The house was located on the far edge of town, on a road that led to the county cemetery.
It didn’t take long to find Cemetery Road. Once on it, they drove a mile and a half before they reached the house. Across the street was a cemetery with old, white gravestones and statues, as well as newer, granite headstones.
Grant parked on the street in front of the old house.
“Our research at the courthouse showed this house is now owned by a Mrs. Olivia Jordan,” Avery recalled. “She and her husband bought the house thirty years ago from John Stenson’s son, Michael.”
“It’s large enough to have a basement big enough for brewing beer.”
Avery drew in a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. “I get the feeling we’re wasting our time here, just like the other places. I hope Melissa and Bree are having more luck.”
“Let’s do our due diligence, look at the house and then head back to the sheriff’s office to compare notes with the others.”
Avery nodded and walked up the steps beside Grant. He knocked on the door.
They waited for any sign that there was someone in the house. After a minute or two, they turned and started down the steps.
The creak of hinges made them stop and look back.
A diminutive old woman with thinning white hair, wearing a cardigan on a warm day, poked her head out the door. “Can I help you?” she asked, her voice wobbly like only the really old could be.
Avery and Grant climbed the stairs again.
Avery led the way with a gentle smile. “Mrs. Jordan, I’m Agent Avery Hart with the FBI, and this is Grant Hayes. We’re conducting an investigation into older homes that might have been used in the production of alcohol in the past, possibly during prohibition or later. Could we ask you some questions about your home?”
“Of course,” she said and opened the door wider. “Please, come in. I have a pot on the stove. Would you join me for tea?”
Grant didn’t want to be there for that long and scrambled for a way to say that while not hurting the woman’s feelings.
Avery answered for them, “We’d love to join you for tea.” She followed the woman inside, leaving Grant no other choice but to join the ladies for tea. He wasn’t much of a tea drinker but kept that fact to himself.
Mrs. Jordan shuffled through the house to the kitchen, where a small dinette table stood in a corner with shiny red vinyl-covered chairs that could have come straight out of a nineteen-fifties furniture ad.
“Please, have a seat,” the older woman said in her wobbly voice.
Avery lowered herself onto one of the vinyl cushions. Grant sat beside her.
Mrs. Jordan loaded a tray with three teacups and a teapot, poured water from the metal pot on the stove and dropped a teabag into the pot to steep.
Then, she lifted the tray that looked impossibly heavy for someone so old and frail and carried it to the table.
She poured tea into the three cups and set one in front of Avery, the other in front of Grant and sank into her seat. “Sugar or cream?”
“None for me, thank you,” Grant said.
“Sugar, please,” Avery said.
Mrs. Jordan plucked a sugar cube from a small bowl using a tiny pair of tongs and dropped it into Avery’s teacup. She dropped two in her own and stirred.
Once they all lifted their teacups, the older woman smiled. “Isn’t this nice? I haven’t had company for tea in... Well, I don’t quite recall.”
Grant felt sorry for the woman. She appeared to be happy to have someone visit. And he hadn’t wanted to stay. Now, he was glad Avery had agreed to tea on their behalf.
“Thank you for inviting us in,” Avery said.
“You said you had questions about my home?” Mrs. Jordan took a cautious sip from her teacup.
Avery set her cup in the saucer. “Mrs. Jordan, we understand this house was built back in the early nineteen hundreds by John Stenson.”
