curls up and pinned her hair in place—struck him.
Knight decided he hated her hair like that. It wasn’t her; at least, not the her he was trying to puzzle out. She looked too different, even though she wore dark pants and her FBI: PAVAD insulated windbreaker.
“It had to be someone close,” Jac Jones said a few minutes after they were back in the large truck.
This was speculation he agreed with. People just didn’t show up at a farm seventeen miles outside of a small town only to bury Grandma.
“Someone who knew her,” Miranda said.
“She was in her nightgown and robe,” Kelly Compton said. Knight shot her a look in the rearview. Compton had her files open on her lap and her tablet balanced on her right knee, all long legs and arms. “Pics show it. It doesn’t look like she was wearing much else. Shoes. Thick socks. Undies—the exact kind you’d expect a woman of her age to wear.”
“That gels with the pink comforter,” Knight said.
“Quilt. It was a quilt. There’s a difference. The quilt she was making,” Miranda said quietly. “Helen was always quilting. Every time I saw her, she was making something. She made beautiful quilts. It was her largest source of income. There’s one hanging on the wall in the dining room at the inn.”
“How well did you know her?” Jac asked.
“I was good friends with her granddaughter Monica from about the age of nine until they left town. I’d been to her house many, many times. I knew Helen, and I knew her daughter Pauline. A little. Helen watched the kids; there were six of them; Pauline may have been pregnant with another at the time. Helen was almost always in a nightgown and robe. Pauline worked second shift at the plastics factory a mile outside of town. It went out of business about six years ago, I think. It was one of the few places that employed a large number of people from the county. Other than the ranches and the hospital and the school system.”
“So who all lived with Helen Caudrell?” Knight asked.
“Hmm. There was her daughter Pauline, and Pauline’s husband Luther. I rarely saw him. He was loud and obnoxious. Frightening. Always spouting off conspiracy theories and fear of the government. Grandma and my father wouldn’t let me over there if he was home. Grandma was careful to check where he was at first. Especially when I was younger. There was Lesley, Monica, Junior, Honey, Jennifer, and I think the youngest was named Marcie. Monica was my age. There were two in elementary school at the time they left, Junior and Honey were in middle school, and Monica and Lesley in high school. But it’s all one building, so our paths crossed often.”
“What do you remember about them?” Jac asked.
“Not much. Monica and I avoided her siblings as much as possible. She preferred to hang out at my house. She wasn’t exceptionally close to any of them.” Miranda shifted in her seat, putting one hand next to Knight’s shoulder as he drove. She faced the two women in the rear seat. “Everyone in town preferred to hang out at the inn, including the sheriff’s younger brother. He was casual friends with Monica’s older brother, I think. There were some days we’d have thirty to forty kids in our parlor.”
He could see that. The Talley Inn had a large open living room and parlor area, perfect for people to lounge in. Teenagers could easily pack in there and just escape the adult world for as long as they were allowed to.
“The question is, where did they go after Helen was murdered?” Jac asked. “Randi, you said they just up and moved one night?”
“Yes. It was in April, just before the school year ended. We were freshmen. Her brother was a junior. The sheriff’s brother Levi was in his class. Half the families around here homeschooled, even back then. A lot of the outlying ranches are too far from town. There isn’t a huge number of kids in each grade. We all knew each other. For about a week, the rumor was they were pulled to homeschool because their father had a problem with one of the teachers. That didn’t surprise anyone because of his personality. Except me. Monica would have contacted me in some way, and she didn’t.”
“Should we talk to that teacher?” Jac asked.
“Can’t. Mrs. Ramey passed away from a stroke less than three years later, if I recall correctly. She was already