Perfect Victim, The (7 page)

E
v
en so
,
her heart did a little jig beneath her breast when she spotted the sign for her exit
.
She slowed the rental car to the speed limit upon entering the town limits
,
taking in the neat rows of houses with large front porches
,
the manicured shrubbery
,
and the tall
,
bare tree
s
that lined either side of the street. Ch
e
esy Chri
s
tmas decorations adorned the streetlights, red cand
l
esticks and weather-beaten garland brought to life by b
l
inking lights
.
A typical small town
,
Addison mu
s
ed, endearing and quaint
,
without the
t
raffic and crime and stress of the city. She wondered what kind of a life her birth mother led here. Absently
,
she glanced over at the map spread out on the seat bes
i
de her
.
Inside her che
s
t, her heart drummed steadily against her breast
.

At the intersection of Route 40, she passed the Red Rooster Motor Lodge
,
wincing at the sight of the Truckers
Welcome sign and the murky swimming pool. Instead of turning in, she continued north. She drove past a boarded-up gas station and an antiquated apartment building with peeling white paint. A Beer on Tap sign blinked in the front window of a shoddy bar called McNinch's. In the distance, a tall, stark-looking grain elevator rose out of the earth like a giant gray pillar, pale and smooth against the slate sky.

She slowed for a double set of railroad tracks, noticing for the first time that the houses weren't quite as large or well kept, the yards not so manicured on this side of town. Addison began to watch for the address.

The reality of what she was about to do hit her when she saw the street sign. She stopped the car and stared at the rusty sign as it fluttered in the brisk wind. Her mouth went dry when she turned onto the street. Potholes marred the asphalt. Modest clapboard homes with rutted driveways and threadbare yards lined the north side of the street. Opposite, bare-branched trees clawed at the horizon as if trying to save themselves from the impending cold, the apparent poverty. Addison took it all in as the rental car idled down the street. At the end of the cul-de-sac, a small mobile home park with a dozen or so trailer homes lay spread out like a grouping of tin boxes.

She knew she should have checked into the motel before corning here. She should have taken a deep breath and counted to ten before rushing in to confront a woman who may very well want to be left alone. But it was emotion driving her now, not logic, and she wouldn't stop until she was at the front door introducing herself to Agnes Beckett.

A cluster of mailboxes punctuated the entrance to the mobile home park. She stopped the car. A flutter of trepidation shot through her when she saw the name. She hadn't realized Agnes Beckett lived in a mobile home.

Addison parked curbside and stared at the rusty blue and white trailer. This is it, she told herself. Right or wrong, she was going to meet Agnes Beckett.

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 l
o
oking up at her
.
"I'm looking f
o
r Agnes Beckett."

The woman cocked her head. "Who are y
o
u?"

"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 p
r
ivacy, 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 un
loved 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."

The words crawled up Addison's spine like icy claws. "Jesus."

"I was home the night it happened, but didn't hear a thing. Mailman saw the blood the next morning. I never heard a man scream like that. Ran like a screaming banshee over here to call, the sheriff. Threw up on my rosebush. Sheriff McEvoy said the place was a mess. Blood everywhere. Poor woman was butchered like a cow."

A shiver swept through Addison. "Was the killer caught?"

"Cops never found him. I'll tell you this: Folks around here lock their doors at night. And they will for a long, long time."

"Does the sheriff know why she was murdered? Was it random?"

"I was never friendly with the woman, but I can tell you she had a reputation."

The need to defend rose up inside her, but Addison held it at bay. "What kind of reputation?" she asked, knowing fully what the word meant and how it was usually applied.

"Some speculate it was one of her men who killed her
.
Believe me, child
,
she had a lot of them over the years
.
"

Addison lowered her cup and
-
leaned back into the sofa
.
She felt sick inside. She wanted to be alone so she could sort all this out
.
But she wasn't, so she simply acknowledged the information
.
"I see."