Buried Sins (11 page)

Or in Caroline’s case, brought it with her. He took a sip of the coffee, nearly scalding his tongue. Everything that had happened since she arrived had its roots in her life in Santa Fe—that seemed certain.

“You ought to have some breakfast.” Rachel gestured toward a casserole that sat on top of the stove, still bubbling from its time in the oven. “I’m sure we called you out before you had time to eat.”

“No, thanks. I had breakfast with Ruthie before she left for school. Now, about the damage—”

“It’s just a good thing Caro left the quilt in the house last night,” Mrs. Unger said. “I’d hate to think what they might have done to it.”

So she was assuming the unknown intruders were vandals. Most likely that was true, but he didn’t want to take anything for granted.

“This quilt—was it the one I saw you working on yesterday?”

Caroline nodded. Her face was a little pale. Natural enough, having vandalism strike so close to her.

She’d been getting the dust off it with a vacuum brush when he’d come in, he remembered. “Is it valuable?”

She looked up, seeming startled. “I don’t know. We hadn’t really looked into the value of it.”

“I gave the quilt to Caro because she loved it,” Mrs. Unger said. “No one is thinking about selling it, so its value is immaterial.”

“Not to someone who planned on stealing it,” he pointed out.

“Surely this wasn’t intended to be a theft.” Rachel poured a little more coffee in his cup, even though he hadn’t taken much more than a sip. “If someone wanted to steal an antique quilt, they’d hit a quilt shop. There are several between here and Lancaster.”

“I suppose, but I can’t ignore the possibility. The more valuable the quilt, the more likely, it seems to me.”

“I suppose we could find out.” Caroline threaded her fingers back through her hair, letting it ruffle down to the shoulder of the white shirt she wore with jeans. That was probably the most conservative outfit he’d seen her wear yet. “I described the quilt to Agatha Morris, though, and she seemed to disregard it.”

“Agatha doesn’t know everything.” Mrs. Unger’s voice was tart. “We could call an expert for a valuation, if you think it’s important.”

“That wouldn’t be a bad idea.” It also wouldn’t be a bad idea if he could speak to Caroline alone, but that didn’t seem likely, the way her grandmother and sister were protecting her.

“I’m not worried about what it’s worth. There’s just something about the quilt that speaks to me.” Caroline gave him an assessing look. Can you understand that? That was what it seemed to say.

“Right.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket and put it on the table next to his mug. He didn’t need to write any of this down, but somehow people seemed to find the action reassuring. “Now, who might know about the quilt?”

She frowned down at the straw-colored brew. “I talked about it at the quilt show, I know. To your sister. She was the one who suggested I speak to Mrs. Morris.” She shrugged. “There were a lot of people milling around. I suppose anyone might have heard us. But if someone did want to steal the quilt, why smash up the quilting frame?”

“Good point. It’s most likely vandals. Something about spring seems to bring them out of the woodwork. I don’t suppose any of you have seen anyone hanging around the place?”

Blank looks, heads shaken. People didn’t notice, unless they were the type who saw lurkers in every innocent bystander.

“Maybe you should move into the house.” Mrs. Unger’s brow wrinkled as she looked at her youngest granddaughter. “If you had run into them, whoever they were—”

Caroline patted her grandmother’s hand. “I didn’t, and I hope I’m smart enough not to go wandering around investigating strange noises by myself.”

“Did you hear any noises?” He slid the question in. She should have—that was the first thing that struck him. The damage had to have made considerable noise, and her apartment was on the other side of the barn wall.

She was already shaking her head. “No. I’ve been thinking about that, and I should have if they were in there at night. But I spent the evening in the house, and we wouldn’t have heard anything from here.”

“That explains it, then.” He supposed. It got dark fairly early, so the damage could have been done any time after, say, seven in the evening. Still, whoever had done it was taking a chance on being seen.

He wasn’t accusing her of lying to him, not even in his mind. But no matter how sympathetic he felt toward Caroline, he couldn’t let that affect his judgment.

He put the notebook in his pocket as he stood. “Well, I think that’s it for now.” He looked at Caroline. “If you’d like to walk out with me, maybe we could have a word about the locks.”

She nodded, getting up quickly. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said, and followed him to the door.

The patio was sun drenched and bright with spring flowers. Caroline stopped at the low wall that surrounded it and looked at him.

“This isn’t about locks, is it?”

“No, I guess not, although it wouldn’t hurt to put dead bolts on all the doors. More to the point, why don’t you want to move into the house? Seems like that would be the sensible thing to do.”

She shrugged, evading his eyes. “No one has ever described me as sensible.”

“Your grandmother would probably feel better.”

“You mean she’d be able to fuss over me more.” She folded her arms across her chest.

“That’s not a bad thing, you know.” He could understand why she was prickly, given her history, but her grandmother obviously loved her.

“I like my independence.” Her mouth set in a stubborn line.

He looked at her for a long moment, weighing how much to say. “I hope that’s it,” he said slowly. “I hope you’re not just staying there because you want to make it easier for Tony to reach you.”

He thought she’d flare up at hearing her words parroted back at her. She didn’t. She just looked at him, her gaze defiant, and he knew that was exactly why she was so determined to stay.

“T
hat is just right.” Emma Zook smiled at Caro over the quilt that was spread out between them. “You already know how to take the tiny stitches so they will not show.”

“I’ve never done anything like this before.” She traced the line of stitches she’d used to repair the fraying edge of a triangle. As Emma said, it was nearly invisible.

Nancy, Emma’s daughter-in-law, came to look over her shoulder at the quilt. “That will fix up nice, it will. It is good to keep such a quilt in the family.”

“Yes, it is.”

Funny. For years she’d told herself she got by very nicely without family. Her priorities seemed to have gotten turned around in recent months.

Nancy smoothed a strand of hair back under the white prayer cap that sat on the back of her head. “Sticky buns are almost ready to come out of the oven. We’ll have some with coffee when you finish work.”

She’d decline on the basis that a sticky bun contained probably her entire daily allotment of calories, but that would no doubt be an offense against hospitality. Nancy fed her family in the way that Amish women had done for generations, and they seemed to thrive on it. Of course, they had no need for organized activities or gym memberships to keep fit. Dealing with the daily needs of the house and farm without electricity or other modern conveniences did the job.

Emma fingered the binding on the edges of the quilt, frowning a little. “The binding shows wear first. Could be you should just put on a new one.”

“I’d hate to replace it with modern fabric. From everything I’ve heard, that takes away from the value. Maybe I can repair it.”

Emma nodded. “It is worth a try. You have the patience to do it right. Like with the jewelry you make.”

Emma didn’t wear jewelry, of course, but that didn’t seem to keep her from appreciating the workmanship that went into it. The difference was, she supposed, that the Amish made useful things beautiful, while she attempted to make beautiful things that were also, in their own way, useful.

“You were the one who started me on the way to being a crafter,” she said, putting in a final stitch and knotting it. “You taught me to crochet before I even started school. Remember?”

Funny how that memory had come back to her—of herself and Rachel sitting at the kitchen table with Emma, the woman’s work-worn hands guiding their small ones as they made an endless chain of crochet loops to be formed into pot holders.

“Ach, you remember that.” Emma beamed. “You were so tiny, but you caught on fast. Like my own girls.”

It went without saying that Amish girls knew such useful things, learning them from their mothers almost before they could talk. Had she and Andrea and Rachel learned anything useful from their mother? Offhand, she couldn’t think of anything, unless it was how to evade bill collectors.

“I remember you always welcomed us into the kitchen, no matter how busy you were. You’d find something for us to do.” Now, looking back, she knew they’d escaped to the kitchen when her mother was in one of her moods or when their parents were quarreling.

“It made no trouble.” Emma had probably known why they were there, but she’d never said. “I liked having you with me for company.”

Probably Emma had been lonely, working by herself in the kitchen at the mansion instead of in her own kitchen, surrounded by children, visiting with her mother-in-law while they did the routine chores of taking care of a large family.

“You told us Bible stories.” Caro smiled. “Sometimes they came out half in German, I think.”

“My English was not so
gut
as the children’s. But the stories were the same, whatever the tongue.”

“Yes.” She supposed they were. “I have a feeling I was a pest, always asking questions. I wanted to know why you wore a cap, I remember.”

The prayer cap now covered gray hair, instead of blond, but it was identical to the one Emma had worn then.

“The Bible says that a woman should pray with her head covered, and also that we should pray at all times.”

“Do you pray at all times?” The words were out before she could think that Emma might not want to answer so private a question.

But Emma just smiled. “Often enough that I would not want to be taking a cap on and off, for sure. I know the English don’t hold with that rule. The praying is the important part, ja. And I pray for you, little Caro.”

Her throat tightened. “Thank you. I haven’t…haven’t prayed so much. Not in a long time. God always seems pretty far away to me.”

Emma took a final stitch and bit off the thread. “If God seems far off, it is because we have moved. Not God.” She stood, apparently feeling that was all she needed to say about it. “Come. We will have coffee with Nancy.”

Heart still struggling with the concept, Caro followed her to the farmhouse kitchen. Nancy sat at the long wooden table, her workbasket in front of her, but she greeted them with a smile and set it aside to get the coffeepot from the stove. The room was filled with afternoon sunlight and the mouthwatering aroma of the sticky buns that sat cooling on top of the gas range.

A faceless rag doll lay atop the basket, hair in braids, awaiting its replica of Amish children’s clothing. She picked it up, wanting to think about anything but her relationship with God. “This is lovely, Nancy. Is it for one of your daughters?”

“Ja.” Nancy’s smile was the thank-you she wouldn’t say in response to a compliment. “I had a bit of time after finishing the baking to work on it.”

She made sewing the doll sound as relaxing as if she’d taken a nap.

“Do you ever sell them at the local craft shows? I’d think they’d be very popular.” They were unique in their lack of features, reflecting the Amish adherence to not making any images.

Nancy shook her head. “We put some out when we have our produce stand in the summer, that’s all.”

“Would you like to have me take some to the shows on consignment?” She had second thoughts almost immediately. Was she breaking any Amish taboos with the suggestion?

Nancy glanced at her mother-in-law, and Emma nodded. “That would be a fine thing, I think. We would like that, Caroline.”

Actually, once they committed to it, both Emma and Nancy showed a lot of enthusiasm for the idea. By the time Caroline was ready to go home, she carried not only her quilt and several Amish cloth dolls but also some carved wooden toys created by the Zook men. And the promise of the loan of a quilt frame so that she could finish her work on the quilt more easily.

She pulled the car into her parking space behind the barn and began unloading. Something else was sticking with her from that visit. Emma had played a huge role in her young life, and she hadn’t even realized it until this afternoon.

The memories of that time, which came back more strongly with each day she spent here, proved that. Emma, in her quiet way, had made her feel safe. Secure. Loved. Loved by the Heavenly Father who was such a strong presence in Emma’s life.

Emma’s words came back to her. If she no longer felt God’s presence, was it God’s fault? Or hers?

Arms filled with a box containing the dolls and toys, the quilt folded on top, she followed the walk that led around the corner of the barn. It was too much. She wasn’t ready to face any tough spiritual questions right now. All she could do was try to get through things as best she could. She—

She rounded the corner and nearly walked into the man who stood at her door.

The bag Caroline was clutching slipped from her grasp, but he caught it before it could hit the ground.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Easy smile; open, boyish face; a disarming twinkle in his eyes. Churchville’s mayor—she’d met him at the last craft fair. For an instant she couldn’t think of his name, and then it came to her. Keith Morris.

“No problem. I just didn’t expect anyone to be here. I don’t get many visitors, but that doesn’t mean I should overreact when someone comes to my door.” She fished her key from her bag, hoping she didn’t look as embarrassed as she felt.

“I’m sure it’s only natural for you to be edgy under the circumstances.” Keith’s mobile face expressed concern.

Circumstances? For a moment she imagined he knew about Tony, but that was impossible.

“What circumstances?” She pushed the key in the lock, juggling the packages in her arms.

“Here, let me help you with those.” He relieved her of her load so quickly she didn’t have time to refuse. “I heard about the vandalism. That’s a terrible thing. That’s really why I’m here.”

“You know something about it?” She could hardly object when he followed her inside since he was carrying her things. She nodded toward the dining room table, and he set everything down.

“No.” He looked startled at the suggestion. “No, I don’t. I just wanted to apologize on behalf of the town. As mayor, I’m afraid I feel responsible when a newcomer to our little community gets such an unpleasant welcome.”

“I could hardly blame the town, could I? But thank you for your concern. I’m sure you have plenty of more important things to do in your position.”

“Important?” His right eyebrow quirked. “You do realize that the most significant part of the mayor’s role in Churchville is to sign proclamations, declaring that it’s Pennsylvania Apple Week, or American History Month. And did you know that this coming week is Community Festival Week?”

She had to smile at the self-deprecation in his voice when he talked about his job. “I’m sure it’s more complicated than that.”

“A little. I oversee town departments, of course, such as the police department. So I feel a little responsible when our police chief lets vandals run around loose.”

“I hardly think it’s fair to blame Chief Burkhalter for that.” She snapped the words before she could think that it was odd for her to be defending Zach.

“I’m sure you’re right.” He backed down without, it seemed, a parting glance at what he’d just said. Was telling people what they wanted to hear part of a politician’s job?

“Yes, well—” She turned away, appalled at herself for springing to Zach’s defense. She didn’t owe him that. “I was lucky I didn’t have anything very significant in the barn. And believe me, it has a nice, sturdy lock on the doors now.”

“Good, good.” He rested his hand on the back of a chair. “I have to confess that wasn’t the only reason I came to see you.”

“No?” She raised an eyebrow, wondering if this was the prelude to a pass.

“I’m interested in the quilt you talked about with my mother. The 1850s one.”

She blinked. Did he realize it was one of the things he’d carried in? “I’m pretty fond of it myself.”

“I collect quilts—in a minor way, that is. I wondered if you were interested in selling it.”

She could only stare at him for a moment. Was this some sort of game he and his mother played to get the price down?

“According to your mother, my quilt doesn’t have much historical value.” The woman’s quick dismissal of her quilt was still annoying.

“I’m sorry about that.” Again that boyish smile disarmed. “Mother can be a bit difficult at times. So many people see her as an expert and ask for advice that she just doesn’t want to be bothered with it.”

“Odd.” In her experience, crafters were the nicest people on earth, always willing to help each other. She must be the exception.

“In any event, I think that quilt would be a great addition to my collection. What are you asking for it?”

The usual rule at shows was that everything was for sale if the price was right, but she didn’t feel that way about the quilt. “I’m afraid it’s not for sale.”

“Oh, come on,” he said. “Name a price.”

She shook her head. “It’s a piece of family history.”

“One thousand dollars?”

She had to keep herself from gaping. “I’m afraid it’s not for sale,” she said again, infusing her words with a note of command.

He glanced toward the quilt, lying folded on the table. “Is that it?”

She nodded. Since he’d shown so much interest, she could hardly refuse to show it to him. “Would you like to see?”

“Of course.”

He helped her unfold the quilt onto the table. She had to force herself not to say irritably that she’d do it herself. Really, she didn’t understand why she was so possessive about the thing.

“There you are.”

He took a step back to survey the quilt. “Very interesting. It’s an unusual combination of patterns for that time period, from what I know.”

“That’s what I understand, too.” She touched the edging. “Maybe that’s why it interests me. I’m trying to research its history, and my grandmother has begun finding some letters and papers that relate to the time period. Hopefully I’ll find some mention of the quilt.”

He nodded toward one of the torn triangles. “You know, there are people who specialize in repairing and restoring old quilts. If you’d like, I could give you some names.”

“No, thanks. I’d prefer to do it myself.” She was sure of that, even if she didn’t quite understand why.

“But it’s a big job—”

“I can manage.” Really, what business of his was it if she wanted to do it herself? She’d already told him it wasn’t for sale.

“Now I’ve annoyed you.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to be helpful.”

“Well, thank you.” She hoped she didn’t sound too ungracious. “Everyone has been very helpful—I guess I’m not used to that after living in the city for so long. The Zooks are even bringing over a quilting frame to replace the one destroyed by the vandals.”

“That’s good. And you said you’d put a new lock on the barn door?”

“My brother-in-law took care of that, but I doubt the vandals would strike twice in the same place.”

“Still, better safe than sorry.” Keith’s smile was a little warmer than friendly. “I’m glad the incident hasn’t given you a distaste for our little town.”

“Not at all. I’m happy to be here.” To her surprise, she realized that was true. In spite of the problems that seemed to have followed her, she felt more at home than she had in years.

“That’s good.” His smile broadened. “I’m glad.”