Where Secrets Sleep

by Marta Perry

  “How obsessed?” Her eyes seemed to darken, and he realized she was serious. “How far would he go to get hold of Blackburn House?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the honest truth.” He hesitated. “Look, it’s obvious that you have something on your mind. If I can help...” He let that trail off, not sure what he was offering.

  Allison was silent for a moment, staring down at her hands on the table. Then she lifted her gaze to his face.

  “Sarah says you can be trusted.”

  “Sarah always tells the truth, but she might look at her friends through rose-colored glasses.” And if Allison kept looking at him that way, he wasn’t so sure he could trust himself.

  She turned suddenly to take an envelope from her bag, hanging on the back of the chair. “I think I’d like you to read this, especially the postscript.”

  It was a letter from Evelyn. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t that. “Where did this come from?”

  She shook her head. “It just came in the mail. Obviously my grandmother gave it to someone to mail for her. I thought perhaps Sarah, but she says no.”

  He considered. “I would guess Julia Everly. She’s probably the only person Evelyn would trust with it.”

  “I wondered about her. I think I’ll talk to her. See if she knows anything. Assuming she’s willing to tell me.”

  Nick couldn’t help smiling. “I’d guess if she knows, she’ll talk. Give you her opinion, as well.”

  He read the letter through slowly. It displayed all the qualities Evelyn had in such abundance—imperiousness, self-assurance, rigidity. But it also showed a willingness to confess regret and what might have been a longing to repair the past. Unfortunately one could never go back and do that.

  Finally he read the postscript, frowning over it.

  “Do you have any idea what she meant by that?” Allison sounded as if she needed an answer, but it was one he didn’t have.

  “Not a clue. If something was troubling her about Blackburn House, she didn’t confide in me. Did she talk to Sarah?”

  Allison nodded, her hair brushing her cheek. “She told Sarah that she’d uncovered something very troubling about someone in Blackburn House. Something that upset her. But she expected to get answers that evening, and by the next day, she’d know what to do.” Allison’s clasped hands tightened, her fingers straining against each other. “That was the night she died.”

  He could read what she was thinking in her face. “You think there was something malicious in what happened to her? But how could there be? She had a stroke.” Another thought hit him. “Does Sarah think that?”

  “It worried Sarah,” Allison said, seeming to choose her words carefully. “She didn’t feel she could talk to the police about it, but she wasn’t satisfied.”

  “But the stroke—”

  “If my grandmother had an altercation with someone on the stairs, if she was pushed or even if she fell on her own, the stroke could have been the result, not the cause.”

  He wanted to dismiss it. He wanted to say it couldn’t have happened that way. But a small sliver of doubt in his mind wouldn’t let him.

  “I don’t know, Allison. I really don’t know.” Without planning to, he put his hand over her wrist and felt her pulse hammering against his palm. “But you... If there’s any chance, you have to be careful. You know that, don’t you?”

  She nodded, her gaze never moving from his. They seemed to be locked into that moment, linked by the touch of their hands and the depth of their gaze. He could feel thoughts, emotions, swirling through him. Through them.

  The outside door banged shut as his father came in. They pulled apart, and Nick could get his breath. And he didn’t know if he was glad or sorry for the interruption.

  * * *

  ALLISON WASN’T SURE whether she was feeling disappointment or relief when she hurried back to the quilt shop. Nick’s father had walked in just in time—or a moment too soon, depending upon your point of view. In any event, whatever had almost happened, she needed time to think before she let it happen again.

  Somehow the quilt shop worked its usual magic when she walked through the door, soothing and comforting her, stilling her tumbling thoughts. She moved between the racks of quilt fabrics, pausing to touch the rich blue-green of a pattern here and the jewel-like ruby of a solid piece there.

  “You have a feeling for the cloth, ain’t so?”

  Startled, Allison glanced up. An older Amish woman sat in the rocking chair by the window, a basket overflowing with fabric pieces by her feet. Beyond her, Hector lay comfortably curled on the windowsill, sleeping. He opened one eye at Allison’s approach and then closed it again.

  “I hope Hector’s not bothering you.”

  Smiling, the woman shook her head. “I like having a cat around.” With her hair pulled severely back from a center part under the snowy kapp and the dark gray of her dress, she looked for an instant like the painting of Whistler’s mother. Then Allison saw the resemblance in the clear blue eyes and the serene oval of her face.

  “You must be Sarah’s mother. She said you come in sometimes to demonstrate quilting. I’m Allison Standish.”

  This woman’s smile was just like Sarah’s, lighting her eyes and making it clear that the wrinkles on her fine skin were the result of living and laughter. “Ja, I’m Hannah Bitler. Our Sarah has told us about you, but I didn’t know you had a love for working with fabric.”

  Allison had to shake her head. “I appreciate the quilts, but I don’t know a thing about making them.”

  “But you sew, ja?”

  “My step-grandmother taught me when I was young.” Dennis’s mother had always treated Allison as if she were just as much a grandchild as the twins. Memory presented her with an image of herself sitting next to Grammy Rose, trying to copy the tiny stitches she was putting into a piece of embroidery. “But I haven’t done much in years. Too busy, I guess.”

  “You could start again, ain’t so? It’s wonderful soothing to sit down to after a busy day.”

  She could do with a little soothing. Allison moved a folding chair closer so that she could see the handwork in the woman’s lap. She was stitching tiny scraps together in a pattern so intricate that Allison could make no sense of it.

  “You’re making a postage-stamp quilt, aren’t you?” She’d learned a good deal about different types of quilting from Sarah in the short time she’d been here. In a postage-stamp design, the individual pieces were no bigger than the stamps for which the method was named. Somehow, the quilter was able to piece them together to make a coherent whole, but she couldn’t imagine how.

  “I could do the piecing on the machine.” Mrs. Bitler smoothed out the square she was making. “But Sarah says the Englisch like to see someone doing it by hand.”

  Allison nodded, applauding Sarah’s wisdom. Those relatively unfamiliar with quilting would be doubly impressed at the sight of someone doing it by hand. “I think Sarah’s right about it, but I probably wouldn’t have the patience.”

  “Patience grows with practice.” Sarah’s mother said the words as if they were self-evident. “If you pick out a pattern and the material, I’ll help you get started.”

  “It would have to be something very, very simple.” She smiled, not wanting to commit herself. She’d almost said she didn’t have time, but maybe she did now that she wasn’t working into the evening or rushing out the door for a dinner or one of the innumerable art shows Greg had dragged her to.

  “Your grossmammi...did she quilt?” The woman’s needle flashed in an out of the fabric as she talked, her stitches so tiny they were nearly invisible.

  Allison frowned, trying to remember. “I don’t think so. She did needlework and cross-stitch, and she tried to teach me how to crochet.” She chuckled, remembering. “I think that mostly involved her
tearing out my mistakes and getting me started again.”

  “It’s gut you had her, since Evelyn...” Hannah stopped, shaking her head, her face distressed. “Ach, I shouldn’t say that.”

  “It’s all right. Everyone seems to know that Evelyn Standish didn’t play any part in my life. Since I never knew her, I can’t miss her.”

  The woman shook her head slowly. “That was a bad business, that’s certain sure. Evelyn was a gut woman, but proud.” She darted a look at Allison. “Pride can cause such pain. Maybe that is why God calls us to be humble.”

  Allison nodded, turning that over in her mind. She’d never given much thought to humility, maybe because it wasn’t a virtue that was especially prized in a competitive world. But to the Amish, it seemed to be a way of life. “Did you know my grandmother well?”

  Sarah’s mother paused, thinking over the question. “As well as anyone, maybe. I worked in the house for years, and then Sarah after me. Evelyn wasn’t one to show her feelings. Kind, ja, and wonderful generous if anyone was in need. But not forgiving if someone did wrong. She wouldn’t rest until the wrong was put right, no matter who it was.”

  “That must have made her some enemies,” Allison said slowly. Including her own son, it seemed. What had Hugh done that had caused his own mother to cast him off? That might be something else she could ask Julia Everly about. Brenda might know, but she instinctively rejected the thought of asking her.

  “That’s true.” Hannah took a few more delicate stitches. “Evelyn...ach, sometimes she didn’t see what the results would be of her insistence on exposing the wrong.” Her gaze touched Allison’s face. “Like losing her only grandchild.”

  Or like creating an enemy who would strike back? It sounded as if Evelyn had never realized that insistence on the right could be dangerous.

  The bell on the door jingled as someone came into the shop. Standing, Allison spotted two women, arms laded with packages, headed for the quilt displays.

  “Looks like customers. Is Sarah here?”

  “She took some things back to the storeroom. I’ll get her.” Sarah’s mother started to rise, and Allison shook her head. “I’ll do it. You’ll be better able to answer any questions they have.”

  Allison went quickly back to the hallway, unable to prevent a glance into the cabinetry business, but it seemed to be empty. Perhaps Nick and his father were already at work upstairs.

  The door stood open to the storeroom, and she found Sarah vainly trying to make another box stay on top of an untidy heap. Allison grabbed it before it could fall on their heads.

  “You have customers. I’ll take care of this.”

  “Fred Glick was supposed to clean up in here to make more room, and I don’t believe he’s done a thing.” Sarah sounded as exasperated as Allison had ever heard her. “He’s probably down in the cellar taking a nap.”

  “I’ll get him.” She pushed Sarah gently toward the door, ire rising at the thought of the custodian. “I think it’s time he realized he’s not getting paid to nap.”

  Allison’s annoyance carried her out the side door and halfway down the stone steps to the cellar before she realized that coming down might not be the smartest move. The sparse sunlight filtered down the steps, revealing dust motes dancing. Beyond, the space stretched dark and echoing. She fumbled for the switch she knew was close to the circuit box, collecting what felt like a cobweb on her hand. She touched the switch and flipped it.

  The bare bulbs that hung at intervals from the ceiling looked as if they were the lowest wattage possible, creating as many shadows as illumination.

  “Fred? Are you down here?” It seemed an unlikely place for anyone to take a nap, but for all she knew, the custodian had a cozy little den for himself somewhere under the building. “Fred?”

  Her voice echoed, sending whispers back from the dark. Quite suddenly she seemed to hear Nick’s voice again in her mind. Be careful, it murmured. Be careful.

  Her foot hovered over another step. Then she drew it back and turned. She’d make more space in the storeroom herself rather than go on. But as soon as possible, she and Fred Glick were going to have a reckoning.

  Glad to shut the cellar doors behind her, Allison hurried back to the storeroom. Come to think of it, there had to be access to the cellar from somewhere inside the building. The exterior hatchway couldn’t be the only entrance. She ought to find the building plans and familiarize herself a bit better with her inheritance.

  Things weren’t quite as bad in the storeroom as she’d anticipated, once she started at the back. The problem was that everyone who’d come in had probably dumped things as close to the door as possible. She pulled boxes back toward the shelving that lined the walls, wondering at some of the things people had decided to donate.

  Surely no one would buy a box of used candles, would they? Or a stack of yellowed sheets? Maybe someone had a use for them, but she couldn’t think what it would be. On the other hand, there were boxes of books that lured her to explore them.

  She pulled herself away. Just because there was what seemed to be a complete set of Louisa May Alcott books that she remembered from her childhood, that didn’t mean she should give them room in her already crowded bedroom at Mrs. Anderson’s. But she began to see the temptation of the Jumble Sale.

  Something sounded from the other side of a teetering stack of boxes. She stopped, listening. Maybe Fred, overcome with an attack of conscience?

  Something brushed against a box, setting it rocking slightly. “Fred? Is that you?”

  No answer. A tiny flicker of alarm shivered down her spine. But that was foolish. It was broad daylight.

  Broad daylight outside, maybe. Feeling as if she were whistling in the dark, Allison walked toward the door, hearing her own footsteps on the wooden floor. She rounded a rack of coats and stopped, her heart jolting before she saw who it was. Tommy Blackburn stared at her over an armload of yet more boxes.

  “Allison! You startled me. I didn’t know anybody was here.” He hefted the boxes. “I cleaned off some bookshelves. Where do you want these?”

  She’d had time to catch her breath by then. “At the end of this row you’ll find some space.” She pointed. Was Tommy aware of his father’s machinations with the permits? Or didn’t the elder Blackburn confide in his son?

  Tommy headed in the direction she’d indicated and then stopped, balancing his burden on the edge of a battered file cabinet. “Allison, I just wanted to say...” His ruddy face flushed a deeper hue. “Well, I heard about my dad leaning on the town clerk over your permit. I wanted to apologize.” He gave her a hangdog look. “I don’t suppose he’ll apologize, and someone should.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she said quickly. “And it all worked out, in any event.”

  “Good, good.” He made an attempt at his usual hearty tone, shaking his head. “Sometimes I think the old man’s getting a bit senile. Imagine acting like that. If people knew, the whole family would be embarrassed. Lord knows I can’t control him.”

  “I won’t say anything.” Tommy seemed both pitiable and harassed, caught between his formidable father and a son she suspected was also out of his control. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

  “Thanks, Allison. I appreciate it.” He eyed her with something of his former appreciation. “Maybe we could—”

  The box he was balancing slipped out of his hands, sending a cascade of books toward the floor. Allison was just moving to help him when she heard someone calling her name.

  “I’ll clean this up,” Tommy said hastily. “You go ahead. Somebody wants you.”

  Nodding, she headed for the door. Just as she reached it, Jamie rushed toward her, grabbing her hand.

  “Ally, where’s my daddy?” Panic threaded his voice. “I thought I could find my daddy here, but he’s not anywhere!”

 
The words ended in a choked sob that went straight to her heart and set up a reverberation there. She knew what Jamie was feeling. She ought to. She’d felt that panic and loss herself when she was his age, and she’d never quite shaken it off.

  CHAPTER NINE

  LEAVING TOMMY BEHIND picking up books, Allison led Jamie out into the hall, her hand on his shoulder. She could feel him tremble as he obviously tried to control tears.

  “Jamie, it’s okay. There’s been some mix-up, that’s all.” And what kind of mix-up let a six-year-old in for such a fright? Anger boiled along her veins, and she fought to suppress it. “We’ll find your father.”

  “It’s my fault.” Jamie’s lips trembled, and he pressed them together. He was six—too grown-up to cry, he’d be thinking.

  “Listen, I’m sure it’s not your fault.” She knelt so that they were face-to-face. “It isn’t.” How she’d once wanted to hear someone say those words.

  Jamie shook his head. “I was s’posed to take the bus home today, but I forgot. So I thought I’m come to the workshop and Daddy would take me home.”

  She brushed the silky hair out of his eyes. It was doing him good to talk. He was calmer already.

  “Wasn’t there someone who was supposed to get you on the right bus?” Surely the school had some system in place.

  “The bus lady was new today. She didn’t know.” He looked down at his shoes. “Guess I should have told her, but I forgot.”

  “Everybody forgets sometimes. So you came to the workshop—”

  “But it was locked! Nobody was there. So I came inside ’cause I thought they’d be in the office, but it’s locked up, too. And I thought I’d go to Sarah’s and she would call my grammy for me, but I saw she had customers, so then I found you.” He gave her an anxious look. “Do you think Daddy will be mad?”

  “I’m sure he won’t.” He’d better not be, or she’d have a few things to say to him. And maybe she’d say them, anyway.

  “But it’s my fault,” he repeated.