The Three Sisters Inn

It wasn’t a question he could ask, but he wondered. He really did wonder.

Caroline drove straight to the barn by way of the narrow lane that ran along the hedgerow. She pulled up to the gravel parking space near the apartment door and began to unload. She would put her own perishables away before running the vanilla and cinnamon over to Rachel at the house. Maybe by then she’d have controlled her temper at running into Chief Burkhalter once again.

Arms filled with grocery bags, she shoved the car door shut with her hip. And turned at the sound of another vehicle coming up the lane behind her.

It was with a sense almost of resignation that she saw the township police car driving toward her. Resignation was dangerous, though. This persistence of Burkhalter’s was unsettling and unwelcome. She’d dealt with enough lately, and she didn’t want to have to cope with an overly inquisitive country cop.

She leaned against the car, clutching the grocery bags, and waited while he pulled up behind her, got out and walked toward her with that deceptively easy stride of his. If he were anyone else, she might enjoy watching that lean, long-limbed grace. But he wasn’t just anyone. He was a cop who’d been spending far too much time snooping into her business.

Her fingers tightened on the bags. “Why are you following me around? Police harassment—”

His eyebrows, a shade darker than his sandy hair, lifted slightly. “Etta Snyder would be surprised at the accusation, since she sent me after you.” He held up the tin of cinnamon. “She thought you might need this.”

Her cheeks were probably as red as her hair. “I’m sorry. I thought—” Well, maybe it was better not to go into what she’d thought. “Thank you. That’s for my sister, and she’ll appreciate it.” She hesitated, realizing that probably wasn’t enough of an apology. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions about you.”

Those gray eyes of his didn’t give anything away. “No problem. Let me give you a hand with the bags.”

Before she could object, he’d taken the grocery bags from her. Snatching them back would only make her look foolish, so instead she fished in her purse for the key.

She was very aware of him following her to the door. Knowing his gaze was on her. The combination of cop and attractive, confident male was disturbing.

“Does Etta often turn you into a grocery deliveryman? I’d think police work would be enough to keep you busy, even in a quiet place like this.”

“You haven’t been here on a busy Saturday in tourist season if you find it quiet,” he said. “Dropping off something you forgot at the store is just being neighborly.”

Neighborly. She didn’t think she was destined to be neighborly with the local cop. She reached the door, key extended. The door stood ajar. Panic froze her to the spot.

“What is it?” His tone was sharp.

She gestured mutely toward the door. “I locked it when I left.” Her voice was breathless. “Someone’s in there.”

“It doesn’t look as if it was broken into. Anyone else have a key?”

She took a breath, trying to shake off the sense of dread that had dogged her in Santa Fe. She was being ridiculous.

“Of course. You’re right.” Her voice was still too high. “Rachel has a key. She might have brought something over from the house. I’m being stupid.”

She stepped forward and ran into an arm that was the approximate strength of a steel bar.

“Probably it’s one of the family.” His voice was casual, but his expression seemed to have solidified in some way, and his eyes were intent. “But let’s play it safe. You stay here.” It was a command, not a request.

She opened her mouth to protest and then closed it again. He was right.

He put the bags down and pushed the door open gently with his elbow. She wrapped her arms around herself, chilled in spite of the warmth of the sunshine.

No one would be there who shouldn’t be. The things that had troubled her after Tony’s death were far away, in a different world, a different life. They couldn’t affect her here.

Zach’s footsteps sounded on the plank floor, softened when he crossed the braided rugs. She could follow his progress with her ears. First the living room, then the adjoining dining area, then around the breakfast bar into the kitchen. That sound was the door to the laundry room; that, the door to the pantry.

When she heard him mounting the stairs to the loft, she could stand it no longer. She sidled inside. It wouldn’t take him long to look around the loft bedroom. Had she made her bed before she left? She hoped so.

Then he was coming back down, frowning at her. “I thought you were going to stay outside.”

“This is my home.” Brave words, but she wasn’t feeling particularly brave.

“There aren’t any obvious signs of a break-in. Maybe you’d better check upstairs for any money or valuables you have with you.”

She hurried up the steps, brushing against him as she did so, and was a little startled by the wave of awareness that went through her.

She had made the bed, and thank goodness nothing embarrassingly personal was lying out in plain sight. Although Grams would probably find it embarrassing that she’d left things half-unpacked. Grams was a great one for finishing anything you started.

In a moment she was starting back down. “I don’t see anything missing upstairs. I was in the middle of unpacking, so it’s a bit hard to tell.”

And the truth was that neatness had never been her strong suit. Or even a virtue, as far as she was concerned.

Zach stood at the worktable she’d pulled out from the wall, staring at the cartons that held her supplies for jewelry making. She’d wanted those things with her, because it was both a vocation and avocation. Or it would be, if she could ever find a way to make enough money to live on. She patted her pocket, where she’d tucked the information about the local craft show.

He held up a box that contained the supply of turquoise she’d brought. “This must be valuable, isn’t it?”

“Fairly. I don’t have any really expensive stones. I’ve been experimenting with variations on some traditional Zuni designs in silver and turquoise.” She touched a stone, tracing its striations with the tip of her finger, longing to lose herself in working with it.

“I doubt anybody’s been in here with the intent to rob you, or they’d have gone for the obvious.”

She nodded, reassured. “Thank you. I—well, I’m glad you were here. I probably overreacted for a moment.”

He shrugged, broad shoulders moving under the gray uniform shirt. “A break-in didn’t seem likely, but we have our share of sneak thieves, like most places. It’s always better to be cautious.” His voice had softened, as if he spoke to a friend. “And you’ve been through a rough time with your husband dying so suddenly.”

The sympathy in his voice brought a spurt of tears to her eyes. He was being kind, and she never expected kindness from someone in a uniform.

“We quarreled.” The words she hadn’t spoken to anyone here just seemed to fall out of her mouth. “We had a fight, and he drove off mad. And in the morning they came to tell me he was dead.”

Strong fingers closed over hers, warming her. “It was not your fault. Survivors always think that if they’d done something differently, their loved one wouldn’t have died. Don’t let yourself fall into that trap.”

He had a strength that seemed contagious. She could almost feel it flowing into her. Or maybe she was starting to see him as a man instead of a cop.

“Thank you.” She turned away, willing herself to composure. “I appreciate your kindness.”

“Plenty of people around here are ready to be neighborly. Just give them a chance.”

She nodded, shoving her hair back from her face. Something lay on the breakfast bar—a white sheet of paper that looked as if it had been crumpled and spread flat again. She took a step toward it, recognizing that it was something out of place even before she reached the counter.

She stopped, staring down at the paper, unwilling to touch it. She couldn’t seem to take a breath.

“What is it?” Zach covered the space between them in a couple of long strides. “What’s wrong?”

She turned, feeling as if she moved all in one piece, like a wooden doll. “That letter.” She took a breath, fighting down the rising panic. “Someone has been in here.”

Zach grasped her arm, leaning past her to look at the paper without touching it. “Why do you say that?” His tone was neutral, professional again.

“It’s a letter my husband wrote to me. I threw it away before I left Santa Fe. Someone came into the house and left it here for me.”

FOUR

Zach took a moment before responding. Was this hysteria? Caroline was upset, but she didn’t seem irrational, no matter how odd her reaction to that letter.

“Are you sure about that?” Careful, keep your voice neutral, don’t jump to conclusions. Getting at the truth was a major part of his job, and he didn’t do that by prejudging any situation.

He pulled a pen from his pocket, using the end of it to turn the paper and pull it toward them. “Take a closer look and—”

Before he could finish, she’d snatched up the letter, adding her fingerprints to whatever was already on it. Still, even if what she said was true, returning a letter that belonged to her to begin with probably wasn’t a crime.

“I know what I’m talking about.” Her voice was tight, and her fingers, when she grasped the letter, showed as white as the paper.

A highly strung person might imagine things after a tragic loss. Her actions in leaving Santa Fe so abruptly weren’t what he’d call normal, but she might have reasons no one here knew about. That was what worried him. As well, there were those bruises he’d seen on her arms.

“Isn’t it possible this was among the things you brought with you? It could have fallen out when you were unpacking.” He glanced toward the stack of boxes that overflowed one of the armchairs. “Maybe Emma or your sister came in, tidying things up, found it and put it there.”

That generous mouth set in a firm line, and she shook her head. “They couldn’t find something I didn’t bring.”

Stubborn, and the type to flare up at opposition. Well, she hadn’t known stubborn until she’d met a Burkhalter. He could be as persistent as a cat at a mouse hole if necessary. His fingers itched to take the letter and find out what had her so upset about it.

“How can you be so sure it’s the same one?”

“Look at it,” she commanded. She thrust the paper into his hands, just where he wanted it. “You can see the marks where I crumpled it up before I threw it away.”

She was right. The marks were visible, even though the paper had been smoothed out before it was put on the counter. He read quickly, before she could snatch it away again, not that there was much to read—just a single page, written in a sprawling, confident hand. A love note.

Caroline grabbed it. “I wasn’t asking you to read it.”

“Not many men write love notes anymore, I’d think. Too easy to e-mail or text message instead.” And not many women would throw such a message away, especially when the sender had just died. “He must have been thoughtful.”

Her expressive face tightened. “Tony could be very charming.”

That was the kind of word that could be either praise or censure. “How long were you married?”

She turned away, as if she didn’t want him to see her face. “Just over a month.”

At that point most couples were still in the honeymoon-glow period. “I’m sorry. That’s rough.”

She swung back again, temper flaring in her eyes. “You obviously think I’m imagining things. I assure you, grief hasn’t made me start to hallucinate. I threw the letter away in Santa Fe. It reappeared here. Now that’s real, not imagination, whatever you may think.”

“Okay.” He leaned back against the granite countertop, taking his time answering. “Question is, do you want to file a complaint about someone entering your apartment?”

“You said the door hadn’t been forced.” She frowned, the quick anger fading. “I know I locked it when I left.”

“The windows are all securely closed now, with the locks snapped.” A sensible precaution when no one had been living here, especially since the entrance to the apartment wasn’t visible from the main house. “Let’s take another look at the door.”

He crossed to the entry, and she followed him. He bent to study the lock, moving the door carefully by its edge. The metalwork of the lock was new enough to be still shiny, and no scratches marred its surface.

“I don’t see any signs the lock has been picked or forced.”

“So only someone with a key could get in.”

He shrugged. “Unless it wasn’t locked. Easy enough to forget to double check it.”

“I suppose.” But she didn’t sound convinced.

“Look, if you want to file a complaint—”

“No.” She backed away from that. “I don’t. As you said, there could be some rational explanation.”

He studied her face for a moment. “You’re not convinced.” He wasn’t too happy about the situation himself, but he didn’t see what else he could do.

Caroline raked her fingers back through that mane of hair, turquoise and silver earrings swinging at the movement. “I’ll talk to Emma and my sister. Find out if either of them was in here this afternoon. If not—” She shrugged, eyes clouded. “If not, I guess it’s just one of those little mysteries that happen sometimes.”

He didn’t like mysteries of any size. And he was about to take a step beyond normal police procedure.

“You know, if you were to tell me what made you leave Santa Fe in such a hurry, I might be able to help you.”

Her eyes met his for an instant—wide, startled, a little frightened. “How did—”

She stopped, and he could almost see her struggle, wanting to speak. Not trusting him. Or having a good reason why she couldn’t trust whatever-it-was to a cop.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Her voice was flat and unconvincing.

“Neither of us believes that,” he said quietly. “I can understand that you don’t want to talk to me about your private life, but talk to one of your sisters. Or move into the house, where there are people around all the time.”

“I’d rather stay here.”

He let the silence stretch, but she had herself under control now. She didn’t speak. And he couldn’t help her if she wasn’t honest with him.

“If you want me, you know how to reach me.” He stepped out onto the flagstone that served as a walk.

She summoned a smile, holding the door to close it as if he’d been any ordinary visitor. “Yes. Thank you.”

She might change her mind. Decide to tell him about it. But he suspected he was the last person she’d choose to confide in. He just hoped Caroline’s secrets weren’t going to land her in a mess of trouble.

They were eating dinner around the long table in the breakfast room, but Rachel had made it both festive and formal with white linens, flowers and Grams’s Bavarian china. Caroline discovered that the sense of being welcomed home was a bit disconcerting. Nice to know they considered her arrival a cause for celebration, but at the same time, that welcome seemed to call for a response from her that she wasn’t sure she was ready to make.

Depend on yourself. That was what life had taught her. Rachel and Andrea were her sisters, but they hadn’t lived under the same roof since she was fifteen—longer than that with Andrea. They’d left their mother’s erratic existence as soon as they could, as she had.

Andrea and Rachel had left conventionally for college. She was the only one who’d gotten out by way of a correctional facility.

“Great roast, Rachel.” Cal, Andrea’s husband of four months, leaned back in his chair with satisfaction. “You are one inspired cook. You ought to give the guests breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

“No, thanks.” Rachel flushed with pleasure at the compliment. “We have enough to do as it is. I’ll save my favorite dinner recipes for family.”

Andrea nudged her husband. “Haven’t I mentioned to you that it’s not the wisest thing to praise someone else’s cooking more than you praise your wife’s?”

“You make the best tuna fish sandwiches this side of the Mississippi,” he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

Andrea tapped his face lightly with her fingers, eyes sparkling in the glow of the candles. “Sweet-talking will only get you more tuna fish,” she warned.

Caro’s gaze crossed with Grams’s, and she saw an amusement there that was reflected in her own. Marriage had taken away some of Andrea’s sharp edges. She’d always be the businesslike one of the family, but Cal had softened the crispness that used to put people off a bit. You could even see the difference in the way she looked, with her blond hair soft around her face and wearing slacks and a sweater instead of her usual blazer.

Had she and Tony ever looked at each other with that incandescent glow? If so, it had been an illusion.

Cal tore his smiling gaze away from his wife. “How do you like the apartment, Caroline? If you find anything wrong, all you have to do is give me a shout.”

“Everything seems to work fine.” Except for the fact that someone got in while I was out. She wasn’t sure she wanted to tell them that, wanted to have them look at her the way Zach Burkhalter had, with that doubt in their eyes. “You’re obviously a good craftsman.”

“He is that,” Andrea said. “You have to come over to our new house, so you can see how we’ve fixed it up. Cal built my accounting office on one end, and his workshop and showroom are in a separate building in the back.”

“I’d like to.” She could hardly say anything else.

How would they react if she asked how many keys to the barn apartment were floating around in possession of who-knew-who? Would they think she was afraid—the baby sister who couldn’t manage on her own?

This was ridiculous. She was a grown woman who’d been taking care of herself for years. There was just something about being back at her grandmother’s table that made her feel like a child again.

“You fix up the apartment to suit yourself,” Cal said. “That’s only right. Maybe I ought to put up a few more outside lights.” He nodded toward the wall of windows that overlooked the gardens, lit up now by the security lights on the outbuildings.

More lighting sounded like a comforting idea. “Thanks. I’m careful to lock up, but it would be nice to be able to see a bit farther outside at night.”

“Why? Is anything wrong?” Andrea, sharp as ever, jumped on that immediately.

“No. Nothing.”

They were family, she argued with herself. She could tell them. Except that she couldn’t tell them just a piece of her troubles—she’d have to expose the whole sorry story.

“When you asked if I’d been in the apartment earlier—was it because something happened?” Rachel’s voice was troubled.

Andrea’s gaze whipped round to her. “You thought someone had been in there?”

“It was nothing.” She should have remembered that you could never get away with half truths with Andrea. She’d always taken her role as oldest sister seriously. Far more seriously than Mom had taken motherhood, in fact.

“You had better tell us, Caroline.” Grams sat very straight in the chair at the head of the table.

She began to feel like a sulky child, being told to behave by her elders. “It wasn’t anything serious. I found the door ajar when I came home from the store, and I was sure I’d locked it when I left.”

“You probably forgot.” Andrea’s response had echoes of childhood—of Andrea bringing the lunch she’d forgotten to school or picking up the jacket she’d left at a friend’s house. When are you going to be more responsible, Caro?

“I didn’t forget.” She could hear the edge in her voice. “I’ve been living on my own in the city for years, and it’s second nature to lock up.”

“Even so—”

It looked as if Cal nudged his wife under the table to shut her up. “To tell the truth, I seldom locked up when I lived there. The latch is probably sticking. I’ll stop by in the morning and take care of it.”

“You don’t need—” she began.

Cal shook his head decisively. “I’ll come by.”

His tone didn’t leave room for argument, so she just nodded. Apparently Andrea had found herself a man who was as strong-willed as she was.

The entrance of Emma from the kitchen put an end to anything else Andrea might have had to say. Emma placed a platter in front of Caroline. One look, one sniff of the delectable aroma, and she knew what it was.

“Emma, your peaches-and-cream cake. That was always my favorite.”

“I remember, ja.” Emma’s round face beamed with pleasure. “You’d come into the kitchen and tease me to make it when you were no more than three.”

For an instant she was back in that warm kitchen, leaning against Emma’s full skirt, feeling the comfort of Emma’s hand on her shoulder, the soft cadence of her speech, the sense that the kitchen was a refuge from tension she didn’t understand elsewhere in the house.

“I did, didn’t I?” It took an effort to speak around the lump in her throat.

“You’ll have a big piece.” Emma cut an enormous slab and put it on a flowered dessert plate. “And there is a bowl of whipping cream that I brought from the farm this morning to top it.”

Funny. Cal and Emma, the two outsiders, were the ones who made her feel most at home.

But not even their intervention could change the way the others were looking at her. Wondering. Waiting to say it. Poor Caro, always needing to be bailed out. Poor Caro, in trouble again.

“I’m sure we’ll find something up here that you can use for your booth for the craft show.” Rachel led the way into the attic the next day. She’d been quick to offer her help when she learned that Caroline planned to sell some of her jewelry at the show. “As far as I can tell, no one has thrown anything away in the history of Unger House. They just put it in the attic.”

“I see what you mean.” She’d forgotten, if she’d ever known, how huge the connecting attics were, and how stuffed with furniture, boxes, trunks and some objects that defied classification. She picked up an odd-looking metal object with a handle. “What on earth is this?”

Rachel grinned. “A cherry pitter. See what I mean?”

“I see that I wouldn’t want to be the one to sort all this out.”

“We’ll keep that in mind.” Rachel worked her way purposefully through a maze of trunks. “I’d vote for Andrea, myself. She’s the organized one.”

“I doubt she’d appreciate that.” She followed Rachel, wondering a little at how easy she was finding it to talk to her sister. The years when their lives had gone in separate directions seemed to have telescoped together.

“Here’s the screen I was talking about.” Rachel pulled a triple folding screen out from behind a dusty dress form. “This would do for a backdrop, and then you could use one of the folding tables to display your jewelry.”

“It’s pretty dark. I’d like to find something a little brighter to draw people’s attention.” She hefted the screen. At least it was easily movable. She’d left most of her craft-show things to be shipped with the apartment’s contents, and who knew when the moving company would finally get them here?

“I know just the thing. There are loads of handmade quilts stored in trunks. Throw one of them over the screen, and you’ve got instant color.”

“That would work.” It was nice to have Rachel so willing to support her.

Rachel lifted the lid of the nearest trunk. “By the way, did you ever get in touch with your friend in Santa Fe? The one who was worried about you?”

And that was the flip side of support. You owed someone else an explanation of your actions.

“Yes, we had a long talk. I should have called her sooner.”

She hadn’t, because she hadn’t been especially eager to listen to Francine, who had been appalled that Caro had, as she put it, run away.

Well, what else would you call it? That’s what you do. You run away when things turn sour. She’d run from home. She’d packed up and left every time a relationship went bad or a job failed. That was always the default action. Leave.

Rachel, burrowing into the trunk, didn’t respond, leaving her free to mull over that conversation with Francine. She’d told Francine what she hadn’t told her family—about the man who’d accosted her in the plaza, his demands, his conviction that Tony was still alive.

Surprisingly, Francine hadn’t rejected that instantly.

“Honestly, Caro, I can’t say I knew Tony all that well.” She’d sounded troubled. “We worked on a couple of charity events together, and I knew basically what everyone else did—that he was smart, charming, well connected. As for any problems…well, did you think he might have been gambling?”

“That would be an explanation, wouldn’t it?” She’d felt her way, trying that on for size. “I never saw any proof, one way or the other.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Francine about the disappearance of her own money, but something held her back. Loyalty, maybe, after the wedding promises she’d made. Or just because it revealed how stupid she’d been.

“One thing I’m sure of,” Francine said. “If Tony did fake his death in some bizarre need to get out of a difficult situation, he’d find some way to let you know he’s still alive. You can be sure of that.”

She hadn’t found that as comforting as Francine had obviously intended. How could she?

“Caroline.” Rachel’s voice suggested that she’d said Caro’s name several times. “Where are you? You look a thousand miles away.” Her expression changed. “I’m sorry. Were you thinking about your husband?”

“Yes, I guess I was.” But her thoughts hadn’t been what Rachel probably imagined. She went to help her lift a sheet-wrapped bundle from a trunk. “I’m all right. Really.” Her mind flicked back to that conversation over the dinner table. “No matter what Andrea might think.”

“Oh, honey, Andrea didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Don’t be mad at her.”

“I’m not.” She found herself smiling. “You were always the buffer, weren’t you? Sometimes you’d side with me, sometimes with Andrea, but usually you were the peacemaker.”

“Well, somebody had to be.” Smiling back, Rachel began unwrapping the sheet.

The urge to confide in Rachel swept over her, so strong it startled her. She could tell Rachel, because Rachel had always been the understanding one.

But it wasn’t fair to ask Rachel to keep her secrets. And she wasn’t ready to risk trusting anyone with her troubles and mistakes.

“There.” Rachel unrolled the quilt, exposing the vibrant colors of the design. “It’s a Log Cabin quilt, one of the ones Emma’s mother made, I think.”

“It’s beautiful.” She touched the edge carefully, aware of the damage skin oils could do to aged fabric. “If you’re sure you don’t mind—”

“It’s as much yours as mine,” Rachel said. “There might be something you’d like better, though.” She pulled out the next bundle, this one wrapped in a yellowing linen sheet. “Goodness, this is really an old one.” She squinted at a faded note pinned to the fabric. “According to this, it was made by Grandfather’s grandmother in 1856.”

“It should be on display, not stored away.” The sheet fell back, exposing the quilt. She frowned. “That’s an unusual design, isn’t it?”

Rachel pointed to the triangles that soared up the fabric. “Flying geese, combined with a star. I don’t know enough about antique quilts to have any idea.” She folded the sheet back over it.

Caro felt an almost physical pang as the quilt disappeared from view. To actually hold something that had been made by an ancestress almost 150 years ago—had she been as captivated by color and pattern as Caro was? Had she lost herself in her work, too?

“Well, it certainly needs to be better preserved than it is. If you don’t mind, I’ll see if I can find out how it should be kept.”

“Be my guest. That’s more your domain than mine.” Rachel laid the bundle gently back in the trunk.

Taking the Log Cabin quilt, Caroline stood, stretching. “I’ll run this down first and then come back and help carry the—”

Her words died as she passed the attic window. She hadn’t realized that from this height she could see over the outbuildings to the barn, even to the walk that curved around to the door of her apartment. And to the flash of movement on that walk.

“Someone’s out there.” She grabbed Rachel’s arm, her heart thudding. He was back. The person who’d been in the apartment was back.

“Who? What?” Rachel followed her gaze. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Someone was there, by the apartment. I’m not imagining things, and I’ll prove it.” She thrust the quilt into Rachel’s arms and rushed toward the stairs.