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charge at Artisans Alley, Katie had packed up Rose, her box of mementos, and Heather’s yearbook, and headed for County Route 8. Ezra Hilton’s house had been near the rental property Katie was scheduled to inspect. Katie had inherited half of Ezra’s estate. In order to go to probate, she’d had to sell the old man’s house and property, effectively buying out Ezra’s nephew, Gerald, and leaving her the sole proprietor of Artisans Alley. That felt good until the realization had sunk in that all the Alley’s debts fell on her shoulders alone.
    Too bad Ezra’s house was gone. She could’ve lived there temporarily. The five-acre site would soon be developed for low-income senior housing, which, as Katie was only thirty, she was ineligible for.
    “It should be coming up soon,” Rose said.
    Katie braked, taking in the numbers on a solitary mailbox. This portion of Route 8 consisted of small farms, but McKinlay Mill and the surrounding area were not entirely immune from urban sprawl.
    “There it is,” Rose said.
    Katie slowed even more, activating her turn signal. She pulled into the remnant of a gravel drive, now two ruts cutthrough a sea of long, matted grass. A single-wide trailer stood on concrete block pylons, wind-scrubbed of paint and charm.
    “Oh my,” Rose muttered, taking in the sight.
    “And I thought I had housing problems,” Katie said, cutting the engine. “Looks like someone’s at home.” She pointed at the rusting Chrysler K car parked at the side. It had current plates, so it wasn’t just a derelict.
    They got out of the car, treading carefully to the trailer’s front—only?—door. The tips of several tulip points stood timidly near weathered, pressure-treated wooden steps, someone’s halfhearted attempt at beautification.
    Mounting the steps, Katie banged on the aluminum outer door, its window frame devoid of glass or screen. She waited for what seemed like a minute before trying again.
    Thumping feet from within halted. The door was wrenched open by a prematurely gray-haired, dowdy woman, a cigarette dangling from her lower lip, a toddler in pull-up training pants and a faded pink T-shirt straddling her left hip. “Yeah?”
    “Barbie Jackson Gordon?” Katie asked.
    “Who wants to know?”
    “I’m Katie Bonner, and this is my friend, Rose Nash. Rose was Heather Winston’s aunt.”
    “We tried to call, but it seems your telephone has been disconnected,” Rose chimed in.
    “What do you want?” Barbie asked, none too kindly.
    “Did you know Heather’s remains had been found in the old Webster mansion?” Katie asked.
    Barbie’s lips pursed, but she said nothing.
    “We came to ask you if you knew anything about Heather’s last few weeks before she was reported missing,” Rose said.
    “I heard on the radio about them finding her. I guess I thought like everybody else—that she was just another runaway.” As an afterthought, she said, “I’m sorry she’s dead.”
    An awkward silence followed.
    “Could we come in and talk for a few moments?” Katie asked. Barbie threw a quick glance over her shoulder, pondered the question for a moment, then shook her head. “Now’s not a good time. Besides, it was a long time ago. I don’t even remember what I was doing back then, let alone what Heather was into.”
    “Gramma, I want a cookie,” the little girl in Barbie’s arms whined.
    Katie’s mouth dropped open. Gramma? The woman before her was only eight years older than herself.
    “Heather was murdered,” Rose said. “I want to find out who killed her. You must remember something.”
    “Hey, Heather and I parted company after high school. She went on to college. I had to go to work. I don’t know anything about who she hung with, where she went, or what she did.”
    “Gramma, I’m hungry,” the tot wailed.
    Katie dipped into her purse and took out a business card. “If you remember anything—anything at all—that you think might be of some help, would you please