Evelyn Hastings’ house sat well back from the macadam of a quiet, tree-lined street on the fringes of town. In this neighborhood, no fences separated the houses, just hedges of varying sizes and varieties. No sidewalks had ever been laid, the road sloping in to meet lawns of winter-faded green where blades of grass poked through the covering of snow. The oaks were tall and the maples bare and forlorn against their winter backdrop. Snow, if it had stuck at all when first falling, had long since abandoned those naked branches. The yards were sweeping in this old neighborhood, the lots created in a time when the all-mighty dollar and sky-rocketing real estate prices didn’t demand building houses on top of each other. But that was in California, not necessarily Lines, Michigan.
Against the overcast sky, lights shone from most windows, Evelyn’s included. The walk and circular driveway had been shoveled, the concrete now dry. Max expected a Victorian with a wide front porch, even a swing. This house, though, was long, one story, with yellow wood siding, green faux shutters, and the faint outline of lace curtains. The bushes surrounding it, denuded of leaves and flowers, lent the place a lost and lonely air.
Having parked across the street rather than in the large drive, Witt stood by the side of the car, watching the house and waiting for Max. She opened her door, reluctant to face the inevitable.
For some reason, she couldn’t see this simply as a means of finding Cameron’s sister. All she thought of was bearing the bad news of Cameron’s death, something she had not done at the time, something that clogged her throat now.
The air was cold around her legs. The down parka didn’t cover her butt, leaving her rear exposed to the elements despite her jeans. The temperature still shocked when leaving the heat of a car or the comfort of a motel room. She’d shored up with a pair of boots, ones she’d worn for hiking when Cameron was alive and now used for long walks when she was in a contemplative mood. Thick, woolen hiking socks kept her feet warm. She needed gloves.
Stuffing her hands in her coat pockets, she threw Witt a glance, gave a shrug of her shoulders to say let’s-get-this-the-heck-over-with, then crossed the road. His boots crunched on the exposed gravel at the edge of the lawn.
Max stood on the narrow stoop and rang the bell, the sound echoing in the house. Evelyn took a long time answering. Max rang again. Finally, quick steps sounded on the other side of the door.
Fidgeting with the gold buttons on her blue sweater, Evelyn Hastings looked beyond Max’s shoulder to Witt standing one step down on the walk.
“I hope you don’t mind I brought my—” Her what? An appropriate description failed Max.
She was saved by Evelyn cutting her short. “I don’t mind at all.” Her hair, recently set and minus the harsh florescent lighting of the library, now glowed with vitality.
Max turned for a glimpse. Witt’s brow was up, and she suspected he knew she’d been at a loss. Damn him. His cheeks had pinkened in the frosty air. Like Max, he’d chosen jeans, boots, sweater, and parka against the cold. As he stepped into the hardwood entryway, Evelyn’s eyes moved over his pants legs down to his boots, and Max wondered if perhaps they’d underdressed.
“Please, let me take your coats,” Evelyn said, then looked at the doormat they stood on. Witt wiped his feet, Max followed suit, then they both handed over their coats and waited as Evelyn hung them in the closet. Most people probably took their boots off before entering. Somehow, walking through Evelyn Hastings’ house without her shoes wasn’t an option, even for politeness sake.
“I’ve put coffee in the living room. Go on in.” Evelyn held out a hand to indicate the large room to their right and at the back of the house. “Let me get another cup.” Her full pleated skirt, a perfect match for her blue sweater, swung in rhythm with her walk as she glided from the room. Max was reminded of Beaver Cleaver’s mom from the old fifties show.
The rich scent of freshly brewed coffee greeted them. On the table in front of the couch sat two cups, spoons, creamer, and sugar bowl. Instead of taking a seat, Max wandered the room. There were no family photos, as she’d hoped, the pictures on the walls being prints of hunt scenes. She moved to the window covering three-quarters of the room. The snow-covered lawn sloped down to a forested backdrop. Concrete stepping stones had been tamped down since the last storm, slushy footsteps leading deeper into the woods along what was probably a well-worn trail.
“So I’m your ... what, Max?” Witt stood close behind her, lips near her ear. She hadn’t heard him move, but she’d scented him there, that elusive yet tantalizing mixture of aftershave and man.
Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about that. Nor to answer his question. But she would have to answer eventually.
“Here we are,” Evelyn sang out as she entered the living room, carrying another cup, the spoon nestled beside it on the saucer.
Ah, saved by the tinkling strains of Evelyn Hastings’ voice.
Evelyn sat in the middle of the pale green sofa, less than an arm’s length from the coffee pot on its metal trivet. It was impolite for Witt and Max to remain standing. Witt chose the matching green chair. Max took the corner of the sofa, positioning herself to face their hostess, her back slightly to Witt. The furniture was plain yet quality, the beige carpet still plush as if the room saw little foot traffic. Evelyn poured coffee into the unadorned white ceramic with those elegant Cameronesque hands.