February 3, 1903 | Main Street Hotel

"Sure," you say. 
You walk with Justin to the hotel. There are people there; instead of going in through the restaurant or the main door, Justin takes you through a side door that leads to the side of a spacious room with a front desk. 
"Justin!" says Gretchen, who's working at the desk, which appears difficult. There are people periodically coming downstairs from the room, people waiting to get rooms, and waitstaff coming in from the room next door. 
"You put the people in the rooms," says Gretchen. "And you have company! I'm so sorry, who are you?"
"Rose Thornton," you say.
"Ah, Tabitha's great-niece," says Gretchen. Again! And your last name isn't even Smith. "Please wait until we're done with the lunch rush and then we can have some nice conversation."
How can a hotel in such a small town be so busy? you wonder.
"I'm sorry, what, Miss Thornton?" Gretchen asks. 
"I don't think I said anything," you say. 
"Something about this being busy for such a small town?"
Oh dear.
"I'm so sorry," you say. "I was only trying to think it." 
"Understandable," she says. "I know that all too well, trust me. And the population of Likely skews older, so people have lots of relatives. The Jones children and Justin and the Fletchers are the only children here, and obviously children tend to move when they get old enough. I'm sorry? You have a dog?" And she starts talking to someone else. Once somebody else has left with their dog in a box, she adds, 
"Like Celia. We were best friends in school, but she dreamed of going to the city. I never thought she actually would." 
"You knew my mother?" you ask. You suppose they're reasonably the same age. 
"Yes. No soap? I'll call for a janitor…" and she starts talking to someone else again. After a few more frenzied complaints and requests for a room, she says, 
"Now then, you seem pretty interested in your mom, but if you'd like to talk about Tabitha first or instead of, that's fine." 
What would you like to talk about, Mrs. Smith or your mom's past?

February 3, 1903 | Main Street Hotel, Likely

"Tabitha," you say. 
"All right," says Gretchen. "I know a thing or two about murder, 'kay? The Modoc County Justice of the Peace was staying right here in this hotel. It's the only hotel in town. He had his last meal at my restaurant, cooked by my husband, Justin's dad. And I solved the case." 
"You did?" you ask. 
"Yes. The killer was convicted, dragged off to Alturas in chains. Anyway, my point is that your great-aunt was murdered, I just don't know who. I'm a detective in my spare time, but right now Edward is on a business trip, so I'm having to manage the restaurant and the hotel. Edward is my husband." She fiddles with the ring on her finger. Other than that she's not wearing anything fussy; simply a black dress. It doesn't look funereal at all on her–maybe it's the absence of any sort of frills. You guess she'd wear trousers if she could get away with it.
"Anyway," she says, "the lock had been picked, according to Mrs. Soderstrom, and dear Mrs. Smith was stiff as a board and her mouth was open as though she'd been screaming. And she was on top of the covers–even though it was a summer murder, according to Mrs. Soderstrom, Mrs. Smith needed blankets on her to sleep well." 
"That must be why the blanket in the guest bedroom was so thin," you muse. "The bedroom hasn't been touched since summer." 
"True," says Gretchen.
"I have a question," you say. 
"Say it," says Gretchen.
"You seem to trust Mrs. Soderstrom a lot." 
"That isn't a question," Gretchen points out.
"Okay, why do you trust her so much?" you finish. 
"It's a small town. You either trust someone to the letter of their every word or you don't trust someone at all. Now. Your lunch. Would you like to take it here, with me, or in the restaurant?" 

Where would you like to eat, with Gretchen or in the restaurant?

February 3, 1903 | Main Street Hotel, Likely

Gretchen rings a bell. A man comes scuttling out of a door.
"Yes, Gretchen?" he asks. He is clad in a waiter's uniform.
"Thomas," says Gretchen, "would you please make four slices of buttered toast and bring them here." 
"With salt?"
"In a shaker," says Gretchen decisively. "Thank you, Thomas." Thomas leaves and Gretchen tells you, "He's the headwaiter. Very good one, too. Here, sit." 
She draws a third stool out from under the desk and you sit on it. Soon, Thomas brings a platter of toast, expertly buttered with a silver salt shaker near them. 
"Thank you," you tell Thomas. 
"Anyway," says Gretchen. "Celia and I were such dear friends, but we were so different. She was always going, and she couldn't think about all the costs of things. She wanted to move to the city and become an actress." 
"An actress?!" you exclaim softly. Your mother is a dressmaker–was? She hasn't done much work since she married the comfortably-situated Thomas Thornton. 
"All I wanted was to stay here. I could find all the hidden pits long before Celia would've gone dancing into them. This hotel was the family business, and it was losing money when I was in my teens. Needless to say I was kind of depressed, but I didn't want to run away from it. I just wanted to stay and let life take me where it wanted, which was eventually better places. In this little town, everyone saw Celia as bright orange mixed with blue and me as grey. The thing is, this little town is much more grey than anything else. Except maybe green.
"Anyway, she left very young, sixteen, to go to a ladies' boarding school. That was when I started to have this little thing called business savvy, and then the Main Street Hotel was turned over to me earlier than it would've. Apparently Celia's marriage with Thomas was arranged, she wasn't all that happy in the first few months before she discovered how to not be tethered, and soon after that, there was a new chef at this hotel, and that was Edward, and the rest is history." 
"So you're happy here," you say. You wonder if perhaps you might not dislike Likely as much as you thought you would. Grey and green. You always think of yourself as green and pink, like the roses and thorns of your name. 
"Very," says Gretchen.
You finish the toast. 
"I think I should be going," you say. "I don't mean to impose."
"Oh, it's fine," says Gretchen. "But, in all honesty, I am a touch busy, so this chat would have to end. Don't mean to be brusque, but life doesn't stop until your dying day." 
"Goodbye," you tell her.
"Goodbye," says Gretchen. "See you soon, hopefully."
As you walk, you keep thinking about what Gretchen said. Life doesn't stop. Not through all the heartbreak and sadness and tears and trouble and happiness and joy and five-million-emotions-at-once.
Until, all of a sudden, it does.
And it did, in your late great-aunt's bedroom, very mysteriously and even dangerously. As you go inside, an inkling of an idea comes to you. 
Would you like to search Mrs. Smith's room for clues?

February 3, 1903 | Mrs. Smith's House, Likely

You think back to what Gretchen said about either trusting people fully or not at all.  You decide that, since you don't want to become a "not at all" character, as soon as you go into the room you'll draw the curtains and, if anyone knocks on the door, you'll immediately run down and answer and not say you were doing anything. 
It takes you awhile to gather the courage to walk into the room. As you stand in the doorway, you have a very good view of the street. Justin is walking by selling papers, and then Elizabeth and Harry go out into their front yard and play some sort of ball game. Eventually they go indoors. You go in and close the curtains. As you reach for the knob on the desk drawer, you remember not to leave fingerprints and then bolt and fetch a pair of gloves from the guest room. 
You look in all the drawers of the desk. There is nothing there, other than lots of journals and ink. It appears that Mrs. Smith wrote stories. Some of them are very good, you discover. Then you look under the bed and inside the closet. There is nothing there, until you reach a staid brown tartan overcoat with ugly wooden toggles. It doesn't seem like something Mrs. Smith would wear, if she's as good as her stories. You slip your hand into the pocket. 
Inside is a tiny piece of paper, with the same texture as the paper in the journals, and it has writing on it. Sloppy, scrawly letters. Those of someone honoring a last wish, because perhaps they were guilty that the last wish had to come so soon. 
I HOPE I WILL SURVIVE.
It appears that, as well as a sleepwalker, you are a prophetic dreamer. 
Someone knocks on the door and you bolt downstairs. It is Nora Jones.
"We'd be honored if you'd like to join us for dinner," she says. 
Will you eat with the Joneses or at the Hotel?

The Joneses

February 3-4, 1903 | Mrs. Smith's house, Likely

"With you," you say. You are very conscious of the little scrap of paper clutched in your hand, and suddenly you get an idea. 
"Nora," you say, only showing her the "I hope" part. "Do you know anyone whose handwriting looks like this?"
"Well, there's Taylor Fletcher, and, honestly Adelaide, and maybe Mr. Kane who lives up on the hill? I don't quite know everyone's handwriting." 
"Who is this Taylor Fletcher?" you ask, deciding not to incriminate Nora's sister.
"She's the smartest girl in this town. And she's a good singer." The smallest note of envy creeps into Nora's voice. 
"All right," you say. "And Mr. Kane?"
"He's a recluse of sorts, but he loves saving animals." You don't think that Mr. Kane would murder anyone. 
"How old is Taylor Fletcher?" 
"Seventeen." You also don't think that she's a teenage murderer.
"Okay," you say. "Do you think it would be possible for me to meet Mr. Kane?" 
"Well," she says, "you could wait until he comes to town and ask Gretchen to leave you a message. He likes going to the hotel. Or you could go to his house." 
Which do you want to do?

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.

——-

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.