February 3-4, 1903 |  The Streets of Likely and Mr. Kane's House

You and Nora walk up the hill to Mr. Kane's house. It's not far. Then you ring a bell tied to the gate.
"Be careful," Nora advises. "He's rather crabby and a touch paranoid. Some people say his mind is going." 
"Okay," you say. 
Mr. Kane comes walking down the short dirt road that leads to his house.
"There you are," he says. "My dear Cecelia! And Nora."
You step back, aghast.
"My name is Rose," you say. Of course, he wouldn't know that your name is Rose. Perhaps you and your mom look similar from a distance. You don't look at all like her, though; she has dark hair and blue eyes, and you have pale-blond hair and green eyes. Her nose is shaped like an arrow; yours is small and soft. 
"Yes, I'm sure," he says. "Anyway, why are you here?" He hasn't opened the gate. 
"I was just wondering," you say. "How often do you go into town?" 
"About every two weeks."
"Do you know where my great-aunt lived?" 
"Lived?" he says, surprised. "I thought she was still alive." 
"No," you say curtly. "She died about six months ago." 
"What?" he says. "Such a nice lady. I'm so very sorry. Anyway, have you got what you came for?" 
"Yep," you say, and turn and walk back down the hill. Mr. Kane can't possibly be a murderer. 

Later, you sit in the library, waiting until Nora comes back to get you for dinner. There are three photos in frames on a shelf. You look at one. You suppose it's you, except you're on Main Street in this small town and somehow don't remember, and much younger, wearing a pink dress. And you have bluer eyes.
You slip the photo out of the frame. Slanted handwriting on the back reads Cecelia, 1879. So that's your mother, when she was six years old. You look at how her white hair is spread across her face in strings, just like yours sometimes. 
Family resemblance, especially out-of-the-blue, is scary.
Nora rings the doorbell and you go downstairs. She takes you into her house's kitchen. You sit next to Mrs. Jones. 
"Hello, dear," she says kindly. "Finding this town more than boring yet?" 
"A bit," you say. The moment with the photos is haunting you.

Are you going to ask if she knew your mother, ask if she knew Mrs. Smith, or ask her nothing?

I will finish this, regardless of if anyone is interested, and I decide that Rose will ask about Mrs. Smith.

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February 3-4, 1903 | Likely, CA

"Did you know Mrs. Smith?" you ask. 
"Not well," says Mrs. Jones. "Sometimes she'd come around, leave knitted sweaters for the kids, stuff like that." She shrugs. "Very sad, after Christopher's death and Celia's move to The City." You have never thought about your grandfather and grandmother. You suppose that, since your mother grew up here, your grandparents must have lived here.
"What about my grandmother?" you ask.
"Clementine passed away when Celia was very young. Mrs. Smith played that role in her life." 
"Ah," you say. "How long ago did my grandfather die?" 
"Recently," says Mrs. Jones, and you wonder if Mrs.--Miss, since she never married?--Smith and your grandfather died/were killed at the same time. "About five years ago. He was a very nice man." 
"Ah," you say again.
"But," Mrs. Jones continues, "one night last summer I heard shrieking down in the street. The children don't know this. I'm an insomniac, you know. Mild, but I can never fall asleep. Anyways, it was Mrs. Smith, and a very melodic voice. Like an opera singer or something. And then I heard these words--I hope I will revive? Something like that? and then a crash. Then next morning she was dead."
"Odd," you say. The rest of dinner passes without incident, and then you go back to Mrs. Smith's and fall asleep. 

A couple of things to say: 

1. Sorry for abandoning this, and then posting something without a question at the end. I don't have a lot of time, nor energy to work on projects that people don't appear interested in.
2. Part of this is me not posting much (see above), but no one has guessed my name yet.

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February 4, 1903 |Mrs. Smith's House, Likely, CA

On a fresh day, you wake up, get dressed, tuck something in your pocket, and go to the Main Street Hotel. It is misting lightly, but the sky is a darker gray to the west.
"Hello, Miss Thornton," says the server. "I can't get you a table at present, but word travels and I hear you know the family." 
"The family?" you ask. You've only heard this term to describe the relatives of the deceased in novels that deal with funerals.
"Gretchen, Justin, Edward. I can ask if they'd be willing to have you in their antechamber. I believe Justin is eating right now."
"All right," you say. The server goes over to the window in the wall and yells something. Someone yells back and then he says,
"You may go right up." He points to the stairs at the back wall. You climb them and knock on the door. You hear the click of the lock and someone lets you in. 
"For people we know," Justin says, "we let them eat up here in what Mother calls the antechamber. There's toast." 
"Very nice," you say. As you butter and marmalade (why are some spreads a verb and others not?) your toast, the thing in your pocket itches you. You remember what it is.

Will you show Justin the "I hope I will survive" paper in full, show it to him in full to see if he knows the writing, or show him part of it to see if he knows the writing?

February 4, 1903 | Main Street Hotel, Likely, CA

You decide to show him just part. Maybe the "I hope" part. Lots of people write about their hopes. Or maybe "I hope I will". Just not "survive." 
You cover the end of the note with your hand and show it to him.
"Do you know anyone with handwriting like this?" you ask.
"Yeah," said Justin. "I'm the one to ask about this kind of stuff. Lots of people in this town write us checks. I think that this could be Tim Latcher, or Mr. Kane, or maybe Adelaide Jones, but she's a nice girl." Justin blushes. You bite your lip. Sometimes you don't notice things until they're gone--like Mrs. Smith's stories, which you never would have found if she wasn't dead. Or a sliver of affection for Justin. In a friendly kind of way, you remind yourself. Your parents wouldn't let you do much that's romantic this young.
"Tell me about Tim Latcher," you say. 
"He's a logger. Some of them live in a bunkhouse just up Main Street." 
"Take me there," you say. 

As soon as you enter the bunkhouse, you get a feeling. All of a sudden you know who the murderer is.
There are two men sitting at a table. One wears a dirty flannel shirt and muddy pants and is drinking coffee. The other is cooking. You watch his jerky motions as he cracks an egg and stirs something in a pan. They're exacting and confined to small space. He doesn't disturb the other eggs as he picks another egg up.
"Which one is Tim?" you ask. 
"That one." Justin points at the man drinking coffee. You were wrong--if Tim is the murderer. 
"Say what, Justin?" says Tim.
"This is Mrs. Smith's great-niece," says Justin. "Miss Rose Thornton. Miss Thornton, this is Tim Latcher."
"Pleased to meet you," says Tim Latcher. "I'm so sorry about your grandmother. Everyone was shocked." 
"Great-aunt," you correct. "Who is your roommate?" 
"I've got about five," says Tim, "but this one is Pete Thompson." The man cooking waves his wooden spoon. It doesn't hit anything, nor does egg fly off and hit the wall. He has a thief's precision. 
"I'm no thief," says Pete, "but I did used to be a clockmaker before I moved to this here town." Oh dear. Perhaps you did the saying-without-thinking thing again. 
"So sorry," you say. "Did either of you know my great-aunt?"
"I did," says Pete. "She was our benefactor. She paid for this house." 
Tim looks like Pete threw the eggy stew at him.
"I never knew that," he says.

Will you press Tim further, or interrogate both Pete and Tim, or leave without saying much more?

I am none of the people Hawkstar named. 

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February 4, 1903 | Loggers' Bunkhouse, Likely, CA

"So," you say. "How much did she pay you?" 
"Enough for this house," says Pete. "About fifty dollars." 
You're surprised. That, after all, is a lot.
"Could you have paid for it on your own?"
"Not really." Tim is speaking. "We could've lived at the Main Street Hotel, but we all used to be friends, and then we moved to try our hand and various professions, and then we became loggers. I've traveled all over Modoc County." He says this like it's an accomplishment, and you wonder how big Modoc County is. 
"And you didn't know, but Pete did? Er, Mr. Thompson?"
"Don't bother with the formalities, Rose," says Pete. "I was the financier. Made all the arrangements." 
"Ah," you say. "Do either of you know where she lived?"
"I don't," says Pete, "but Tim brought her a pretty chair he made, a day or so before she died. Upholstered and all. He used to make furniture." 
"Pete," says Tim through his teeth, "we talked about this." 
Now I know who the murderer is.
"Don't brag about past lives. Remember?" Tim says. His voice gets shakier, shakier, shakier, and then so high at the end. 
"What did the chair look like?" you ask. Filling out the conversation.
"It had carving in it, like," says Tim, bragging despite what he said, "inlays. And the seat was red." 
"Thank you for your time," you say. "I'm ready to leave, Justin." 
You and Justin leave. You walk down the street, purpose in your step. 
"Can you find your way?" Justin calls to you as you pass the hotel. 
"I do think so." 

Inside Mrs. Smith's house, you scour it for chairs that match the description. There's one in the library, right near the mystery books. So near you might have sat in it. 
You pretty much know by heart that Tim is the murderer. Now, you just need evidence. How to get it, you wonder. 

Are you going to ask Mrs. Jones (after what she said about being an insomniac) about the night of the murder, or try to find some element of Tim inside Mrs. Smith's house?

I am not Celine. 
These writings may be short, but I will try to write whenever there is an answer.

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February 4, 1903 | Mrs. Smith's House, Likely, CA

You decide to see if Tim left anything inside Mrs. Smith's house. You scour the kitchen and the dining room. There's a small packet inside the garbage bucket in the kitchen, made of paper with staples in it. You leave it there, but run upstairs, find an ugly red sock that happens to be in your possesion, and put it on the bucket. Now you'll remember. 
In the sewing room, you open lots of drawers in the main worktable. There's a very shallow one containing an array of needles, but one of them is missing. You put the other red sock on top of it. Then you look in all the other rooms, and inside the coat pockets again. 
In the other coat pocket is a needle, long and thin, exactly like the one that should be here. Impaled on the tip is a bit of red flannel.
You've found your evidence. You lay it out on a table in what's your room right now, and then you're about to read a new book when you hear a knock. You go downstairs and open the door. It's Nora. 
"We're wondering if you'd like to join us for luncheon?" she says.
"Oh, of course," you say. 
"Right now is the time," she says. You follow her out of Mrs. Smith's house and into yours. You sit down at the table next to Mrs. Jones and help yourself to some buttered toast. You want to ask her something, but truth is, it's rather ghastly. 

Are you going to ask how Mrs. Smith's corpse looked?

I am not BookGirl. (I'm not a very well-known CBer, either). Hint: There are a square number of letters in my name.

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February 4, 1903 | The Joneses' House, Likely, CA

"Do you know what she looked like when she died?" you ask. You know she had her mouth open, but not much else.
The room, as swiftly as a swift flying as swift as it can, goes silent.
"Miss Thornton," says Mrs. Jones. "I must confess I do not like morbid things. I am not like some, who love to discuss improper items and dredge up old memories." She's gone so quickly to chastising you. 
"I'm so sorry," you say and turn quickly so you face the person at your other side--Adelaide.
" 'Ey," she says. "Thing is, I love morbid things, and she had her mouth open and was clutching at her throat, like." She places her hand on her collarbone so that her throat is matching the curve between her finger and thumb. 
"Huh," you say. "Perhaps she was poisoned." 
"Addie." The child sitting next to Adelaide touches Adelaide's wrist quickly, almost like a slap but not as hard, more like a reminder. "Morbid around Mother, remember?"
"None too fondly, all too well," says Adelaide. "What brings you here?"
And so you keep talking, discussing mundane things. Around five minutes later, there's a sudden movement in the hallway. Nora and Lily pass the open doorway, waving. 
"Where are they going?" you ask.
"To set up for the town social," Adelaide says. "In the church."
"Does everyone go?"
"Almost everyone," says Adelaide. "We'll be there, anyway." 
You think perhaps you'd be able to learn information. Or would you stick out too much and be fussed over?

Will you attend the town social?