Pulling the basket toward her, she saw that it was filled with store-bought muffins. In this part of Montana, bringing store-bought anything was almost an insult.

“How thoughtful. Thank you.”

Midge gave a slight shrug. “I hadn’t welcomed you since you were hired. How are things going?”

“Fine. No problems.”

Midge took a drink of her tea, winced and said, “It’s bitter. I think you left it out in the sun too long. I’ve had enough anyway.” She shoved the nearly full glass away and rose.

Jolene got up to see her out, but Midge didn’t make it to the door before she turned, hands clasped in front of her and said, “I heard you were asking questions about some unpleasant business from years back.” She tsked. “You really don’t want to concern yourself with that sort of thing. We like our teachers to concentrate on making a pleasant, educational environment for our students. I would suggest you restrict any research projects to the part of our history for which we have pride, such as our early homesteaders.”

Jolene was so shocked she couldn’t reply at first and then she had to bite her tongue to keep from telling Midge Atkinson what she thought of her suggestion.

Midge’s quick smile was more a grimace as she turned abruptly toward the door. “Oh, and I would like my basket back when you’ve finished with the muffins.”

“Of course.” As the irritating woman drove away, Jolene closed the door and leaned against it, wondering who in the Whitehorse Sewing Circle had ratted her out.

Dulcie stopped at the top of the stairs and took a shallow breath. The air up here on the second floor of the farmhouse seemed even more foul and stagnant than the floor below. She looked down the hallway toward the front of the house. Four doors stood partially open.

Behind the one closest to her, she saw a broom closet with an ancient vacuum leaning against one wall and a ratty broom.

Stepping lightly, she edged toward the next door. The room was nearly empty except for an old treadle sewing machine sitting against one wall.

Dulcie moved to the next door and peered in. The little girl’s room. Someone had painted a blue-and-white ceiling resembling sky and clouds. On the walls around the bed were painted half a dozen angels, complete with wings and cherubic sweet faces. Had the mother painted these?

As Dulcie stepped into the room, she saw that the artist had signed his or her name in the bottom of one corner of the room. M. Atkinson.

The name meant nothing to her. She glanced again at the paintings. A roomful of angels for a little girl named Angel. She tried to picture the little girl who’d lived here. Tomboy or doll-playing princess?