Taking a deep breath, she opened the car door and stepped into the brutal wind. Though it was barely noon, the sky was dark and the temperature had begun a bone-numbing descent. Thankful for her full-length coat, she wrapped it more tightly around her and started for the mobile home.
The lot was well kept and landscaped with evergreen shrubs. A giant bare-branched maple stood next to the trailer like a soldier standing guard at a point of passage. Inside her kidskin gloves, her hands were icy. She climbed the stairs and knocked quietly, unable to keep herself from peering through the modest curtains. A built-in bar separated the kitchen from the living room. She saw fake wood cabinets. Cheap paneling. A rusty yellow stove that had probably been around since her kindergarten days. She knocked again, shivering as the wind penetrated her coat.
"Are you the new owner?”
Addison spun, the words new owner ringing uncomfortably in her ears. An elderly woman wrapped in a crocheted shawl stood at the foot of the stairs looking up at her. "I'm looking for Agnes Beckett."
The woman cocked her head. "Who are you?"
"I'm Addison Fox." Stepping down, she extended her hand.
"I'm Jewel Harshbarger. You a relative?"
The question caught her off guard, and Addison didn't know exactly how to reply at first. She hadn't actually considered herself related to Agnes Beckett. Realizing a little white lie was in order, if only to protect her birth mother's privacy, she said, "I'm a friend of the family. Does she still live here?"
"Honey, it's cold as a well digger's butt out here." She looked across the plowed field and pulled the shawl more tightly about her shoulders. "Would you like to come next door and have a cup of tea?"
Puzzled by the woman's reluctance to answer her question, Addison nodded. The wind had grown downright nasty, and she didn't want this elderly woman out in the cold. She followed her to the adjacent lot.
Inside, the mobile borne was hot and smelled of mothballs, old carpet, and Ben-Gay. "You were telling me about Agnes Beckett," Addison began.
Jewel shuffled to an old gas stove, poured water into a copper kettle, then set it over the flame. "Why don't you make yourself at home in the living room, child," she said, pulling a tin of shortbread from the cupboard. "I'll be right there."
Staving off irritation, Addison wandered into the next room, noticing the hand-crocheted afghans draped over the sofa and easy chair. The TV was on with the volume low and a little silver Christmas tree blinked merrily in the front window. Grateful to be out of the cold, she pulled off her gloves and coat and draped them over the arm of the sofa.
A moment later, Jewel returned with a tray bearing two cups and a plate of shortbread squares. "Here we are."
Addison reached for one of the cups, the warmth easing away the iciness in her fingers. "I understand Agnes Beckett used to live next door. I've been trying to reach her, but she hasn't answered my letters."
The woman's expression turned grave. "I hate to be the bearer of such terrible news, child, but Agnes Beckett was murdered three weeks ago."
Chapter 4
The floor shifted beneath Addison’s feet. It was as if the wind tearing around the mobile home had finally succeeded in uprooting it. The cup slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor. She looked down to see the hot liquid spew onto the carpet and the leather of her boots.
An odd quiet descended. "I'm sorry," she heard herself say in a voice that didn't sound at all like her own. She watched the dark stain spread on the carpet. Disbelief swirled in her head, like butterflies caught in a blizzard. Agnes Beckett. Her birth mother. Murdered.
"No, child. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you." Jewel struggled out of her chair and hobbled to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a worn dishcloth.
"Please, let me do that." Still reeling, Addison usurped the cloth, then stooped to soak up the spilled tea, using the time to regain her composure.
"I didn't know Agnes Beckett had anyone who cared for her," the older woman said.
The thought that her birth mother had been alone and unloved cut Addison to the quick. "I cared for her very much."
After pouring another cup of tea, Jewel settled into a comfortable-looking chair. "We were neighbors for nearly ten years. Last few years she kept to herself. Spent most of her time alone."
Setting the damp towel on the tray, Addison reclaimed her seat on the sofa. "Did she have any family? Any close friends I could contact?"
"No family that I know of. Don't know about friends. She was a loner, that one. Didn't have many visitors the last few years. Whole town was in shock when she turned up dead."
"How did it happen?" Addison's voice was hoarse with emotion. She wasn't quite sure what it was she was feeling, but it was powerful. Loss. A stark sense of disappointment. The fact that something she'd desperately wanted would never be. Never was forever, and she knew firsthand the finality of death.
"Stabbed to death in her own home."