On drowsy afternoons after finishing chores, he recited Shakespeare’s plays for the attentive Hester while she worked in her studio. He read Emerson’s Nature to the uncomprehending goats during morning feedings. Connor loved music too, and he played Bach and Vivaldi for Butter as the patient cow stood in dignified silence during milking. The feisty pigs, he decided, much preferred rock and roll.
And so, most of her inheritance gone, Hester devised a business plan. Selecting her ten best collages, she booked space at a local craft show. All ten sold within an hour.
Soon after, the owner of a Columbus art gallery began featuring her work. Galleries in Cincinnati and Cleveland followed, and Hester’s renown grew. So did her income, and the money was lavished on the farm. By the time of her unexpected death, Hester Langdon was cherished by art lovers throughout Ohio.
The dream she’d worked tirelessly to achieve was now faded and worn.
Regret burdened Rae as she trudged through the snow. She earned a good living as office manager of the Witt Agency, but not enough to cover the upkeep of a forty-acre property. The forest was encroaching on each side of the pasture. Shingles were missing from the barn’s roof, carried off by harsh winds. Even the whimsical, magical lighting that had once lit several of the trees between the house and the barn now hung in tattered clumps, many of the bulbs cracked or missing.
Dust spun through the air of the L-shaped barn. Rae strode past the stalls where she’d found the silk flower. Telling her father about Quinn’s memento wasn’t a great option. Last October, he’d been more distressed by the police department’s report than Rae. They were both still navigating dark moments of grief—why upset him unnecessarily?
“Dad, are you here? Hello?”
A short passageway separated the main barn from a small room where Connor, in his heyday, had worked on carpentry projects. A soft clattering reached her ears. Rae quickened her pace. In the bitter month of January, her father rarely visited the shop.
“Dad, it’s freakin’ cold. If you want to waltz down memory lane, can’t it wait until—” A surprised breath escaped her lips. “Why are you cleaning up?” The plywood floor had been swept clean.
Connor grunted. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“When would I get around to sprucing up your old shop? This week’s laundry is still on the agenda. I swear, it breeds when I’m not looking.”
“You didn’t organize my workbench?”
A niggling sensation carried Rae forward. “Dad, I haven’t been in here.” On the pegboard, hand tools were neatly hung, the grit from years of disuse wiped away.
“If you didn’t clean up, who did?” Her father studied the shelf underneath. “Check this out. Someone dusted off the jars.”
The niggling sensation increased as Rae scanned the floor. “I broke one of the jars last summer.” She’d forgotten to come back out and pick up the mess. “There were nails all over the place.”
“Not anymore.” Connor lifted a mason jar, catching sunlight on the lid. “Look here. They’ve been picked up too. Probably when our mystery maid swept the floor.” He smoothed down his silvered beard. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Oh, I hope not.”
A fizzy silence descended. Rae searched for an explanation. Any explanation other than the obvious one.
Connor rocked back on his heels. “The delinquent . . . has he been coming around?”
“Quinn’s not a delinquent. A little messed up and definitely a nuisance. He’s never been in trouble with the law.”
“You haven’t answered the question.”
“Gosh, your powers of observation never fade.”
“Stop fancy-footing. Your powers of deception are worthless.”
“Yes, Quinn’s been upping his game.” She explained about the silk flower, adding, “If he was hanging around the barn, he must’ve decided to clean up the shop.”
“Who does that?”
“Quinn, I guess.” Yuna’s craft store didn’t open until ten o’clock, she mused. Had the teen done the cleanup early this morning to avoid being home with his loathsome parents? “He didn’t have school today.”
“So he dropped by to spruce up my shop?”
“Apparently.”
“When I was young, I did my best to avoid helping around the house. A teenage boy who likes domestic chores—that’s one for the record books. Most kids his age lean toward graffiti or mucking stuff up. They fly off four-wheelers they’re too young to operate or shoot off firecrackers when their neighbors are sleeping.”