Buried Sins Page 6

  “Just one other thing.” He paused, holding the door.

  She looked at him, eyebrows lifting.

  “What he said about your husband. Do you think your husband is still alive, Caroline?”

  “No.” The word was out, harsh and emphatic, before she thought. She took a breath. “No, I don’t.”

  Zach nodded. Then he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

  Caroline spread a length of black velvet over the metal folding table Rachel had unearthed for her to use at the craft show. All around her, the cement block fire hall echoed with the clatter and chatter of a hundred-plus crafters getting ready for the event. The doors opened at nine, and everyone wanted to be ready.

  The aroma of coffee floated from the food stand at the end of the row. Maybe, once she was set up, she could ask the stall holder next to her to watch the stand while she went for a quart or two of caffeine.

  She smoothed out the cloth with her palms and bent to retrieve the first box of jewelry. Silly, maybe, but being here made her feel at home. Veterans of craft shows were a friendly bunch, and Caro had found that no matter what they made, they shared a common bond.

  That love of creating something beautiful with your hands was hard to describe but very real. She might not personally understand the drive to make, for instance, the ruffled toilet paper covers that the stand across the walkway offered, but she did know the pleasure of creation.

  She began laying out an assortment of turquoise and silver bracelets and necklaces, loving the way they glowed against the black velvet.

  “Those are gorgeous.” The basket weaver in the next booth leaned over to have a closer look. “I just might end up spending more than I make today. Where did you learn to work with turquoise? Not around here.”

  Caro shook her head. “Out West. Santa Fe, mostly. The Zunis do some amazing work with silver and turquoise.”

  “Gorgeous,” the woman said again, then grinned and held out her hand. “Karen Burkhalter. Welcome. This is your first time here, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She returned a firm grip. Blond hair, hazel eyes, an open, friendly face with a turned-up nose—the woman was probably about her age, she’d guess, with the engaging air of someone who’d never met anyone she didn’t turn into a friend.

  Burkhalter was a common enough name in Pennsylvania Dutch country. Chances were she didn’t even know Zach.

  “I’m Caroline Hampton.”

  “Oh, sure. Your grandmother is Katherine Unger. Everyone knows her youngest granddaughter came home.”

  “I’m not sure I care for that much celebrity.”

  Karen grinned. “It’s a small township, and most of us have known each other since birth. You’ll get used to how nosy we all are about each other’s lives.”

  That was an uncomfortable thought. “You have a great assortment of baskets.” She picked one up, admiring the stripes worked into the weaving with different colored reeds. “Is this an egg basket?”

  Karen nodded. “They’re popular with the tourists, not that any of them are likely to be gathering eggs.”

  “As long as they buy.” That, after all, was the whole point. If she could make a decent amount on the show, she wouldn’t feel as if she dangled on a financial precipice.

  “The crafters’ slogan,” Karen agreed. “It’s hard to tell whether people will be in a buying mood or not. Usually around here the shows start pretty small, but as we move on into spring, sales pick up.”

  “If there’s a good turn-out—” She stopped, because a familiar figure was headed toward Karen’s booth.

  Zach Burkhalter. It wasn’t a coincidence, then, about the name.

  Karen leaned across the table to hug him. “Hey, it’s about time you’re showing up. I want my coffee.”

  In jeans and a flannel shirt instead of a uniform, Zach should have looked less intimidating. He didn’t.

  His gaze shifted from Karen to her, his hand still resting on the other woman’s shoulder. His wife? There was absolutely no reason for that possibility to set up such a negative reaction in her.

  “Caroline. I didn’t realize you were jumping into the craft-show circuit.”

  “You two know each other, then,” Karen said. “I should have known. Being the police chief gives my brother an unfair advantage in meeting newcomers.”

  “You’re Zach’s sister.” And that shouldn’t give her spirits a lift, either. The marital status of Zach Burkhalter was nothing to her.

  “The woods are full of Burkhalters around here,” Zach said easily. “Mom and Dad each had five siblings, and then they had another five kids to add to the mix.”

  “You’re lucky you just have sisters,” Karen said. “Brothers can be such a pain.” She threw a light punch toward Zach’s shoulder.

  “Well, I’d better finish setting up.” Standing there looking at Zach was not conducive to her peace of mind. It just made her remember those moments when she’d told him far too much. And had had the sense that he understood even more than she’d told.

  Things had been quiet since then. With a little luck, they’d stay that way, and she could stop wondering what had become of that sketch Zach had faxed to Santa Fe.

  Caro pulled the quilt from its protective covering and slid her metal chair over next to the screen to climb on.

  “Let me give you a hand.” Before she could say no, Zach had rounded her table. He took the end of the quilt, lifting it over the screen as she unfolded it. “Is this how you want it?”

  “Yes. Thanks.” Now please go away, and let me get back to concentrating on the craft show. It wasn’t Zach’s fault that he made her tense up, sure that at any moment he’d say something about the prowler. Or the sketch.

  He drew the quilt down behind the screen, and she smoothed it out with her hand. It fit perfectly, falling to table height in a cascade of rich, saturated color.

  “That’s lovely, too.” Karen took a step back to admire the quilt. “Handmade. Are you selling Amish quilts, as well as your jewelry?”

  Caro shook her head. “I just wanted it to give me a colorful background. My sister found a treasure trove of quilts stored in the attic.”

  She started to climb down from the chair, and Zach caught her hand, steadying her. Solid, strong, like the man himself. He wouldn’t be a featherweight in a crisis, but she guessed he’d expect a lot from anyone he got close to.

  “It’s a lot better than looking at cement-block walls,” Karen said. “Would you mind if I borrowed the idea and did something similar in my booth?”

  “Not at all.” She took a step away from Zach’s supporting hand. She didn’t need support. She did quite well on her own.

  “As long as you don’t try to borrow the quilt, as well,” Zach said.

  His sister shot him a haughty look. “I happen to have quilts of my own. Although I’m not sure I have anything as fine as that one.” She fingered the stitches, so even and neat that it was hard to believe they were done by hand.

  Quilts seemed to be a safe topic of conversation. “Do you know anything about restoring antique quilts? I found one that dates back to pre–Civil War, and I’d love to get it into shape to display.”

  Karen shook her head. “Not me. The person you should talk to is Agatha Morris. She’s a local historian and something of an authority on old quilts and coverlets.”

  “To say nothing of being the mother of Churchville’s mayor, as she’ll be sure to point out to you,” Zach said.

  “You just don’t like Keith because he tried to get the county commissioners to cut your budget. And he only did that because you gave him a speeding ticket.”

  Zach shot his sister a warning glance. “Don’t go around saying things like that, Karrie.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him, in the inevitable manner of little sisters everywhere, and then nodded. “Okay. But how about my coffee? And bring one for Caroline, too. She looks thirsty.”

  “You don’t need—” she began, and then lost track of wha
t she was going to say under the impact of Zach’s rare smile.

  “Cream? Sugar?” His eyes warmed, almost as if he knew he’d had an effect on her.

  “One sugar. No cream.” If he kept looking at her that way, she might have to reassess her opinion of him.

  Straight-arrow cop, she reminded herself as he sauntered off toward the food stand. Maybe he was one of the good guys, as her sister said, but that didn’t mean he could ever understand someone like her.

  Zach hadn’t intended to spend so much of the day at the craft show. Usually he came by whenever Karrie was exhibiting, just to help her set up or tear down. Somehow today he didn’t feel like heading for home.

  Ruthie was here, somewhere, with his mother. Mom had been teaching her how to crochet, and that had sparked her interest in Aunt Karrie and the craft show. Thank goodness his daughter had Mom around to handle the girlie stuff. He could teach her how to catch a fish, but he was pretty clueless in some departments.

  He rounded the corner of the row of stalls and spotted his sister, leaning across her table to show something to a customer. Beyond her, he could see Caroline, also busy with a customer. Her face was animated as she displayed a bracelet, draping it across her wrist.

  His gut tightened at the thought of those bruises on her right wrist. Nobody should treat a woman that way. On the other hand, could he believe her account of how it had happened? He wasn’t sure, and until he was, until he knew for sure she wasn’t involved in something criminal, he’d tread carefully where Caroline was concerned.

  He’d expected to hear something from that Santa Fe PD by now about the sketch he’d faxed them, but so far they’d been silent. His request was probably pretty far down on their priority list.

  As he neared the stand, he realized that the person she was talking to was that photographer, Tenley. Interesting that the guy was still around. Something about him hadn’t quite rung true from the first time Zach saw him.

  Zach picked up one of Karen’s baskets and turned it over in his hands, trying to separate their conversation from the buzz of talk that surrounded them.

  From what he could make out, Tenley was intent on asking her out, and Caroline was equally intent on selling him something. It seemed to be a bit of a stand-off.

  “Are you planning to buy a basket today?” Karen turned to him as her customer moved off, dangling a bag containing one of her smaller items.

  “Why would I do that, when you keep giving them to me? If you want your family to buy, you’ll have to stop being so generous.”

  “Small chance of that,” Karen said. “You have a birthday coming up, don’t you? What kind of basket would you like?”

  Caroline, seeming to overhear, turned to smile at his sister. “That’s what it is to be related to a crafter. As far as I can tell, my sisters like my jewelry, but they could hardly tell me anything else, could they?”

  “Of course they like it,” Tenley put in quickly. “Your adaptation of Zuni designs is inspired. As a matter of fact, I’ll take the bracelet for my sister’s birthday.”

  “Excellent.” Caroline beamed. “I’ll gift wrap it for you.”

  “You seem to know a lot about Southwestern design.” Zach leaned against the table. “You spend some time out there?”

  Tenley looked startled at the direct question, but then he tapped his camera. “My work takes me all over the place. I know enough about Zuni art to appreciate it.” He turned quickly back to Caroline, pulling out his wallet. “Don’t bother to gift wrap it. I’ll take it as it is.”

  In a moment he’d paid, claimed his package and moved off. Frowning, Caroline turned to Zach.

  “You just scared off a customer. I might have been able to sell him something else.”

  He shrugged. “If someone’s scared of the police, it’s usually because they have something to hide.”

  Her reaction to that might have been invisible to anyone else, but not to him. He was looking for it, and he saw it—that faint withdrawal as muscles tightened, the slightest darkening of those clear green eyes. Caroline took that personally. That meant she had reason to do so.

  And that meant he should do the thing he’d been putting off for days—run a check on her and find out just what it was about her past she wanted to hide.

  “Caroline, here’s just the person you should talk with about your quilt.” Karen’s voice had both of them jerking toward her. His reaction was mild annoyance, but he suspected Caroline’s was relief.

  The annoyance deepened when he found Agatha Morris and her son Keith standing behind him. He jerked a nod. “Mrs. Morris. Mayor. Enjoying the show?”

  Agatha gave him an icy nod before turning to Caroline. With her iron-gray hair worn in a style reminiscent of Queen Elizabeth, her sensible shoes and the flowered dresses she wore whatever the season, Agatha was a formidable figure. “I understand you’re Katherine Unger’s granddaughter.” The words sounded faintly accusing.

  Caroline smiled, extending her hand. “I’m Caroline Hampton.”

  Agatha glanced toward the jewelry, seeming not to notice the gesture, but Keith slid past her to take Caroline’s hand. “Welcome to Churchville, Caroline. I’m Keith Morris.”

  You couldn’t fault Keith’s manners, even if you did think him too much of a featherweight to be mayor of any town, no matter how small. Maybe the voters had been bemused by the freckles and aw-shucks smile.

  “My son is the mayor of Churchville, you know.” Agatha never missed an opportunity to mention that. She cast a critical eye at the quilt. “Karen says you had some question about an antique quilt. If it’s that one, it’s not nearly old enough or unique enough to be of interest.”

  Caroline seemed to stiffen at the slur. “No, I’m familiar with the history of this one. I found an older quilt in the attic at Unger House, one made by my grandfather’s grandmother during the 1850s. It has an interesting design—a combination of flying geese with a star. I’d like to know more about it.”

  He expected Agatha to welcome the opportunity to show off her expertise. She could be counted on to launch into a lecture at a moment’s notice.

  But she didn’t. She stood perfectly still for a moment, staring at Caroline as if she’d said something off-color. Then she shook her head. “I’m afraid that would hardly be worth pursuing. Such quilts are rather common—of no historic interest at all.” She turned away. “Come, Keith.”

  With an apologetic glance at Caroline, Keith followed his mother down the crowded aisle between the tables.

  “Well.” Karen sounded as surprised as he was. “I’ve never known Agatha to miss an opportunity to tell someone exactly how to do almost anything.”

  Caroline shrugged. “Obviously she didn’t think my quilt was worth her time.”

  Could be. But it was still odd. Odd things seemed to collect around Caroline Hampton, for some reason, and he’d like to know why. Until he did—

  “Daddy!” A small hurricane swept toward him, and Ruthie launched herself as if she hadn’t seen him for months, instead of hours. “Grammy said you’d be here.”

  He lifted her in a hug and then set her back on her feet, overwhelmed as he so often was at the way God had brought her into his life. He ruffled her dark-brown curls as his mother came up behind her.

  “Ruthie, you shouldn’t run off that way.” Mom divided a smile among them, sounding a little out of breath.

  “Mom, Ruthie, this is Caroline Hampton.”

  Ruthie caught the edge of the table with two probably grimy hands and propped her chin on it, eyes wide as she looked at the jewelry. “Wow. Did you make those?” Before Caroline could answer she’d ducked down and crawled underneath the table cover, to pop up on the other side next to Caroline, beaming at her. “I love your jewelry. Someday I want to have earrings just like yours.”

  Smiling, Caroline bent down to let Ruthie touch the dangling spirals of silver that danced from her earlobes. His daughter touched the earring, making it shimmer.

  “Ruthie,
come out of there now.” Instead of waiting for her to crawl under, he reached across the table and lifted her in his arms. “You know better than to go into someone’s booth without permission.”

  But that wasn’t what put the edge in his voice. It was the sight of his daughter leaning against Caroline.

  Caroline took a step back, her face paling as if he’d struck her. He was sorry. He didn’t want to hurt her.

  But like it or not, Caroline was a question mark in his mind. He’d give the woman the benefit of the doubt in any other instance, but not where his daughter was concerned.

  SIX

  “You really don’t need to stay and help me.” Caro opened the trunk of her car, peering around the lid at Rachel, who’d walked over from the house to help unload.

  “It’s no problem.” Rachel seized a cardboard box. “Andrea wanted to stop by the show to help out, but she’s swamped, with tax time approaching.”

  Rachel seemed to take it for granted that the family would pitch in to help. A wave of guilt moved through Caro. She hadn’t done much in the way of helping Rachel or Grams since she’d been back, had she?

  “You have the inn guests to worry about. I’m sure you should be prepping for tomorrow’s breakfast or something.” She tried to take the box from Rachel’s hands, but her sister clung to it, laughing a little.

  “Don’t be so stubborn, Caro. How many times did I say that to you when we were kids?”

  “Pretty often. But not as often as Andrea did.” She had to return the smile. “That used to be her theme song when it came to me, as I recall.”

  “And how you resented it.”

  Yes, she had. She’d wanted to do things for herself, but Andrea, always trying so hard to be the big sister, had been just as determined to help her.

  Until Andrea had left, headed for college, and she hadn’t come back. And then Rachel had taken off in her turn. She could hardly blame them for that, could she? Except that it had left her alone with Mom.