Downtown Winchester had kept up with the times and had a Starbucks, a craft brewery, a wine store, and a housewares store that sold things like throw pillows sporting Winchester Born and Raised. There were a few brunch restaurants scattered around, an upscale gastropub, and a Mexican restaurant known for their grapefruit margaritas, which people sipped at the sidewalk tables. Out of place among the other establishments, the Winchester Historical Society was located in an old church, a relic from when the town was founded. It was a looming stone structure, rising high above the rest of the downtown area, with three large turrets pointing to the sky like sharp black fingernails.

That morning, I’d emailed a docent at the society, to give her a heads-up that we would be arriving. Then a wave of anxiety filled my chest as I spotted the carnival binder on my desk and remembered I still didn’t have enough volunteers. I thought again about asking some of the older women to help. Before I could talk myself out of it, I picked up the phone and called Marianne Baker. She seemed delighted to offer her help and said she would talk to the other women at their bunco game later that day. I was so relieved that I had to hold back tears when we ended the call.

As my friends and I walked up to the historical society, the shadow of the building blanketed us, and a strange sense of dread began to build among the group. We climbed up the cracked stone steps to the large archway, pushed open the heavy wooden door, and found a beautiful older woman waiting for us.

Mary Ellen Peabody, the docent I had emailed, was in her seventies but looked like an Instagram filter that had taken a picture of a much younger woman and aged her. Her hot-pink skirt suit and dangling turquoise earrings swished as she leaned forward and placed her elbows on the display glass.

“I’m so happy you all are here!” said Mary Ellen, a look of genuine delight on her face. “I know your neighborhood! Whispering Farms used to be one of the largest farms in the area, before it was eventually sold and then incorporated into Winchester.” She tapped a coral fingernail on her lined cheek.

“Great. Can you give all the documents to us?” Melissa said impatiently as she placed her hand on the case. Catching flies with honey when vinegar was available had never been her style.

I shot her a warning look and then turned to Mary Ellen. “We would love to see whatever you might be willing to share.”

When Mary Ellen disappeared into the bowels of the historical society, I looked at Melissa. “We have to be nice to her.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Look where being nice got Liz.”

Jess snort-laughed and then nudged Melissa with her hip. “Good one.”