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“Denke,” Sarah said again, and Allison stored the word away, realizing it meant thanks.
They worked in silence for a few minutes. Allison glanced at the other woman’s face. Sarah had an air of calm and stillness about her that seemed to say she could be relied upon, and Allison longed to talk to someone about what had happened the previous night. But she didn’t know how Sarah might react. Would she be frightened at the thought that someone had been in the building? Or disapproving of the action Allison had taken?
“Are you feeling as if you know your grandmother any better now?” Sarah shot her a questioning glance. “I thought her office might answer some of your questions.”
“Well, it cast a new light on her in some ways,” Allison admitted. “I hadn’t realized she was such a businesswoman, for one thing.”
Sarah nodded. “She was, that’s so. After her husband passed and your...your father left, I suppose she didn’t have much else to occupy her. Evelyn never was one to be idle. She just dug in and started handling the business herself.”
Allison eyed her. “You wouldn’t remember my father, I suppose.” Sarah probably hadn’t been born when Hugh Standish had said goodbye to Laurel Ridge.
“No, but you know how folks talk.” There was something a little apologetic in her tone.
“I don’t imagine they had anything good to say about him,” Allison said.
“Ach, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s all right. I know better than most people how unreliable he was.”
Sarah nodded, blue eyes softening. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “It’s been a long time. I don’t think about him much anymore.” Except for the occasional bad dream. “I’m glad to get a better picture of what his mother was like.” At least, she thought she was.
“I wish...” Sarah began and stopped abruptly at the sound of someone entering the shop. She looked up, a welcoming smile on her face that seemed to stiffen.
“I see you’re making yourself right at home.” The voice belonged to a fortyish woman who stared at Allison as if memorizing every detail of her appearance. “That is...well, I suppose half of the shop does belong to you and...” She seemed to lose herself in a welter of words, the challenge that had sounded in her first statement sagging under the weight of her qualifications.
Sarah came to the rescue. “Allison, this is Brenda Conner, your cousin.”
“Brenda Standish Conner,” the woman corrected, straightening the shoulders that had begun to droop. She stared at Allison again, her smile flickering nervously on and off and on. “I was your father’s cousin. You wouldn’t know, I suppose.”
The truth of the matter was that she’d never heard of a cousin until the business of Evelyn’s will came up, but it didn’t seem polite to say so. Brenda could never have been beautiful, but she might have had a fresh-faced charm before her round face had settled into those lines of discontent. She seemed somehow faded, as if life had drained her, and the classic gray suit might have looked stylish if it hadn’t turned her complexion a similar shade of gray. It hung from her sloping shoulders as if it had been made for a larger woman, or at least one who stood up straight.
“Mr. Litwhiler mentioned your name to me.” And relayed your not-so-generous offer. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m afraid I know very little about my father’s family.”
That admission seemed to please Brenda, for some reason. She stood up a little straighter and fingered the rope of pearls that hung around her neck. “No, you wouldn’t. Your father never valued his family heritage, so he wouldn’t be likely to pass it on to you.”
Allison’s response was a noncommittal sound. Did Brenda know that Hugh had walked out on Allison and her mother when Allison was six? Or was that just a strike in the dark? She probably wouldn’t believe it if Allison told her that she didn’t remotely care about the Standish family heritage, whatever that might be.
“Speaking of Jonas Litwhiler, I believe he passed on to you a certain offer I made.” She cast a glance at Sarah, as if expecting her to disappear. Sarah went on stacking place mats on the shelf.
“He did, yes.” Allison tried to keep her voice neutral.
“He tells me you didn’t have an answer yet, but now that you’ve had a chance to think about it, I’m sure you’ll agree that accepting is the best solution for everyone.” Brenda reeled that off as blandly as if she’d memorized the words. “If you’d just give me your approval, we can get on with the paperwork.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Allison felt a certain amount of pleasure in saying the words. Brenda needn’t think it was going to be as easy as she’d undoubtedly hoped. “I’m consulting with an expert as to the value of the building, and I can’t give you an answer until I receive that information.” The expert in question happened to be a college sorority sister of Leslie’s whose family owned a real estate office somewhere in central Pennsylvania.
“Well, but—” Brenda hadn’t expected that answer. “Of course, you might find someone who would say the building is worth more, but the amount I mentioned is all I can afford at the moment. Besides, you have to consider the cost to you of staying here in Laurel Ridge for an entire year.”
“I’ll take all of that into consideration.” She produced the smooth, professional tone she used when an estimate for vertical blinds came in unexpectedly high. “I’ll let you know my decision as soon as possible.”
“Yes, well, that’s... I guess that’s all right.” Brenda cleared her throat, seeming to brighten a little. “Meanwhile, I thought you should meet some people in Laurel Ridge while you’re here, so I’ve arranged a little get-together this evening at seven. Perhaps you’ll be interested to see the Standish house. Anyone can give you directions. And you’ll meet my daughter, Krysta.” She held that out as if it were an irresistible lure. “I’ll see you then, shall I?”
Allison was tempted to say no, just to see her reaction. But the truth was that she was curious about the place where her father grew up. Surprising, since she’d thought she didn’t care.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll see you then.”
When the woman had left, Allison glanced at Sarah, who seemed to be pretending she hadn’t overheard anything.
“I wonder if I’m making a mistake in attending her party? It’s pretty obvious what Brenda wants.”
“What do you want?” Sarah said, with an air of facing up to facts.
Allison folded another place mat and put it on the shelf, considering the question. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “But I admit, I’m curious about the place where my father grew up.”
“Then you should go. Family is more important than just about anything, don’t you think?”
“I guess so.” Even when you felt like the odd man out. “My father left when I was six.”
“I’m sorry.” Sarah reached out to clasp her hand in an impulsive grip. “That must have been hard.”
She nodded. Funny, that she was talking to a stranger about something she seldom mentioned to anyone. But Laurel Ridge seemed to have that effect on her. Maybe small-town living did have something to recommend it.
“Seeing the Standish house might help you understand him better, ain’t so?” Sarah hesitated. “But Brenda...well, I think you should be careful. She’s not like your grandmother.”
Allison nodded. Sarah had obviously admired Evelyn, and Brenda...well, even she could see that Brenda was trying to emulate Evelyn Standish and only coming off as a pale copy.
* * *
“DO YOU HAVE any homework to do tonight?” Nick glanced at Jamie as they walked down the street from the elementary school to the workshop, where Mom was going to pick him up after her dentist appointment. The backpack his son wore looked too heavy for him, but Nick knew better than to offer to carry it. He’d already made that mistake, and Jamie had been offended.
“One page of number problems.” Jamie hopped, two-footed, over a crack in the sidewalk. “And spelling words to practice.”
“Sounds good.” He ruffled his son’s wheat-colored hair, and Jamie grinned up at him. “I’ll be home in time to help you, right?”
“Right.” Jamie shifted the backpack slightly. “Race you to the workshop.”
He was off and running before he’d finished saying the words, giggling. Nick let him get several yards ahead and then jogged after him.
Mac was headed for the shop from the other direction, and Jamie ran straight at him, confident his uncle would catch him. Mac grabbed him and tossed him into the air, caught him and set him down again.
“What are you up to, sport?” Mac plopped his police officer’s cap on Jamie’s head.
“Racing my dad. I beat him. I won!” He grinned at Nick.
“You’re too fast for me,” Nick said, feeling a little lurch in his heart as he looked at his son. One day that really would be true. Jamie would go on to do things Nick couldn’t even imagine.
“Gotta see Grandpa,” Jamie declared, giving back the hat, and fled into the shop, letting the door bang behind him.
“I’m thinking we come in well behind Dad in the pecking order as far as Jamie is concerned,” Mac said, grinning.
“No doubt. Grandpa’s helping him make a birdhouse. We can’t compete with that.” Nick clapped his brother on the shoulder. “You coming in?”
“Just for a minute,” Mac said. “And I’ll have you know I put together that model plane with Jamie last week. I was king of the walk then.”
“How the mighty have fallen,” Nick teased. “He told me that Grandpa is a champion carpenter. He knows because Grandpa told him.”
“Hey, I let him wear the police chief’s hat,” Mac protested. “That should count for something.”
“Not in a burg like Laurel Ridge. Now, if you were hunting down bank robbers, he might be impressed.” He followed his brother into the shop. Much as he loved riding his little brother, he was conscious of gratitude. Jamie had a good man to idolize in Mac. Mac was a lot like Dad—solid, dependable, honorable. When he and Jamie had come home to live, they’d been absorbed into the family as if they’d never been anywhere else.
“So, what brings the police chief here this afternoon? Looking for bad guys?” He leaned against the workbench, studying Mac’s strong-boned, impassive face.
“I talked to Allison Standish this morning,” Mac said, his straight brows lowering slightly. “She told me her version of what happened last night.”
“I don’t suppose it was much different from what I told you,” Nick observed.
The frown didn’t lift. “Look, how seriously should I take this woman? Do you think she really heard anything or was it just an overactive imagination?”
That wasn’t an option that had occurred to him. He’d taken it for granted that Allison’s account was accurate. “I doubt it,” he said slowly. “Mainly because she was really scared and angry when she ran into me. She wasn’t faking it.”
“If you say so, I’ll buy that she was scared. But what are the odds on overactive imagination? Did you actually hear anyone?”
Nick frowned, considering. “Didn’t hear anything, no. But I did find that door to the attic standing open, so it looked as if someone had been in there.”
“No reason why she couldn’t have opened it herself, is there?”
“No, but the one at the other corner of the building had been left open, too. And why would she say it if it wasn’t true?” Far be it for him to support the woman who might put him out of business, but he didn’t see any reason for Allison to make up that story.
“Imagination,” Mac said. “Not being used to the sounds an old building makes. Trying to draw attention to herself. Take your pick.”
Nick pushed down the voice that wanted to deny it heatedly. “Could be, I guess, but that doesn’t seem sufficient reason. I’d say she’s not the hysterical type. Or easily scared.”
“What about the way the building was left in Mrs. Standish’s will? I’ve been hearing rumors around town. What happens if Allison doesn’t claim the building?”
“From what I understand, it goes to Brenda Conner. That might give Brenda a reason for trying to scare Allison away, but no reason that I can see for Allison to invent such a story.” Was he really defending her?
Mac mulled that over for a couple of minutes. “Seems like there might be a lot of people with a reason to want Ms. Standish gone.”
“True. Maybe even me.”
“You? Why you?”
Nick shrugged. “I guess I might figure Brenda would be easier to deal with.”
“Pretty vague, don’t you think?” Mac spread his hands out, palms open. “The story doesn’t amount to much of anything, even so. A bunch of solid citizens aren’t likely to be prowling around to scare her, even if they aren’t happy about her ownership. But I’ll keep an eye on the place, anyway.”
Nick nodded. It might be just as well if he did the same.
* * *
ALLISON PAUSED AT the entrance to the bookshop, glancing around, caught as always by the sheer pleasure of being surrounded by books. Though she had to confess that she bought most of her books online in recent years, there was still nothing like a visit to an actual bookstore to get the juices flowing.
A display of regional history books and pamphlets attracted her attention, but before she could reach the rack she was intercepted.
“Ms. Standish!” A man came hurrying from the back between the racks of books, his white hair ruffled and his expression both eager and apprehensive. “I’ve been expecting you to stop by. I’m Ralph Mitchell.”
“Of course.” She extended her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Mitchell. I’m sorry I didn’t get in sooner. There’s so much to deal with...” She let that trail off, hoping it was an acceptable excuse.
“Naturally, naturally. And you must call me Ralph. Everyone does.” He pumped her hand, his eager eyes seeming to take in every detail of her appearance so intently that it was as if he memorized it.
Allison did a little noticing of her own. Mitchell looked so much like the popular concept of a bookshop owner that he was almost a caricature. Wire-rimmed glasses slid down a pink nose, and he peered anxiously over the top of them. His white hair was worn a little long, and it stood up as if his head was lost in a cloud.
“It was such a shock to all of us to lose our dear Evelyn.” His voice actually shook a little, and his hands trembled. “She was very good to us.”
“I’m sure she was.” Allison’s thoughts flickered to that loan her grandmother had made to the bookshop owner. Perhaps they had been close friends, and he was genuinely mourning her.
“You have my deepest sympathy in your loss,” he added.
She nodded, not sure what to say. The truth was that her grandmother had never been anything to her but a name, so how could she be expected to mourn her? There probably wasn’t a soul in Laurel Ridge who hadn’t known Evelyn Standish better than she had.
“You have a lovely shop here,” she said, feeling a change of subject might be the best response. “You seem to be well stocked for a small-town store.”
“We try, we try,” he said, glancing around with satisfaction. “Evelyn was a great reader, you know, and she encouraged me to branch out a little in what I carried.”
The quilt shop, the bookstore—her grandmother seemed to have had a variety of interests and had been willing to back up those interests financially.
“I hope you plan to continue as Evelyn would have wanted,” he said, his tone wistful. “It’s not easy for an independent bookshop to compete with the chains and the online stores, but Evelyn felt a bookshop was important to the community.”
“Yes, I’m sure she did.”
Mitchell was putting her on the spot, and she didn’t like it. “I really haven’t had time to gather all the information I need to make plans yet. My grandmother’s bequest came as a surprise to me, you understand.”
“Ms. Standish.” A peremptory male voice sounded from behind her. She was certainly in demand today. Allison turned.
“I’m Thomas Blackburn. I’d like to speak with you.” The man was probably about the same age as Ralph Mitchell and his hair was just as white. But there the resemblance ended. Mitchell looked like nothing so much as a slightly anxious rabbit, while Blackburn—tall, erect, faultlessly dressed—had hawk-like features with eyes that pierced and judged.
“Mr. Blackburn.” She acknowledged his words with a nod. “I’m sorry, but I was talking with Mr. Mitchell—”
“Oh, no, no,” Ralph said quickly. He stepped back, as if longing to efface himself. “We can chat another time. Really. I must...must get back to...to my inventory.”
She could have insisted, but it was obvious Mitchell preferred to slip away in the face of Blackburn’s commanding air.
“Fine.” She smiled at him and then gestured Blackburn to the stairs. “Shall we go up to my office?” It was the first time she’d referred to the office as hers, but she decided she needed a bit of bolstering with Blackburn staring at her so disapprovingly.
They went up the steps in silence. Blackburn seemed to know the way to the office as well as she did. She unlocked the door, crossed the room and sat down behind her grandmother’s desk. Blackburn took the visitor’s chair, planted his elbows on its arms and leaned forward.
“I don’t believe in mincing words, Ms. Standish. Blackburn House is Blackburn by rights. Blackburns built it, Blackburns lived in it. I want it in Blackburn family hands, where it belongs.”
