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“I think it must have happened sometime in the late ’60s,” I concluded.
“Sharlot Hall Museum,” Jude said, and I tilted my head.
“What?”
“The museum has the Prescott Courier on microfilm going all the way back to the town’s founding,” he explained. “If there was an unexplained hit-and-run here in the late 1960s, it should be in there somewhere.”
Right. I supposed I should have thought of that, but because I’d been spending so much time at the bar, I hadn’t had the luxury of going out and really exploring the town.
“Perfect,” I said, and meant it, because Tuesday was one of my precious days off. “Then we should go take a look tomorrow.”
“The museum opens at ten,” Jude told me. “Let’s meet then.”
“It’s a date.”
He only nodded, which could have meant anything. But I chose to take it as a good sign as I said goodbye and headed outside. The air was downright cold now, and I was glad I’d grabbed Hazel’s heavy wool coat as I left the house this morning.
Jack-o-lanterns were already starting to glow from people’s porches, even though Halloween was still two days away. I thought of the pumpkins I’d bought on my last Trader Joe’s run, sitting in the service porch and still waiting to be carved.
I hoped I’d be able to find the time to do that.
Hazel was waiting for me in the parlor. I was so eager to tell her everything I’d heard from Hal that I unbuttoned the coat as I spoke and then draped it over the back of a chair rather than taking the time to properly hang it in the hall closet.
She listened to the entire account, her eyes dark and far away. When she spoke, her tone was almost musing.
“Whoever they hit, that person must have had family, people who never knew what had happened to them. That’s the real pain under all of this, Lorelei. Someone lost a family member and never knew what happened.”
Then she disappeared. I stood in the parlor for a long time, wondering if she was going to come back. But apparently, she needed some alone time to process everything she’d just heard, because she didn’t return.
That was all right, though. I had some thinking of my own to do.
Chapter 17
Hit and Run
When Jude had said “museum” the evening before, I’d been expecting some big, institutional-looking building, probably with stately columns out front or something similar. But the Sharlot Hall Museum was instead located inside a large Victorian house, although I noticed there were other buildings on the grounds that looked a little less residential.
Jude was waiting outside when I got there at a couple of minutes after ten, and I guessed that he’d probably gone to the bookstore first and then walked over here, since it was only a few blocks away. After exchanging some “good mornings,” we headed inside and got to work.
He must have spent a lot of time here, because the archives librarian, a woman named Deborah, greeted him by name and set us up with a microfilm reader right away. She might have sent a sideways glance at my skinny black jeans, cropped black jacket, and black platform boots, but since I was with Jude, she appeared willing to let the outfit slide.
“We’re researching old Prescott crime stories,” he told her. “Specifically, from the late 1960s.”
“Go ahead and sit down,” she replied with a smile. “I’ll get you the Prescott Courier reels for 1965 through 1970.”
She hurried off, and Jude inclined his head toward the chair directly in front of the microfilm reader. “You can take the driver’s seat,” he said. “We wouldn’t be here at all if you hadn’t gotten the necessary information out of Hal Pruitt.”
Feeling a little awkward — I hadn’t used one of these things since college — I sat down, while Jude pulled out the chair next to me and seated himself. Just a minute later, Deborah returned with the promised reels.
“You can bring them up to the reference desk when you’re done,” she said, and hurried away again.
I looked at the little tray she’d brought, and for some reason, my gaze lingered on the reels from 1968. Sure, the accident could have happened in 1967 or 1969, but we had to start somewhere.
Fumbling a little, I loaded the reel into the reader and started scrolling, going slowly enough that Jude, who’d scooched his chair a bit closer so he could read along with me, wouldn’t have any trouble seeing the screen.
His knee brushed against mine, and a little thrill went through me. I told myself that we were here on Important Business and I needed to focus on the task at hand.
Most of the entries were mind-numbingly dull, local news that might have seemed important at the time but now, viewed through the lens of nearly sixty years, only reinforced what a cow town Prescott had been back in the day.
