dozen derelict trailers scattered across the grove.
“According to the chap at the local petrol station, this is Lovett’s rental cottage,” Caedmon remarked.
As they walked along the dirt lane that served as a driveway, Edie cast a sideways glance at the nearest trailer. A rickety wood deck had been added to the front of the turquoise-blue single-wide. Overtop of that hung a faded black-and-white-striped canvas awning. She knew without being told that the interior boasted threadbare wall-to-wall carpet, chipped Formica countertops, and jalousie windows that had long since rusted shut. She knew this because when she was six years old, she and her mother lived in a trailer park outside Orlando, Florida. Her mother, Melissa, manned a ticket booth at Disney World and would frequently leave Edie unattended, unable to afford a baby-sitter. Since her only companion was a thirteen-inch-screen TV, Edie knew all the plotlines and all the characters on the daytime dramas. Given the pendulum extremes of her own life, Sesame Street bored her to tears.
Unbidden, old memories suddenly flashed across her mind’s eye. Her mother, sprawled on the trailer floor, dead from a heroin overdose, the needle still stuck in her arm. The song “Sweet Melissa” playing on the tape recorder.
Don’t leave me, Mommy. Please don’t leave me.
On autopilot, Edie’s brain hopscotched to the next chapter. The two and a half years spent on the foster care merry-go-round. The fear. The loneliness. The unthinkable abuse.
Unnerved by the flashback, Edie shook her head, flinging aside the painful memories like a wet dog shaking himself dry.
“There is a distinct noir pastorale to the environs.” Caedmon’s observation made Edie think that she wasn’t the only one creeped out by the setting.
“Is it my imagination, or are we being watched?” She glanced at the turquoise trailer.
“An innate distrust of strangers is typical in a close-knit community.”
She sidled closer to Caedmon, well aware that distrustful people tended to keep a loaded hunting rifle at the ready. “What if the police show up? After all, Lovett was murdered yesterday.”
Caedmon took hold of her elbow, assisting her up the brick steps that led to a covered stoop. “According to Dr. Lovett’s recording, he told none of his acquaintances about the rental cottage. No doubt it will be a while before the police learn of its existence.” When they reached the stoop, he slid his hand into his jacket pocket and removed a slim leather case. “I thought a lock-picking kit might come in handy.”
“Who carries a lock-picking kit with them?” She held up her hand. “Don’t answer. I think the correct response is ‘an ex-spy.’” Several months ago, Caedmon had confessed to having once worked for MI5. Other than the one brief mention, he never spoke of his prior employment.
“You will thank me for my foresight when—” He stopped in midsentence.
“What’s the matter? You’ve got a ‘something stinks in Denmark’ look on your face.”
“The front door is ajar.”
Edie examined the outer edge of the door. Sure enough, it was open a fraction of an inch. Her stomach muscles instantly cramped. “Maybe Lovett left in a hurry, forgot to lock the door, and the wind blew it open.” Even as she said it, she knew that was an unlikely scenario.
Caedmon pushed the door all the way open. Frowning, he ran his hand over the doorframe. “The wood on the jamb is splintered. Someone used brute force to enter the cottage.”
“What do you want to bet that someone drives an expensive Audi sedan?” She glanced over her shoulder, suddenly worried that she’d miscalculated how much time it would take to extricate a vehicle from a sandpit. “We have no idea if Lovett’s killer is one step behind us or one step ahead of us.”
He put a staying arm across her chest, preventing her from entering. “Remain here while I investigate.”
Not about to contest the order, she
“According to the chap at the local petrol station, this is Lovett’s rental cottage,” Caedmon remarked.
As they walked along the dirt lane that served as a driveway, Edie cast a sideways glance at the nearest trailer. A rickety wood deck had been added to the front of the turquoise-blue single-wide. Overtop of that hung a faded black-and-white-striped canvas awning. She knew without being told that the interior boasted threadbare wall-to-wall carpet, chipped Formica countertops, and jalousie windows that had long since rusted shut. She knew this because when she was six years old, she and her mother lived in a trailer park outside Orlando, Florida. Her mother, Melissa, manned a ticket booth at Disney World and would frequently leave Edie unattended, unable to afford a baby-sitter. Since her only companion was a thirteen-inch-screen TV, Edie knew all the plotlines and all the characters on the daytime dramas. Given the pendulum extremes of her own life, Sesame Street bored her to tears.
Unbidden, old memories suddenly flashed across her mind’s eye. Her mother, sprawled on the trailer floor, dead from a heroin overdose, the needle still stuck in her arm. The song “Sweet Melissa” playing on the tape recorder.
Don’t leave me, Mommy. Please don’t leave me.
On autopilot, Edie’s brain hopscotched to the next chapter. The two and a half years spent on the foster care merry-go-round. The fear. The loneliness. The unthinkable abuse.
Unnerved by the flashback, Edie shook her head, flinging aside the painful memories like a wet dog shaking himself dry.
“There is a distinct noir pastorale to the environs.” Caedmon’s observation made Edie think that she wasn’t the only one creeped out by the setting.
“Is it my imagination, or are we being watched?” She glanced at the turquoise trailer.
“An innate distrust of strangers is typical in a close-knit community.”
She sidled closer to Caedmon, well aware that distrustful people tended to keep a loaded hunting rifle at the ready. “What if the police show up? After all, Lovett was murdered yesterday.”
Caedmon took hold of her elbow, assisting her up the brick steps that led to a covered stoop. “According to Dr. Lovett’s recording, he told none of his acquaintances about the rental cottage. No doubt it will be a while before the police learn of its existence.” When they reached the stoop, he slid his hand into his jacket pocket and removed a slim leather case. “I thought a lock-picking kit might come in handy.”
“Who carries a lock-picking kit with them?” She held up her hand. “Don’t answer. I think the correct response is ‘an ex-spy.’” Several months ago, Caedmon had confessed to having once worked for MI5. Other than the one brief mention, he never spoke of his prior employment.
“You will thank me for my foresight when—” He stopped in midsentence.
“What’s the matter? You’ve got a ‘something stinks in Denmark’ look on your face.”
“The front door is ajar.”
Edie examined the outer edge of the door. Sure enough, it was open a fraction of an inch. Her stomach muscles instantly cramped. “Maybe Lovett left in a hurry, forgot to lock the door, and the wind blew it open.” Even as she said it, she knew that was an unlikely scenario.
Caedmon pushed the door all the way open. Frowning, he ran his hand over the doorframe. “The wood on the jamb is splintered. Someone used brute force to enter the cottage.”
“What do you want to bet that someone drives an expensive Audi sedan?” She glanced over her shoulder, suddenly worried that she’d miscalculated how much time it would take to extricate a vehicle from a sandpit. “We have no idea if Lovett’s killer is one step behind us or one step ahead of us.”
He put a staying arm across her chest, preventing her from entering. “Remain here while I investigate.”
Not about to contest the order, she
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