Maggie studied the square, pristine black and white, but it was the man and small girl who caught her attention rather than the flowers. He was tall, broad in the chest, with a sharp-boned, lantern-jawed face. The suit he wore was severe and proper. Beside him, the little girl wore a frilly dress, ribboned at the waist with black strap shoes and a flowered bonnet.

It must’ve been Easter, Maggie concluded. The little girl smiled determinedly at the camera. Joyce would’ve been around four then, Maggie calculated, and perhaps a bit uncomfortable in the organdy and flounces. William Morgan didn’t look cruel, she thought as she studied his set, unreadable face. He simply looked untouchable. She fought back a shudder and spoke lightly.

“I want to plant some bulbs myself. Things should be a little more settled by fall.”

Louella said nothing as she turned over the next picture. This time Maggie was looking at a young Louella. The style of hair and dress told her the picture was more than twenty years old. The lopsided angle of the shot made her suspect that Joyce had taken it as a child.

“The roses,” Louella murmured, running a finger over the picture where they grew in profusion. “Gone now, with no one to care for them.”

“Do you have a garden now?”

“Joyce does.” Louella set the picture aside and took up another. “I tend it now and then, but it isn’t the same as having your own.”

“No, it’s not, but Joyce must be grateful for your help.”

“She’s never been easy in town,” Louella said, half to herself. “Never easy. A pity she took after me rather than her father.”

“She’s lovely,” Maggie told her, searching for something to say. “I hope to see more of her. Her husband suggested that we have dinner.”

“Stan’s a good man. Solid. He’s always loved her.” The sad, elusive smile touched her lips. “He’s been kind to me.”

When she turned over the next picture, Maggie felt her stiffen. She saw the smile freeze rather than fade. Looking down, she saw William Morgan and a young, perhaps teenaged Stan Agee. This more recent photo was in color, and the trees in the background were vibrant with fall. The two men were dressed in flannel shirts and caps, and each wore a drab-colored vest with what looked to Maggie like small weights around the hem. Each carried a shotgun.

Shells, not weights, Maggie realized as she looked at the vests again. They must’ve been hunting. And they stood, she noted, near the slope of the gully. Disturbed, she looked at the trees again, at the tapestry she wanted to see for herself.

“Joyce would’ve taken this,” Louella murmured. “She hunted with her father. He taught her how to handle guns before she was twelve. It didn’t matter that she hated them; she learned to please him. William looks pleased,” Louella continued, though Maggie couldn’t see it. “He liked to hunt this land. Now we know he died here. Here,” she repeated, placing a palm over the picture. “Not three miles away, in the river. He never left his land. Somehow I think I always knew.”