very nice one,” Jolene agreed. She had wanted to ask more about the murder, but saw that the rest of the women were now intent on their quilting. Pearl had successfully ended the discussion. “Well, I should leave you to your work,” Jolene said, rising to her feet to leave.
“Well, if you ever change your mind,” Pearl said, looking up at her questioningly. No doubt she wondered where Jolene had heard about a twenty-four-year-old unsolved murder—and why she would be interested.
As Jolene left, she glanced back at the women. Only one was watching her. Pearl Cavanaugh. She looked troubled.
DULCIE DROVE BACK INTO town, even more curious about her inheritance. She returned to the real-estate office only to find that April was officiating a game at the old high-school gym.
The old gym was built of brick and was cavernous inside. Fortunately, the game hadn’t started yet. She found April in uniform on the sidelines.
“I’m sorry to bother you again,” Dulcie apologized. “Who would I talk to about the history of the property?”
April thought for a moment. “Talk to Roselee at the museum. She’s old as dirt, but sharp as a tack. She’s our local historian.”
The small museum was on the edge of town and filled with the history of this part of Montana. Roselee turned out to be a white-haired woman of indeterminable age. She smiled as Dulcie came through the door, greeting her warmly and telling her about the museum.
“Actually, I was interested in the history of a place south of here,” Dulcie said. “I heard you might be able to help me.”
Roselee looked pleased. “Well, I’ve been around here probably the longest. My father homesteaded in Old Town Whitehorse.”
Even better, Dulcie thought.
“Whose place are we talking about?”
“Laura Beaumont’s.”
All the friendliness left her voice. “If you’re one of those reporters doing another story on the murder—”
“I’m not. But I need to know. Was it Laura Beaumont who was murdered?”
Roselee pursed her lips. “If you’re not a reporter, then what is your interest in all this?”
“I inherited the property.”
The woman’s eyes widened. She groped for the chair behind her and sat down heavily.
Dulcie felt goose bumps ripple across her flesh at the look on the woman’s face. “What is it?” she demanded, frightened by the way Roselee was staring at her—as if she’d seen a ghost.
The elderly woman shook her head and struggled to her feet. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well.” She picked up the cane leaning against the counter and started toward the back of the museum, calling to someone named Cara.
“If I come by some other time?” Dulcie said to the woman’s retreating back, but Roselee didn’t respond.
What in the world, she thought, as a much younger woman hurried to the counter and asked if she could help.
“Have you ever heard of a woman named Laura Beaumont?” Dulcie asked.
Cara, who was close to Dulcie’s age, shook her head. “Should I have?”
“I don’t know.” Dulcie felt shaken from Roselee’s reaction. “Do you have a historical society?”
The young woman broke into a smile. “You just met the president, Roselee.” She sobered. “Wasn’t she able to help you?”
“No. Is there someone else around town I could talk to?” She dropped her voice just in case Roselee was in the back, listening. “Someone older who knows everything that goes on around here, especially Old Town Whitehorse, and doesn’t mind talking about it?”
Cara’s eyes shone with understanding. She, too, whispered. “There is someone down south who might be able to help you. Her name is Arlene Evans. She’s…talkative.”
JOLENE GLANCED AT HER watch as she left the Community Center. If she hurried she could make it into White-horse before the newspaper office closed.
Now that she knew there had been a murder, she was anxious to go through the Milk River Examiner newspapers from twenty-four years ago to find out everything she could about it.
Back in the schoolhouse, she went to her desk and opened the drawer where she’d put the stories. All six were there. She had yet to read the other five, so she stuffed them all into her backpack.
Turning to leave, she was startled to find a dark shape filling the schoolhouse doorway.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” Ben Carpenter said as he stepped inside. He was a big man who took up a lot of space and always made Jolene feel a little uncomfortable. She suspected it was because he seldom smiled. Ben was at the far end of his forties and the father of her moody eighth-grader, Mace.
“I was just finishing up for the day. Is there something Mace needed?” The boy resembled his father, large and beefy. Jolene had only once seen his mother, Ronda, but recalled she was tiny and reserved.
“I stopped in to see how Mace is doing,” Ben said. “I ask him, but he doesn’t say much. You aren’t having any trouble with him, are you? If you are, you just let me know and I’ll see to the boy.”
Jolene didn’t like the threat she heard in Ben’s tone. “He’s doing quite well and, no, I have no trouble at all with him.”
“Good,” Ben said, looking uncomfortable in the small setting. “Glad to hear it. His mother has been after me to find out.”
Jolene doubted that. Ronda Carpenter seemed like a woman who asked little of her husband and got even less. “Well, you can certainly reassure her. Mace is doing fine.”
Ben nodded, looking as if there was more he wanted to say, but he changed his mind as he stepped toward the door. “Okay then.”
Jolene was relieved when she heard his truck pull away from the front of the school. She felt a little shaken by his visit. Ben always seemed right on the edge of losing his temper. His visit had felt contrived. Was there something else he’d come by for and changed his mind?
Was it possible he was the author of the murder story? It didn’t seem likely, but then some people wrote better than they spoke.
Locking up behind her, she biked to her little house. Then, with the installments of the murder story in her backpack, she got in her car and headed toward Whitehorse.
She took the dirt road out of town. Old Town White-horse had been the first settlement called Whitehorse. It had been nearer the Missouri River and the Breaks. That was back when supplies came by riverboat.
Once the railroad came through, five miles to the north, the town migrated to the tracks, taking the name Whitehorse with it.
As Jolene drove, she mentally replayed the conversation with the women of the sewing circle and was even more curious why they had been
