Helen walked through the door of the shop, where there was a large refrigerated case full of smoked meat: sausages, hams, thick slabs of fatty bacon. Helen’s stomach felt a little queasy—it was all too much, the sweet smoky smell, the fatty cuts of pork, rinds red from smoke. The rest of the shop was full of knickknacks tourists might buy—stuffed toy moose with ILOVERMONT T-shirts, maple syrup, local hot sauces, jellies and jams, quilted pot holders, beeswax candles—all of it seemingly covered with a thin layer of greasy dust. An old metal fan sat in a corner, chugging, doing its best to stir the thick air.

“Can I help you?” asked a young woman behind the counter. Helen guessed she was still in high school or maybe college. She didn’t look old enough to drink legally, but she was wearing a Long Trail Ale T-shirt and so much eye shadow and mascara that Helen was amazed the girl could keep her eyes open.

“I’m not sure,” Helen said. “I’m looking for family of Candace Bishkoff.”

“Candace?” the girl asked, looking up at the ceiling, thinking. “I don’t think I know any Candace, and I know pretty much all the Bishkoffs. My boyfriend, Tony, he’s a Bishkoff.” She smiled at Helen, proud to be showing her allegiance to this clan of the smoked meat Bishkoffs; maybe one day she and Tony would get married, and their children would grow up and learn the secrets of brining and sausage making.

“Candace would be dead by now,” Helen explained. “She was around back in the early 1900s.”

“Oh,” the girl said. “You’re talking old-time Bishkoffs. That’s the cool thing about this family—they’ve been around here for-ev-er!”

Helen nodded. “Is anyone from the family around at the moment? Anyone who might know anything about Candace?”

“Sure, hang on a sec; let me get Marty for you. Marty knows everyone.”

“Oh, great! Thanks,” Helen said.

“No prob,” the girl chirped, going through a back door and calling, “Marty! MAR-TY!”

Soon, the girl was back, followed by a gray-haired man who shuffled in in worn overalls. He was thin and gangly and reminded Helen of a scarecrow who had come to life and just climbed down off his post. His face and neck were patchy with stubble, like he’d tried to shave but missed huge spots. His eyes were rheumy.

The girl took her seat behind the counter, stared down at her phone and started typing on it.

“Help you?” the old man grunted.

“I hope so. You’re Marty?”

He nodded.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Helen. I was looking for someone who might know something about a woman named Candace Bishkoff?”

He nodded. “She was my grandmother.”

“Did you…did you know her?” Helen pictured the woman from the photograph, young then, holding the necklace, smiling a victorious smile.