“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.