exasperation, took the book and her plastic library card and left the small, musty building. She and Rue had visited the place often during their summer visits to Pine River, devouring books they secretly thought they should have been too sophisticated to like. Elisabeth had loved Cherry Ames, student nurse, and Rue had consumed every volume of the Tarzan series.
Feeling lonely again, Elisabeth crossed the wide street to the newspaper office, where the weekly Pine River Bugle was published.
This time she was greeted by a competent-looking middle-aged man with a bald spot, wire-rimmed glasses and a friendly smile. “How can I help you?” he asked.
Elisabeth returned his smile. “I’m doing research,” she said, having rehearsed her story as she crossed the street. “How long has the Bugle been in publication?”
“One of the oldest newspapers in the state,” the man replied proudly. “Goes back to 1876.”
Elisabeth’s eyes widened. “Do you have the old issues on microfilm?”
“Most of them. If you’ll just step this way, Ms….?”
“McCartney,” she answered. “Elisabeth McCartney.”
“I’m Ben Robbins. Are you writing a book, Ms. McCartney?”
Elisabeth smiled, shook her head and followed him through a small but very noisy press room and down a steep set of stairs into a dimly lit cellar.
“They don’t call these places morgues for nothing,” Mr. Robbins said with a sigh. Then he gestured toward rows of file cases. “Help yourself,” he said. “The microfilm machine is over there, behind those cabinets.”
Elisabeth nodded, feeling a little overwhelmed, and found the long table where the machine waited. After putting down her purse and the library book, she went to work.
The four issues of the Bugle published in June of 1892 were on one spool of film, and once Elisabeth found that and figured out how to work the elaborate projection apparatus, the job didn’t seem so difficult.
During the first week of that long-ago year, Elisabeth read, Anna Jean Maples, daughter of Albert and Hester Eustice Maples, had been married to Frank Peterson on the lawn of the First Presbyterian church. Kelsey’s Grocery had offered specials on canned salmon and “baseball goods.”
The Bugle was not void of national news. It was rumored that Grover Cleveland would wrest the presidency back from Benjamin Harrison come November, and the people of Chicago were busy preparing for the World Columbian Exposition, to open in October.
Elisabeth skimmed the second week, then the third. A painful sense of expectation was building in the pit of her stomach when she finally came upon the headline she’d been searching for.
DR. FORTNER AND DAUGHTER PERISH IN HOUSE FIRE
She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling sick. Then she anxiously read the brief account of the incident.
No exact date was given—the article merely said, “This week, the people of Pine River suffered a tragic double loss.” The reporter went on to state that no bodies or remains of any kind had been found, “so hot did the hellish blazes burn.”
Practically holding her breath, Elisabeth read on, feeling just a flicker of hope. She’d watched enough reruns of Quincy to know just how stubbornly indestructible human bones could be. If Jonathan’s and Trista’s remains had not been found, they probably hadn’t died in the fire.
She paused to sigh and rub her eyes. If that was true, where had they gone? And why were there two graves with head-stones that bore their names?
Elisabeth went back to the article, hoping to find a specific date. Near the end she read, “Surviving the inferno is a young and apparently indigent relative of the Fortners, known only as Lizzie. Marshal Farley Haynes has detained her for questioning.”
After scanning the rest of that issue and finding nothing but quilting-bee notices and offers to sell bulls, buggies and nursery furniture, Elisabeth went on to late July of that fateful year.
MYSTERIOUS LIZZIE TO BE TRIED FOR MURDER OF PINE RIVER FAMILY
Pity twisted Elisabeth’s insides. Her head was pounding, and she was badly in need of some fresh air. After finding several coins in the bottom of her purse, she made copies of the last newspaper of June 1892, to read later. Then she carefully put the microfilm reel back in its cabinet and turned off the machine.
Upstairs, she found Ben Robbins in a cubicle of an office, going over a stack of computer printouts.
“I want to thank you for being so helpful,” Elisabeth said. Her mind was filled with dizzying thoughts. Had Trista and Jonathan died in that blasted fire or hadn’t they? And who the heck was this Lizzie person?
Ben smiled and took off his glasses. “Find what you were looking for?”
“Yes and no,” Elisabeth answered distractedly, frowning as she shuffled the stack of microfilm copies and the library book resting in the curve of her arm. “Did you know this woman—Carolina Meavers?”
“Died when I was a boy,” Ben said with a shake of his head. “But she was good friends with the Buzbee sisters. If you have any questions about Carolina, they’d be the ones to ask.”
The Buzbee sisters. Of course. She guessed this was a case of overlooking the obvious. Elisabeth thanked him again and went out.
Belying the glowering sky of the night before, the weather was sunny and scented with spring. Elisabeth got into her car and drove home.
By the time she arrived, it was well past noon and she was hungry. She made a chicken-salad sandwich, took a diet cola from the refrigerator, found an old blanket and set out through the orchard behind the house in search of a picnic spot.
She chose the grassy banks of Birch Creek, within sight of the old covered bridge that was now strictly off limits to any traffic. Elisabeth and Rue had come to this place often with Aunt Verity to wade in the sparkling, icy stream and listen to those endless and singularly remarkable stories.
Elisabeth spread the blanket out on the ground and sat down to eat her sandwich and drink her soda. When she’d finished her lunch, she stretched out on her stomach to read about Lizzie’s arrest. Unfortunately, the piece had been written by the same verbose and flowery reporter who had covered the fire, and beyond the obvious facts, there was no real information.
Glumly, Elisabeth set aside the photographs and flipped through the library book. There were pictures in the center, and she stopped to look at them. The author, with her family, posing on the porch—if those few rough planks of pine could be described as a porch—of a ramshackle shanty with a tarpaper roof. The author, standing on the steps of a country schoolhouse that had been gone long before Elisabeth’s birth, clutching her slate and spelling primer to her flat little chest.
Elisabeth turned another page and her heart leapt up into her sinus passages to pound behind her cheeks. Practically the entire town must have been in that picture, and Elisabeth could see one side of the covered bridge. But it wasn’t that structure that caught her eye and caused her insides to go crazy with a strange, sweet anxiety.
It was Jonathan’s image, smiling back at her from the photograph. He was wearing trousers and a vest,
