"She lives in Siloam Springs in west central Ohio. Forty-three years old." He paused, grimaced. "Her last known profession—barmaid."
Addison winced. A combination of disappointment and shame passed quickly through her. She knew it was a snobbish reaction, but she couldn't help herself. Somehow she'd expected more from her birth mother.
"So young," she said. At forty-three years of age, Agnes Beckett would have been only seventeen when she gave birth to Addison.
His expression grew concerned as he stared at her over the top of his glasses. "Are you all right? You're pale."
"I'm fine," she said quickly. "I'm overwhelmed, excited ... afraid." The words were close, but didn't completely convey everything she was feeling. She wondered if she could even begin to describe the emotions banging around inside her.
Jim continued. ''The name on your birth certificate, Glass, was also the name given to her at birth—before she was adopted."
The news jolted her, not because it mattered now that the search was over, but simply because such a coincidence was so unusual. "Are you saying my birth mother was also adopted?"
"At birth."
"Which means her records were sealed just like mine."
"That's why you were having such a difficult time finding her."
"How did you find her?"
Leaning back in his chair, Jim smiled. "I called the doctor who delivered you. The name of the hospital appeared on your amended birth certificate."
Addison had seen the document, yet she still didn't understand how Jim had managed the impossible. "But how did you get his name and address?"
"By writing to the Medical Quality Assurance Board."
She shook her head, feeling as though it had been something she shouldn't have overlooked. "So simple ...."
"Not simple," he corrected. "It took some doing."
Her heart seemed to stop when he handed her a single sheet of paper. Quickly, she scanned the contents, knowing she was about to lose the battle with her emotions. Anticipation clashed with uncertainty. The pain of losing her adoptive parents surfaced briefly, and Addison felt her eyes grow hot with unshed tears.
"Make the initial contact over the telephone, Addie."
Addison started at the sound of his voice and realized she'd been staring at the print, reading the name over and over.
He looked at her thoughtfully. "When you're ready, of course. And don't expect too much."
Tears blurred her vision. ''Now I'm going to embarrass myself;" she said, digging in her purse for a tissue.
He handed her a monogrammed handkerchief. "Your biological father was not named on your amended birth certificate."
"Perhaps Agnes Beckett will be able to shed some light on the identity of my birth father."
He shrugged noncommittally. "Perhaps." Shoving the file into the glossy wood cabinet behind him, he checked his watch.
That was her cue to leave. She rose on unsteady legs. "I don't know how to thank you, Jim."
Smiling, he reached for her hand and squeezed. "I hope this works out exactly the way you want it to, Addie."
She gripped his hand tightly. "I'll let you know."
* * *
Three weeks later, Addison strode through the revolving glass doors of the Dayton International Airport with an overnight bag slung over her shoulder, the keys to a rental car clutched in her hand, and the resolve to meet Agnes Beckett set firmly in her mind.
After leaving Jim's office, she'd spent the remainder of the morning trying to decide how to approach her birth mother. Later that afternoon, she'd dialed information, finally summoning enough courage to make the call that evening.
To her surprise and utter dismay, the number had been disconnected. The following day had been a marathon of telephone calls—all to no avail. Physically and emotionally spent, Addison had poured her heart into a letter and mailed it the next morning.
The letter had been returned unopened two days ago.
She'd known beforehand there was a possibility of failure, that she may never actually meet her birth mother. She just hadn't expected the reality of it to hit her so hard—or hurt so badly. A small part of her still harbored the weary hope that by some stroke of luck Agnes Beckett was still in Siloam Springs. Unable to put it aside, Addison left the shop in Gretchen's capable hands while she made the trip she'd dreamed of for nearly ten months now.
As she pulled onto the interstate, she wondered how her birth mother would react to a face-to-face meeting. Would she welcome Addison's sudden appearance? Or would she refuse to see her? Would she be overjoyed? And why had the letter been returned unopened? Had she taken ill? Or had she simply moved away?
Addison considered herself mentally prepared for whatever might accost her in the hours to come. Good or bad; disappointment or fulfillment. She could handle it, she assured herself.
Even 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 trees that lined either side of the street. Cheesy Christmas decorations adorned the streetlights, red candlesticks and weather-beaten garland brought to life by blinking lights. A typical small town, Addison mused, endearing and quaint, without the traffic 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 beside her. Inside her chest, 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 glov
es, 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."
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."
"Child, I don't want to be the one to tell you all this. Siloam Springs is a small town. Talk is cheap and vicious in small towns. Agnes Beckett received her share over the years."
She nodded her acceptance of that.
"If you're looking for information on the murder, I've got the last three editions of the weekly newspaper in my recycle pile."
Addison brightened somewhat at the idea of having some solid information at her fingertips. Information that wasn't hearsay or rumor. ''I'd appreciate that very much."
Jewel took the last bite of shortbread. "I hope you're not too terribly upset with all this. Did you know her well?"
"No, not well."
"I guess that's a blessing under the circumstances." The older woman rose and disappeared into the rear of the trailer.
Addison let out a breath. She looked down at her hands, found them shaking. She hadn't known Agnes Beckett. But she did know one thing for certain. The day Agnes Beckett had given up her three-day-old baby, she'd saved Addison from what probably would have been a very hard life.
Jewel returned with a small stack of newspapers. "It made quite a stir here when it happened. First murder in over fifteen years. And so brutal."
Addison winced, not wanting to imagine the brutality of a stabbing. It was incomprehensible what human beings could do to each other. It was incomprehensible that it had happened to her birth mother just three weeks earlier.
"Thank you." Rising, she slipped into her coat.
"The stories in there will be more objective than the ones you'll hear from anyone in this town, including me."
"Where is she buried?" The question sprang free before she'd realized she was going to ask it.
"Twin Oaks, I imagine. Down the road a ways, past the bridge on the left. Only cemetery in town."
It was sleeting when Addison walked back to the car. Tiny particles of ice mixed with rain pelted her. as she stood on the broken asphalt staring at the mobile home where her birth mother had lived-and died-just three weeks earlier. She wondered what had become of her belongings. If she'd had a decent burial. If anyone had mourned her passing.
Feeling more alone than she'd ever felt in her life, she slid behind the wheel and headed for the motel.
* * *
An hour
later, Addison sat cross-legged on the queen-sized bed in her room at the Red Rooster Motor Lodge, using her manicure scissors to cut articles from the newspapers Jewel Harshbarger had given her. On the bed next to her lay a half-eaten club sandwich, a bag of soggy french fries, and the soda she'd picked up at the motel restaurant.
She'd read each story twice, forcing the words into a brain not ready to absorb, each time their significance cutting a little deeper. The Preble County coroner had ruled Agnes Beckett's death a homicide. The sheriff's department concluded later that the murder was the result of a robbery. Judging from the marks on her neck and left wrist, what little jewelry she'd been wearing was yanked off and taken, as well as her purse, which was found a few days later minus the wallet.