Smokin' Six-Shooter. B.J. Daniels
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If only these walls could talk, Jolene thought, wondering what stories they would tell.
As the door opened, sunlight pouring across the floor, the women all looked in her direction. They were gathered toward the back around a small quilting frame. A baby quilt, she realized, as she let the door close behind her.
“Hello,” Pearl Cavanaugh said, smiling her slightly lopsided smile. Pearl had had a stroke sometime back and was still recovering, Jolene had heard. Pearl’s mother had started the Whitehorse Sewing Circle years ago, according to the locals.
“I just thought I’d stop in and see what you were making,” Jolene said lamely. How was she ever going to get to her true mission in coming here?
She knew she had to be careful. For fear the story might stop, she didn’t want the author of the story to find out she’d been asking around about the murder.
“Please. Join us,” Pearl said.
The women looked formidable, eyes keen, but their expressions were friendly enough as she pulled up a chair at the edge of the circle and watched their weathered, arthritic hands make the tiniest, most perfect stitches she’d ever seen.
“The quilt is beautiful,” she said into the silence. She could feel some of the women studying her discreetly.
“Thank you,” Pearl said, clearly the spokeswoman for the group. Her husband, Titus, served as a sort of mayor for Old Town Whitehorse, preaching in the center on Sundays, making sure the cemetery was maintained and overseeing the hiring of teachers as needed.
“You have all met our new teacher, Jolene Stevens,” Pearl was saying. “She comes to us straight from Montana State University.”
“So this is your first teaching assignment,” a small white-haired, blue-eyed woman said with a nice smile. “I’m Alice White.”
“I recall your birthday party,” Jolene said. “Ninety-two, I believe?”
Alice chuckled. “Everyone must think I’m going to kick the bucket sometime soon since they’re determined to celebrate my birthday every year now.” She winked at Jolene. “What they don’t know is that I’m going to live to be a hundred.”
Jolene tried to relax in the smattering of laughter that followed. “This area is so interesting. I’m really enjoying the history.”
“I’m sure everyone’s told you about the famous outlaws who used to hide out in this part of the state at the end of the eighteenth century,” a large woman with a cherubic face said. Ella Cavanaugh, a shirttail relation to Pearl and Titus, as Jolene recalled. Everyone seemed to be related in some way or another.
“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid as well as Kid Curry,” added another elderly member, Mabel Brown. “This part of the state was lawless back then.”
“It certainly seems peaceful enough now,” Jolene commented. “But I did hear something about a murder of a young widow who had a little girl, I believe?”
She could have heard a pin drop. Several jaws definitely dropped, but quickly snapped shut again.
“Nasty business that was,” Ella said and glanced at Pearl.
“When was it?” Jolene asked, sensing that Pearl was about to shut down the topic.
“Twenty-four years ago this month,” Alice said, shaking her head. “It isn’t something any of us likes to think about.”
“Was her killer ever caught?” Jolene asked and saw the answer on their faces.
“Do you sew, Jolene?” Pearl asked. “We definitely could use some young eyes and nimble fingers.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“We would be happy to teach you,” Pearl said. “We make quilts for every baby born around here and have for years. It’s a Whitehorse tradition.”
“A 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