts, work twenty-four/seven when it was necessary—those were her gifts.

Her gaze rested absently on the church across the street, its stone walls as gold as the inn. Someone had put evergreen wreaths on the double doors, and the church glowed with welcome. That was what she’d sensed when she’d come back to Churchville. Welcome. Home. Family. Community. She’d lost that when Daddy left and their mother had taken them away from here.

She paused with her hand on the burgundy ribbon she was tying. Lord, this venture can’t be wrong, can it? It seems right. Surely You wouldn’t let me have a need so strong if it weren’t meant to be satisfied.

“Rachel, you look as if you’ve turned to stone up there. Are you all right?”

She glanced down from the window to see Bradley Whitmoyer standing on the walk, eyeing her quizzically. She scrambled down from the stepladder.

“I guess that’s what they mean by being lost in thought, Dr. Whitmoyer. What can I do for you?”

She saw him occasionally, of course, when she took Grams for a check-up, at church, at a social event, but he’d never come to the inn.

“Bradley,” he corrected. “I’m on an errand.” He gave her his gentle smile, pulling an envelope from the pocket of his overcoat. “My wife asked me to drop this off on my way to the office. Something to do with this Christmas celebration you’re working on, I think.”

She took the envelope. “You shouldn’t have gone out of your way. I could have picked it up.” She knew how busy he was. Everyone in the township knew that.

“No problem.” He drew his coat a little more tightly around him, as if feeling the cold. “I’ve been meaning to see how you’re getting along. This is an ambitious project you and your grandmother have launched.”

“Yes, it is.” He didn’t know how ambitious. “But Grams is enjoying it.”

“That’s good.” His eyes seemed distracted behind the wire-rimmed glasses he wore, his face lined and tired.

He wore himself out for everyone else. People said he’d turned down prestigious offers to come back to Churchville and become a family doctor, because the village and the surrounding area needed him.

“I understand you have old Mr. Hostetler’s grandson staying here.” He rocked back and forth on his heels. “I suppose he’s come to put the farm on the market.”

“I don’t know what his plans are. Probably he’ll sell the land. The house is in such bad shape, I’m not sure anyone would want it.”

“He should just tear it down. Every old house isn’t worth saving, like this one. You’re doing a fine job with it.”

“Thank you.” She resisted the urge to confide how uncertain she was about her course. She wasn’t his patient, and her problems weren’t medical. She waved the envelope—no doubt Sandra’s notes on the town brochure. “Please tell your wife I’ll get right on this.”

“I’ll do that.” He turned, heading for his car quickly, as if eager to turn on the heater.

Even as he got into his sedan, she saw Tyler’s car pulling into the driveway. If he’d arrived a few minutes earlier, she could have introduced them.

“Was that a new guest?” Tyler came toward her across the crisp grass.

“Unfortunately not. That was Dr. Whitmoyer. You met his wife last night.”

“So that’s the good doctor.”

“He really is. Good, I mean. He’s the only doctor in the village, and in addition to carrying a huge patient load, he’s doing valuable research on genetic diseases among the Amish.”

“I’ll agree that he’s a paragon if you’ll come inside for a few minutes.” He was frowning. “I need to talk to you.”

Now that she focused on him, she could sense his tension. Something was wrong.

She put down the ribbon she’d been holding. “Of course.”

The warm air that greeted her when she walked inside made her fingers tingle. She led the way to the library, shrugging out of her jacket, and turned to face him. “What is it? Can I help you with something?”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, frowning, and ignored the invitation to sit. “I saw the attorney who’s been handling things since my grandfather died. According to him, your grandfather tried to buy the farm at least six times since then.”

She didn’t understand the tone of accusation in his voice. “I suppose that’s true. The neighbors weren’t happy to see the place falling to pieces. It would be natural for my grandfather to make an offer for it.”

“It sounds to me as if he was eager to snap up the property once my grandfather was out of the way. According to my mother, he and my grandfather had been feuding for years.”

She planted her hands on her hips. There weren’t many things that made her fighting mad, but innuendos about her family certainly did. “I’m not sure what you’re driving at, Tyler. I don’t know anything about any feud, but if it did exist, it’s been over for twenty years or so. What does that matter now?”

His eyes seemed to darken. “It mattered to my mother. She talked to me about it before she died. She said her father told her someone was trying to cheat him out of what was his. That she didn’t believe his death was as a result of a simple robbery. And that she believed the Unger family was involved.”

Rachel’s reaction to his statement was obvious. Shock battled anger for control.

That was what he’d felt, too, since the attorney told him about old Mr. Unger’s attempt to buy the place. He’d hoped the lawyer would say his mother had been imagining things. Instead, his words seemed to confirm her suspicions.

Rachel took a breath, obviously trying to control her anger. She held both hands out, palms pushing away, her expression that of one who tries to calm a maniac. “I think you should leave now.”

“And give you time to come up with a reasonable explanation? I’d rather have the truth.”

Her green eyes sparked fire. “I don’t need to come up with anything. You’re the one making ridiculous accusations.”

“Is it ridiculous? My grandfather claimed someone was trying to cheat him. Your grandfather tried repeatedly to buy his property. How else do you add those things up?”

“Not the way you do, obviously. There’s a difference between buying and cheating someone. If your grandfather thought the offer low, he didn’t have to sell.” She flung out a hand toward the portrait that hung over the fireplace mantel. “Look at my grandfather. Does he look like someone who’d try to cheat a neighbor?”