Finally, she took it out of the album and set it on the coffee table.

She went through the rest of the boxes in a matter of hours. As she’d suspected, there was nothing from her grandmother’s time at the Madam here. She was going to have to figure out some other way to get information.

Willa got to her feet with a groan and a hop. She’d been sitting on the floor so long her leg had fallen asleep. She went to the front door to make sure it was locked, then turned off the living room lights. She limped to the kitchen to get something to drink before going to bed. When she opened the refrigerator, light sliced through the dark kitchen, telescoping all the way to the kitchen table at the far end of the room. She stood in front of the open door and drank some juice out of the bottle. When she finished, she put the bottle back and turned.

That’s when she noticed it.

Leaving the refrigerator door open for light, she walked to the kitchen table. She had a few soft, overripe peaches in a hand-thrown bowl one of her National Street friends had made for her. The fruit was starting to fill the air with the sweet premonition of decay.

Her scalp suddenly tightened, and she backed away.

Propped against the bowl was the photo of her father, the strangely roguish photo she’d taken out of the album and placed on the coffee table in the living room.

And she hadn’t moved it here.

Willa never thought she’d ever find herself doing this, never once thought she’d put any stock in those superstitions her grandmother had taken so seriously, but she’d been scared enough after finding her father’s photo in the kitchen last night to put a penny on her windowsill and crack the window, because her grandmother had once said that ghosts often forgot they were ghosts and would go after money, but if they got close enough to an open window, the night air would suck them out.

Needless to say, she didn’t get a lot of sleep. It didn’t help her nerves when, that morning, a black-and-yellow bird managed to get in through the crack in her bedroom window, and it took an hour and a broom to get it to fly back out.

It was Rachel’s day off, so when Willa got to the store, she unlocked the door and turned on the lights; then she ground beans and started the coffeemaker. She wasn’t as good a barista as Rachel was, but she got by. Rachel had left the case stocked with mocha-chip cookies and cappuccino doughnuts. She’d also left Willa a special box of coffee-coconut bars, which she knew were her favorite. On the box was a note: Made these especially for you. Call me if you need me. She must have stayed late last night just to do this.

Willa had walked in feeling moody and distracted, but this made her smile. Rachel’s coffee magic was a cure for all ills, if a little hard on the waistline. It helped Willa focus, to see reason—of course, she must have moved that photo herself; she just didn’t remember—and she decided on another plan of action.

The first lull in customers she had, Willa called her friend Fran at the library. Fran was a transplant and a frequent visitor to Willa’s shop. She went hiking in Cataract nearly every weekend.

“Hi, Fran, it’s Willa.”

“Willa! This is a surprise.” Fran was one of those people who always sounded like she was talking with her mouth full. “What can I do for you?”

“How do I find out what went on in this town during 1936? What kind of archives do you have?”

“Police and reporters came in here asking the same thing when the skeleton turned up at the Madam,” Fran said. “Unfortunately, there wasn’t a town newspaper back then. Why do you want to know?”

“I’ve been going through my grandmother’s things, and there’s not as much there about her life as I had hoped. Nineteen thirty-six was a big year for her. Her family lost the Madam. She gave birth to my father.”

Fran seemed to think about it for a moment. Willa heard the tick of what sounded like computer keys. “Well, we do have several decades’ worth of The Walls of Water Society Newsletter. That’s what I showed the police.”

“What is that?”

“A weekly single-page gossip column, basically. It circulated for most of the 1930s and ’40s.” Fran laughed. “You should read these things. They’re priceless. They document the lives of the society ladies during that time.”

“Do you think I could take a look?” Willa asked.

“Of course. I’ll be happy to set you up.”

A couple of tourists walked in, and Willa smiled and waved at them. “How late are you open today?” she asked Fran.

“It’s a half-day today. Budget cuts have meant shorter hours. I’m actually about to lock up and go home.” Fran paused. “I’ll tell you what, call me at home when you get off work, and I’ll meet you here.”

“You’re the best, Fran. Thanks.”

Fran was waiting for her that evening when Willa got to the library, which had recently been moved to a strip mall from its former location in the basement of the courthouse. She was standing by the door, faintly disheveled and smelling oddly of celery.

Once inside, Fran gave Willa all the microfiche film she needed, then told her to make sure the door was locked when she left. When the heavy door shut behind Fran, Willa stood there for a moment. It was a curious sensation, being in a library alone. It made her feel like she had cotton in her ears. She walked to the microfiche readers in the back of the room, afraid to make too much noise. She sat down, and gradually the click and burr of the machine became a calming rhythm as she went though the film.

It took a while to find the 1936 issues, but when she found them she started in January and worked her way through.

The Walls of Water Society Newsletter was obviously the labor of love of a rich, childless woman named Jojo McPeat. The single-page newsletter was full of gossip from social events, usually with one or two photos included.

The events read like this:

Mrs. Reginald Carter and her daughter made a splash in their matching pink coats at the Ingram family’s annual January snow ball. Overheard by the ice sculptures were several ladies who thought the pair looked like cotton candy, but most enjoyed their ensembles, complete with matching earmuffs and hand-warmers.

Jojo made long-running commentaries on what women wore, and she loved to quote anonymous naysayers. What Willa found interesting were the small references to the town itself hidden in the text. Several of the parties’ hosts would hold raffles, and the proceeds would go to local logging families that had been hurt financially when the government bought the forest surrounding Walls of Water. Jojo once quoted Olin Jackson, who was Georgie’s father, at a party, promising that since the Jacksons gave this town an economy once, they would do it again, although he didn’t say exactly how. And Jojo herself questioned this (allegedly drunken) statement by asking how a man who let his daughter dress in last year’s clothes was going to save the town. There were jabs made toward the Jacksons quite often, but they were like pebbles being thrown at kings. The Jacksons were, unquestionably, town royalty, even if it appeared they were suffering financially.

Sitting there, Willa found herself leaning in to get a closer look at the grainy black-and-white photos of her grandmother at these parties, her breath catching in her throat at the unexpected gift of getting to see her grandmother like this. She was a stunning young woman, but her smile made her seem like she either didn’t know or didn’t care that she was beautiful. She looked vivacious and innocent, and she was always surrounded by her girlfriends. Agatha Osgood, herself a handsome young woman in a more reserved and angular way, was regularly at her side.