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.

—————

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. 

—–

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.

———

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.

——

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?

Yes, I am Seadragon. Well guessed!

————-

February 4, 1903 | Likely Christian Church, Likely, CA

You go to Mrs. Smith's house and find the best dress you packed, which is white with gray silk trim around all the ruffles. You don't care for it: White clothes get stained, and plus it doesn't have any pockets. You brush your hair and put it into a knot, then put on your familiar green woolen coat.
The social, as Adelaide told you, is at six. You find yourself meandering down the street a touch early, perhaps five-thirty, and even though you don't have any idea where the church is, you can see its cross looming over South Street. You arrive.
"Hello, dearie," says a smiling woman sitting at a table. "I don't know you, I'm afraid, but the flower-arrangers could use a hand." She has a pleasant English accent and is probably about seventy years old. 
"Rose Thornton," you say. "Mrs. Smith's great-niece." 
"My name is Tildie Simons," she says. "I'm Edward's mum." 
"Ah, yes," you say. "I met your grandson, he's very nice." 
"So he is," says Tildie Simons. "Now, flowers, Miss Rose? Or are you here to sit and chat?"
"Flowers," you say quickly.
"They're at the first end of the table," she says, "nearest us." 
The pews of the church must have all been moved. There is an enormous table in their place, with chairs at it, and at one of the sides (it's square, perhaps ten people to an edge) there are three young girls, all talking to each other and holding beribboned dried flowers.
"Has Mrs. Simons sent you?" one asks. "We're so sorry we've not been working."
"Yes, let's put them into their vases," you say, trying to coerce them, indicating a box of colored-glass vases, which have been nesting in straw. "And then we'll put the candles around them, I suppose," you say. 
"We're not to do that," says another. "I'm Daisy Fletcher, and these are some of my sisters, Sweetpea and Audrey." Sweetpea is the youngest, perhaps three, and Audrey appears near seven, and Daisy five. Perhaps they are related to Taylor Fletcher, you think.
"Penelope," says Audrey. "Not Sweetpea. But she can't pronounce her name." 
You help the children set the flowers in vases, and then you are leaning against a wall and hear snatches of conversation from the other side. You're near an open doorway; the voices must be coming from the room it leads to.
"–not with Mrs. Smith's girl in town you shouldn't–"
"–true, she seems like a spy–"
What can that mean? And surely, Mrs. Smith's girl is you?

Would you like to go through the door and speak to the people inside, or stay where you are and listen?

February 4, 1903 | Likely Christian Church

You pick up a glass resting on the table and put it so that the opening faces the wall. Then you place your ear on the bottom, like the listening tubes that your doctor uses whenever you have a cold, just to make sure there's nothing wrong.
One of the people talking procedes to curse. "That. Fish," says the person, whose voice sounds low like a man's. "I can't gut it to save my life." 
"Then I'll do it," says someone, higher-voiced. There's the quiet sound of a knife slicing through fish. 
"Goodness," says another person. "How do you get that knife so sharp, Taylor?" Taylor. Taylor Fletcher? It's not a common name, after all. 
"Sharp stones," she says, still cutting the fish.
"Say, Taylor," says the first voice, "wouldn't you go keep an eye on your sisters?"
"Thought you couldn't gut a fish to save your life," Taylor says. 
"Perhaps I've learned some tricks of the trade."
"Well, if you insist." You hear footsteps and hide the glass behind your back. A girl comes out, in a lavender dress with little white flowers. There is a knife in her hand. It's halfway folded and blunt. Didn't she have a sharp knife?
"Taylor," you say quietly. 
"Who in the world are you?" she says. She's not afraid of anything, or so it seems.
"Rose Thornton. I don't live here. I don't think that's your knife."
She looks at it and both you and her notice that there is a TL burnt into the wood
"No, it's not," she says. "Slimy as a fish, that Mr. Latcher…Thank you, Rose the Stranger Who Doesn't Live Here. You seem to know who I am, but I'll tell you that I'm Taylor Fletcher."
"You're welcome," you say, and she goes back into the room. However, the people in the room start speaking louder, so you can hear whispers without the glass. You pick it back up.
"–the new Justice of the Peace is coming, after all, and don't you see that this was the WRONG TIME TO DO IT?" 
"For goodness's sake, it's been six months," says someone else. "It's cold."
"No it's not," says the first person, "not with the niece digging up dust."
It's suddenly gotten a lot easier to prove what happened, you think as you put the glass back on the table. The Justice of the Peace is in town, and…if Tim Latcher switched the knife, then it must have been him. Him and a stranger. 
Taylor Fletcher is striding toward you.
"So, Miss Rose, I heard some surprising stuff standing in that doorway, and maybe you did too with your ear to the wall. Do you want to eat together and talk, maybe about your great-aunt? I'm so sorry she died, by the way." 
"I didn't know her," you say. You remember what Nora said about animosity between her and Taylor Fletcher. But it would be nice to talk about it with more than one person, and even nice to fix a friendship for two people you barely know…
Do you want to tell Taylor that you will eat with her and Nora, or eat only with Taylor, or just eat with Nora like you planned?

February 4, 1903 | Likely Christian Church, Likely

"If you wouldn't mind," you venture, "I'd planned to eat with Nora Jones, but we can sit all together, can't we."
"I suppose." Taylor suddenly seems much more acid. "But, yes."
You go over to a seat. Taylor sits down next to you and sort of turns away. For that reason, Nora sits next to you not knowing who her other dining companion is.
"Nora," you say, "this is Taylor Fletcher."
"I know who she is," says Nora, wrinkling her nose.
Someone stands up on a chair and rings a bell. It is Tildie Simons.
"Welcome, everyone," she says. "Eat, converse, and be merry. We follow the rules of our town's other gathering space, the Main Street Hotel: IN THIS ESTABLISHMENT, THERE IS NO ARGUING, FIGHTING, OR HATE OF ANY
KIND. IF YOU DO NOT FOLLOW THESE RULES, YOU WILL BE THROWN OUT,
POSSIBLY ON YOUR NOSE.  And–" She pauses "–Enjoy the food." She sits down.
You try to follow her command, but it's hard. Eating dinner with Nora and Taylor is like being an interpreter: Taylor talks to you, mostly asking about your life, and refers to Nora as "her". Nora asks you how your evening's been, and only talks directly to you. The food is very good, although it's rather hard to eat. You try addressing them both at once.
"So," you say, "I'm trying to solve the mystery of what happened to my great-aunt. Do either of you have any ideas?"
"I worked with you on this," says Nora, in the same acid tone as she did.
"Tim Latcher stole my knife recently," says Taylor, "so he could be a practiced criminal, but…" She glances at Nora. "Perhaps one'd think me improper if I were to say I spend lots of time in the woods." It's rather obvious that one is code for Nora Jones.
"And perhaps one'd think me prissy if I were to say I liked to sit and talk and sew with her." Now one means Taylor Fletcher.
"What actually happened between you two anyway?" you ask. 
"Well, we were friends, and then we started coming head-to-head a while," says Nora. 
"We were the last two left in a spelling bee," says Taylor.
"And both of us were good at the same things in school," says Nora. "We both left graduated last year, and they couldn't assign someone to be top of the class. They had to put both names on top of the list."
"And then," says Taylor, "there was the singing and music contest."
"The what?" you ask.
"Well, on Midsummer's day, there's always a bit of a festival, and this year there was a singing and music contest," says Nora. "We weren't as good friends as we used to be, stuff was already a bit strained, and then we dared each other to enter the contest."
"We play instruments, but we're shy," says Taylor. "I play the fiddle, she plays the piano." Somehow that suits both of their characters perfectly.
"And Taylor won," says Nora. "But the judges almost couldn't decide, and nearly picked someone else. We'd been competing so long, and we swore that we'd never compete again, but it got too hard to hold the promise once the judges picked the other. I'm so sorry," says Nora, speaking to Taylor for the first time tonight.
"I regretted it," says Taylor.
"Okay," you say. "Now why don't we solve this mystery."
"We could try to get an outright confession," says Taylor.
"Or we could find a way to prove it to the Justice of the Peace otherwise," says Nora, pointing at someone talking to Tildie Simons. "He's here."

Which do you want to do?