A Widow in the Sheriff’s Arms (Preview)

Chapter One

May 1887

Joyful Springs, Colorado

The Rocky Mountains were quite majestic. Clara Whitmore remembered them being different though. Bigger perhaps. Although, the last time she’d seen them she had been a child. Perhaps that was the difference. That was all it took to change things. 

She shifted on the seat of the stagecoach. It had been a long journey out from Chicago. First on the train to Boulder and now by coach to the tiny town nestled in a valley in the mountains where she hoped things would be different. 

“Are you alright, dear?” Mrs. Chester asked. She was an old woman who sat beside Clara in the coach. As the only two women traveling out this way, they had struck up a smidge of conversation over two hours earlier. It had quickly petered out when Mrs. Chester dozed off. 

“I’m fine, thank you, Mrs. Chester,” Clara said politely. 

“Are you sure? It’s just…you keep sighing.” 

“Oh, I hadn’t realized. I’m sorry if it bothers you.”

“No, it’s not that,” Mrs. Chester said, placing a hand on Clara’s. “It’s not that at all. I’m worried about you. Are you sure you’re okay? If you’re feeling sick, we can hammer on the roof and get the driver to stop.”

“No, we cannot!” a stern-looking man in an expensive-looking suit said hastily. He hadn’t introduced himself when they all piled in as most of the other folks had. He sat opposite Clara, clutching a briefcase to his chest. 

Mrs. Chester glared at him. He sat up straighter, primly running his hands over his trouser legs.

“I have an appointment that I can’t be late for.” 

“We all have things,” Mrs. Chester chided him. “And if she needs us to stop…trust me, it’s better to do so.” 

This was getting unnecessarily out of hand. “I’m fine, Mrs. Chester,” Clara insisted. “I was just thinking.” 

“And thinking makes you huff like a bellows? Well, good luck to whoever you end up with. They’ll know the moment your mind starts working.” 

Clara sighed. 

“And there you go again!” Mrs. Chester said. 

The other passengers, a salesman, a man with a chicken in a wooden coop that he kept cooing at, and another man who had been sleeping with his head against the window, all turned their heads to stare at her. 

Not for the first time, Clara wondered if moving out West was a good idea.

“So, why are you coming to Joyful Springs?” Mrs. Chester asked. 

They had lightly touched on the subject before Mrs. Chester’s nap. The sweet yet chatty old lady had been to Boulder to see her sister, who had influenza and was poorly. Of course, Mrs. Chester had an opinion about her sister’s illness, how she got it, and what she should be doing to get better faster. She had regaled the occupants of the coach with the whole story. 

Clara hadn’t minded that Mrs. Chester dozed off the moment she asked her why she was moving to Joyful Springs. It wasn’t something she really wanted to tell everyone. But Mrs. Chester was waiting with that anticipatory look in her pale blue eyes. 

“My aunt lived in Joyful Springs, and I came to visit when I was a child,” Clara said. “I liked the place and thought it might be nice to live there.”

“Oh? Is that all?” 

“Yes.” 

Mrs. Chester snorted derisively. “Well, you never know. Some folks have interesting stories, and then there are others…” She shot Clara a disappointed look. 

That suited Clara just fine. The fact that she was a widow moving to Joyful Springs to escape the clutches of a truly horrific mother-in-law was no one’s business but her own. Eli, her husband, had been a policeman in Chicago, and he’d been shot trying to prevent a robbery. He’d died of the wounds, and after that, there was nothing left for her in Chicago. Nothing but his judgmental mother, who insisted that all their bad luck was Clara’s fault. 

“Do you at least know anyone in town?” Mrs. Chester asked, turning back to Clara. 

“Yes, Emma Lawrence and I have been writing to each other since we met when we were twelve and I came to stay here with my aunt for a couple of months. I finished up that school year here and we were fast friends. She asked me to come out. Now, did I pass your exam? May I enter Joyful Springs?” She asked the last bit in jest. 

Mrs. Chester had no say in the matter, but the old lady seemed to like the idea and nodded. 

“Of course, dear. You seem just as sweet as pie,” she said. Once again, she patted Clara’s hand. 

At that moment, the coach’s wheels rattled over something like gravel, and Clara looked out of the window in surprise. 

There it was, laid out before them. They were heading down a gentle slope into a valley dotted with trees. The buildings’ roofs stuck out between the patches of green foliage, and the whole place looked lush and lovely. 

As they rode into the town, Clara was amazed at how much it still resembled the town she remembered, even after over ten years had passed. Sure, some things had changed. There were more stores and houses, but the same ones that had been there when she’d come to see Aunt Daisy when she was still there. It made her feel less like she was in a strange place, starting again with nothing but the unknown around her. It was comforting. 

“Finally!” Mrs. Chester said. “My bones were beginning to ache. I think it’s about time my sister moves back home. I can’t take this traveling anymore.” 

Clara had no idea what to say to that, so she decided to stay mute. It seemed the right decision as Mrs. Chester turned her attention to the view out of the window. 

The stagecoach soon came to a halt outside of Dunn’s Mercantile Store. The sign that proudly displayed the name was somewhat faded, but it was still the same sign. At least, it seemed to be the same. 

Across from Dunn’s was McGinty’s Saloon. That sign was new. It was bright and swung in the breeze, making the leprechaun on it look especially creepy as he grew larger and smaller again at different parts of the swing. 

The passengers climbed out of the coach and milled about on the sidewalk, watching the locals go about their business. 

Clara smiled when she saw Emma. There was no mistaking her. Emma’s hair was as blonde as it had always been and her eyes just as green. Clara tucked a strand of her chestnut hair behind her ear, feeling quite travel worn. Emma looked so radiant. But then she would. She was about to marry the man of her dreams, Henry Dalton. He was a local banker and quite the catch. 

“Oh, Clara! You’re finally here!” Emma exclaimed, throwing her arms around her friend and holding Clara close. “I have been waiting in such anticipation for your arrival. Really, I have hardly been able to make a single wedding plan, I’ve been so focused on your coming here.” 

Clara chuckled. “Good old Emma, I’m thrilled to see you too.” 

They held hands and looked at each other for a long moment and then hugged again.

It took a couple of minutes for Clara’s bags to be removed from the luggage rack. Most of the other passengers hadn’t had much in the line of luggage, but a steamer trunk was hard to maneuver. The driver and his helper struggled to get it down without dropping it. 

Since it contained all of Clara’s possessions, apart from what was in her handbag, she was grateful for their care. 

“Thank you so much,” she said sincerely. 

The assistant driver smiled and tipped his hat at her and went back to work. He was sweet and very young. He hardly looked old enough to be out of school. 

“Right,” Emma said, helping Clara to trundle her trunk along the dusty street. “First, you need to come and meet Mrs. Raymond. She’s my boss, and if she likes the look of you and your work, she’ll be yours too.” 

“Lead on,” Clara said. 

Suddenly, her hands were sweaty. She really didn’t like being evaluated. When she was still married to Eli, she hadn’t had to work except around the house. This would be a large change. 

Perhaps seeing that Clara was nervous, Emma smiled at her. “You’ll be fine. Mrs. Raymond is really kind. If your needlework is up to scratch, she won’t hesitate to hire you.” 

“Thanks,” Clara said. 

Theodora’s haberdashery was sandwiched between the leather goods store and the tobacconist. It was larger than both of those stores and reminded Clara of a large lady sitting on a bench with two skinny gentlemen on either side of her. The haberdashery’s sign was painted in pink and yellow, which stood out against the dull, drab signs for the two stores beside it. 

“Who is Theodora?” Clara asked as Emma pushed the door open to the tinkle of a bell. 

“Why, that would be me,” a tall, elegantly dressed woman said. She wore a taffeta skirt and jacket of bright apple green with the ruffles of a crème blouse peeking beneath. On her head of dark auburn hair was a tiny, black top hat with a green feather sticking out of it. She looked like a picture from a fashion magazine. 

Thrusting out a hand to Clara, the impressive woman said, “Theodora Raymond, at your service.” 

“Clara Whitmore,” Clara said, shaking her hand very enthusiastically. “May I say that you look like a high society lady, or maybe even a fashion designer.” 

“Oh, you’re too kind,” Mrs. Raymond said, pulling her hand free of Clara’s grasp. She sniffed. “You look as though you’ve been in a stagecoach all day.” 

Clara swallowed hard. She was making a mess of things. Self-consciously, she ran a hand over her hair, trying to smooth it. It had a tendency to get a little frizzy if she didn’t comb it properly. Which, of course, she hadn’t had the time to do that morning. 

“She was in a stagecoach all day,” Emma said, shifting the trunk out of the way. She gestured to her friend. “This is Clara, the seamstress from Chicago I told you about.” 

“Right,” Mrs. Raymond said. “Did you bring some examples of your work?” 

Clara nodded. “I made this blouse.” She pulled at her sleeve. “And this skirt.” 

“Mmm,” Mrs. Raymond said, drawing a pair of wire spectacles from her pocket. She leaned closer and inspected Clara’s handy work. 

“These are a little—” Clara began, but Mrs. Raymond shushed her. 

She spent what felt like an age inspecting Clara’s clothing, asking questions. 

“Did you make the entire ensemble?”

Clara nodded. “Yes.” 

Mrs. Raymond raised the hem of Clara’s skirt and then pulled her by the waistband and checking it, she tugged on the sleeves and inspected the buttons on her blouse. When she was done, Clara stood stock still, confused and a little concerned. Had she known she was going to be inspected, she would have worn something with better work on it. 

The nights in Chicago had been long and dreary. As a policeman, Eli hadn’t been home much. It had been Clara and her dragon of a mother-in-law most of the time, and the best way to drown that awful woman’s voice out was to sit and sew. It was surprising that it worked so well. Clara had been able to wile away many an evening in relative happiness, despite the constant acid dripping from Eli’s mother’s tongue. 

“All right,” Mrs. Raymond said with a nod. “I’ll hire you. Heaven knows your needlework is superb. It almost looks as good as machine stitched. You work quickly, do you?” 

Clara didn’t know how to answer that. Never having timed herself, she decided to nod. If she wasn’t fast enough, she could always improve. She needed the work, and speed was a subjective thing. How quick was fast anyway?

“You can start in the morning,” Mrs. Raymond said with a smile that was all business. “And please remember that we dress to a certain standard here. We aren’t the culture heathens from next door.” 

“Oh, thank you so much,” Clara said, taking Mrs. Raymond’s hand and shaking it vigorously. 

“Yes, that’s fine,” Mrs. Raymond said, pulling her hand free after a moment. 

“Sorry,” Clara said. “You won’t regret this. I am a very hard worker.” 

“So, Emma tells me,” Mrs. Raymond said. She looked pointedly at Emma. “Well, back to work with you. I’m sure that Carla…” 

“…Uh, my name is Clara,” Clara said. 

“Yes…I’m sure she needs to get herself settled,” Mrs. Raymond said. 

“Couldn’t I walk her to the boarding house?” Emma asked. 

Mrs. Raymond looked shocked. “What for?” 

“It’s okay, I’m sure I can find it,” Clara said. Then she added in a lower voice. “I don’t want you to get into trouble.” 

Emma looked sad, but she nodded. “Okay, I’ll see you at dinner. Remember, it’s called the Wayfarer’s Inn. Okay?” 

With a nod and some help with her trunk, Clara was on her way. 

***

After stopping for directions at the bakery down the street, Clara set off to the Wayfarer’s Inn. 

It was apparently up the hill, nestled in the pine trees. That sounded lovely. Clara wondered if it was new. She didn’t remember there being anything built up on the hill that she had been directed to. 

With her trunk rumbling behind her, she set off. It was a bit of a walk, but after the train ride out and sitting inside the coach all day, she was glad to have the opportunity to stretch her legs. 

This was the perfect opportunity to prove to herself that everything that Joyce Whitmore had said about her had been false. Her mother-in-law had called her weak, hardly capable of taking a breath on her own, a weed. Yet, here she was, walking down the street in a new town where she only knew one other person. 

Joyce was wrong. 

Clara was capable, strong, and independent. Look at that. Hadn’t she just gotten her first actual job? It was terribly exciting. 

“Hey! Stop!” 

The voice rang through the air with great authority. Clara stopped walking. She was opposite the bathhouse and in front of the apothecary. That door was open. A man came hurtling through it. He had something in his hands, but Clara didn’t have a moment to look at the man as, looking back over his shoulder at someone behind him, he collided with her. 

It was a hard blow, slamming into her stomach and knocking her to the ground. Clara landed hard on her rump, gnashing her teeth and jolting her spine. Luckily, she wasn’t winded. She lost hold of her trunk, and it wobbled before it keeled over. The man somehow went flying over it, hitting the ground hard on the other side. 

He let out a painful groan and then didn’t move. 

Another man came charging after the first. He stepped into the street, where Clara sat on the ground, her trunk on its side, and he stopped short. Looking over the scene, he found what he was looking for. The other man still lay on the ground groaning. 

This other man leaped over the trunk and, bending down, picked the first man up by his shirt. The first man seemed to have dazed himself. Had he hit his head when he went sailing over the trunk? It was a possibility. 

“I would have thought you’d have learned your lesson by now, Caleb,” the second man said. 

The first hung his head. “I’m a weak-willed man, you know that, Sheriff.” 

“Yes, I know,” the sheriff said, shaking his head. “Come on, here’s Deputy Jimmy just in time to take you to our lovely accommodation at the office.” 

“Ah, no!” Caleb protested, looking with pleading eyes at the sheriff. “You can’t do this. I got a sick mama back home.” 

The sheriff shook his head. “No, you don’t,” he said and handed him to another young man in a broad-brimmed hat. 

Once Caleb had been handed over to Deputy Jimmy, the sheriff turned to Clara. “I’m sorry for the disturbance, ma’am. Let me help you up.” 

Clara looked up into warm green eyes framed by curly dark hair. Strong hands reached for her and helped her to her feet. She felt herself smile in response to his smile. 

“Are you okay?” he asked. 

“Um…” Her mind was a blank for a moment, before words came to her. “Ah, yes…I’m fine. I was looking for my accommodation and then…” She frowned. “What just happened?” Clara wasn’t entirely certain how she had ended up on the ground. It was as though someone had taken scissors to her memory and cut out that little piece.

The sheriff pulled his lips into a straight line. His lower lip was fuller than his upper and Clara found it oddly appealing. Especially the way his smile was slightly lopsided. 

“Mmm, I think I’d better walk you the rest of the way, ma’am,” he said. “Just to be sure that you’re okay.” 

Clara began to shake her head but stopped. What could it hurt? 

 

Chapter Two

She was easily the prettiest woman that Luke Granger had seen in a long time. Sitting in the street beside her trunk, looking bewildered and lost, something had shifted inside him. He had to walk her home and hopefully get to know her. 

“I’m Luke Granger,” he said as he righted her trunk. 

“Clara Whitmore,” she said, dusting herself off. 

“You’re new to town, aren’t you?” Luke asked. 

She nodded. “Got off the coach this afternoon.” 

He pulled a face. “Gee. I’m sorry about the welcome. Usually, nothing exciting happens here in Joyful Springs.” 

There was a moment of silence in which they stared at each other. Luke felt quite awkward, and he looked away. It felt as though he’d said too much or the wrong thing, maybe. Perhaps it was all in the look. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her. 

Swallowing, he said, “Ah, so…where are you staying?” 

“Oh…right…At the Wayfarer’s Inn,” she said. 

Luke liked the sound of her voice. “This way.” 

Trundling her trunk along the street, Luke began to walk up the hill. It was late afternoon now, and the sky was clouding over with dark gray clouds. Perhaps they would get some rain later. 

“What brings you to our little town?” he asked by way of making conversation. 

“New beginnings,” she said simply. “Chicago was too…crowded for me.” 

Her hesitation instantly had him wondering if she was trying to hide something. Often, criminals would do that: hesitate in the middle of an answer as though they were trying to make up an ending that wouldn’t incriminate them. 

The laugh that erupted from her was filled with a kind of self-deprecating anger that didn’t suit her. “Actually, the truth is…Chicago is too full of one sour old lady who hates me more than she hates anyone. So, Joyful Springs sounded like a nice place to try again.” Her expression was sad yet hopeful as she walked up the street beside him, and Luke had to reevaluate. 

This was no criminal, at least not that he could fathom. If anything, Clara just seemed sad, lonely, and maybe a little tired. 

Luke smiled. “I understand the urge to try to get out and find something new. I’ve only recently been promoted to sheriff.” 

“What happened to the old one?” she asked. 

“He’s my father,” Luke explained with a self-deprecating smile of his own. “He’s retired on the family farm with my brother Mark.” 

“Oh? That’s really great,” she said, sounding surprised. 

“You thought he might have met an untimely end?” Luke asked, smiling at the idea. 

“Well, it happens,” she said, looking down at her boots. “My husband was shot in an attempted robbery. He was a policeman in Chicago. So, sorry, but I automatically assumed…” 

“It’s fine. People do that all the time. I’m sorry about your husband.” 

She shrugged. “It was a marriage of convenience. He needed a wife, I needed a husband, and his mother needed someone to blame for everything. It worked out fine until it didn’t.” Frowning, she stopped speaking. “I am so sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me. I don’t usually tell perfect strangers all of this.” 

Feeling sorry for her, he shook his head. “Don’t worry. It’s not you, it’s my excellent sheriffing skills. I have to weed out the troublemakers. So, you’re not sharing too much, I’m interrogating you.” He grinned at the end to show he wasn’t being serious. 

Clara smiled. It was a pretty smile, full and bright, with even white teeth. 

Soon, they crested the hill and came to the Wayfarer’s Inn. 

“And there it is,” Luke said. “Your accommodation. It might interest you to know that the house was built as a rich miner’s home. There’s a coal mine not too far away, and he wanted to live in a place that wasn’t covered in coal dust. So, Mr. Garnier bought all the land from the government, the whole valley, and he built his house on the prettiest rise he could find.” 

“That’s lovely,” Clara said looking up at the tall pines that filtered out the sunshine, turning it gentle and dappled. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Turlington bought the house about seven years ago when Miss Garnier, the last of the Garniers in this area, moved into town to live with a friend. She is seventy-three years old and this hill was getting to be too much for her. Anyway, it’s been turned into a very nice boarding house, despite them calling it an inn. I hope you’ll be comfortable there.” 

“My friend Emma says it’s a good place to live. She has a room there, too,” Clara said. 

Luke nodded. “Well, there you go then.” 

“Where do you live?” she asked and then hesitated as though she had asked the wrong thing. “I mean, if it’s not rude to ask.” 

“It’s not rude,” he said. “I have a house in town. It doesn’t have as nice a view but it’s still pretty special.” 

They reached the house. It was a rambling craftsman with a deep front porch and large windows. There was a sign in the front window with the inn’s name printed on it in bold letters. 

Luke hauled the trunk up the steps. It was heavy and difficult to maneuver. He was breathing heavily after wheeling it all the way up the hill and then up the steps. Clara opened the door and let him go in first with the trunk. She followed, closing the door behind her. 

The inn always smelled nice to Luke. It had a polished, clean smell that was homey to him. He liked the look of the place too. There was never anything out of place and the staff were always friendly. 

Mrs. Turlington was behind the reception desk that afternoon, and she looked up from her work as they entered. “My goodness, sheriff, who do we have here?” 

An older lady with gray streaks in her brown hair, Mrs. Turlington, was always dressed in something gray. Today, it was a light gray jacket and skirt with a white blouse underneath. It made her look like one of the stricter schoolteachers that Luke had suffered under when he was a child, but she was anything but stern. Her smile was always friendly, and her eyes held a warmth that drew people to her. 

“This is Mrs. Clara Whitmore,” Luke said. “Clara, this is Mrs. Martha Turlington.” 

Clara smiled brightly. “The owner. You have a lovely place here. Just the look and feel of it is something special.” 

“You are too kind,” Mrs. Turlington said. “I am thrilled that you are going to be staying with us. Emma has booked you the room next to hers. Not that she’ll be in it too much longer, more’s the pity. She is a most genteel young lady.” 

“I’d bet good money she’d love to hear you call her that,” Luke said. 

“Now, Sheriff, you should know that too many compliments swell the head. We have to keep dear Emma’s feet on the ground,” Mrs. Turlington said with a wink. She turned her attention to Clara. “Your room is all ready for you. If our good sheriff will be so kind as to help with your trunk, we can have you settled in no time at all. There are some house rules, though.” 

“Of course,” Clara said. 

Mrs. Turlington took a large brass key from a hook on the wall behind her and gestured for them to head to the stairs against the wall. “These rules are not negotiable.” 

“I understand,” Clara said as she and Luke followed Mrs. Turlington up the stairs. 

“No gentlemen in your room,” she said, with a firm shake of her head. “Should you have a gentleman caller, you can see him in the parlor or the library. Breakfast is at seven every morning, except Sunday when it’s at eight. Then we go to church. We don’t serve lunches, but dinner is always at six-thirty, every evening, Sunday included. Your laundry should be loaded into the white laundry sack provided in the room, and it will be done for you. Ironing and darning and so forth are not services we offer.” 

Mrs. Turlington glanced at Luke. “Speaking of which, you have a rip in your shirt, Sheriff.” 

“I do? Where?” Luke asked. He put the trunk down on a step and inspected his shirt. 

Mrs. Turlington stuck a finger through a rip in the fabric by his left elbow. Luke frowned. “Darn it! And this is the only shirt with all its buttons.”

“Oh, I can mend that for you,” Clara said. 

Luke’s stomach did a little flip. “You can?”

“Sure, as payment for lugging my trunk around for me,” she said, smiling. “I can have this fixed by tomorrow morning. You can just leave it with me.” 

“Ah, okay,” Luke said. 

They continued up the stairs to the third floor and then along the corridor. There were doors leading off on both sides of the corridor. Mrs. Turlington stopped at the door with the number three hundred and fourteen in brass on the wood. 

Inserting the key into the lock, she turned it and opened the door. The room beyond was neat and sparsely furnished. There was a bed, a washstand, a closet, and a small desk and chair.

“This is perfect, thank you,” Clara said brightly. 

Mrs. Turlington smiled. 

Luke took the trunk into Clara’s room for her and then hastily left, not wanting to cause trouble for Clara. As he reached the door, Clara called after him. 

“Your shirt!” 

“Oh, right,” he said. He had his long johns on underneath, so he unbuttoned his shirt and handed it to her.

“I’ll bring it to the station tomorrow morning on my way to the haberdashery,” Clara promised. 

The idea that he would see her first thing in the morning made Luke smile brightly. Somehow, it filled him with excitement. Just the mere thought that she would be there made his heart shudder in his chest. 

“Thank you,” he said. “I’d better get going.” 

“Well, thank you for all your help,” Clara said. 

“Yes, thank you, Sheriff,” Mrs. Turlington said before turning her attention back to Clara.

Luke nodded and then headed back down the corridor. 

Once outside, he set off back into town at a brisk pace. Without the trunk it was much easier going. 

Isn’t Clara something? I don’t know quite what to make of her, but I am glad I met her. 

When he reached the sheriff’s station, Luke hurried inside to find that Jimmy was talking to their prisoner through the cell bars. 

Caleb stood with his fingers wrapped around the bars, clutching them so tightly his knuckles were white. “I really need it!” 

“No, Caleb, you don’t,” Jimmy said. 

“What’s he moaning about?” Luke asked, hanging his hat on the peg by the door. 

Jimmy looked around and smiled. His dark eyes alight with good humor. “Caleb here thinks he has a headache and needs some laudanum from the seven bottles of the stuff that he took from the apothecary, don’t you, Caleb?” 

“It’s true, I get headaches that are something awful!” Caleb complained, rubbing his head with one hand. His thin, sandy hair stood up at all angles, making him look crazier than before. 

“We can get Mr. Rosellini to come and take a look at you in a little bit,” Luke said flatly. “If he says you need medicine, then fine. But we’re not just dishing the stuff out like it’s boiled sweets, okay?” 

“Sure, sure, whatever you say.” Caleb raised his hands in surrender. 

Jimmy came over to Luke’s desk as Luke took his seat. “So? What’s her name?” 

Of course, Jimmy would notice Clara. It was so rare that there were new faces in town. Luke told him, “I walked her to the inn and made sure she was okay.” 

“I’ll bet she’s okay now,” Jimmy said with a silly grin on his face. 

Luke sighed. How could he explain to a man just a year out of school that despite the fact that he thought Clara was pretty, he had no intention of hounding her. Luke was a firm believer in letting things develop naturally, in their own time. There was no reason to try and force something that didn’t need pushing. 

Before things could become strained in their conversation, the door opened, and Bethany White came into the room. She was twelve now, if Luke recalled correctly, and was tall and willowy. 

“Beth,” he said warmly, having known the child since she was born. “What’s…what’s wrong?” 

Her face was a mask of deep sadness, and her eyes were red and puffy as though she had been crying. 

Luke’s first thought was that someone had hurt her, and he jumped up from his seat, moving around his desk quickly to her. “Beth? What’s going on? Why do you look so sad?” 

“Uncle Luke,” she said between sobs. “It’s so terrible.” 

“What is?” Jimmy asked, also moving closer to her. 

Bethany snuffled into her handkerchief and looked up at them with teary eyes. “It’s Miss Garnier. She’s dead!”