February 3, 1903 | Mrs. Soderstrom's House

"Excellent," says Miss Soderstrom.  Your food comes. You slather the pancakes with maple syrup and cut them with your fork (there's no knife). The pancakes are delicious and fluffy.
"Why do you suppose there isn't a knife?" you say to Miss Soderstrom, trying to sound small-talk-ish. She, however, takes it seriously--perhaps because, you think, she knows the answer.
"Gretchen's rule," says Miss Soderstrom.
"Who is Gretchen?" you ask.
"She's the proprietress here," says Miss Soderstrom, pointing at something with a fork. You follow its tines and see not Gretchen, but a plaque on the wall:
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. ENJOY THE FOOD.
"Odd," you say.
"Ah, well, we need it, don't we?" says Miss Soderstrom.
"Is there violence in this town?" you ask.
"Not much," says Miss Soderstrom. "A few years ago the Justice of the Peace was murdered. I was away at school at that time."
You are done with your pancakes and so is Miss Soderstrom. A waiter comes to take your money; you give it to them. They put the money in a bag and walk back, carrying the plates.
"All right, shall we go?"
"Yes," you say.
-------

It turns out that you passed the Soderstroms' house on your way to the hotel. Miss Soderstrom takes you inside, puts a plate of cookies and a pitcher of cold water on the table, and introduces you to her mother, who is sitting in an armchair.
"Mother, this is Miss Rose Thornton, Mrs. Smith's great-niece."
"Pleased, Miss Thornley," says Mrs. Soderstrom.
"Thornton," you say, shaking her hand.
"I apologize, my memory isn't what it should be," says Mrs. Soderstrom.
"And, Miss Thornton, this is my mother, Marjorie Soderstrom, married to the late Charles Soderstrom," continues Miss Soderstrom.
"Very nice to meet you," says Mrs. Soderstrom. Miss Soderstrom leaves the room and Mrs. Soderstrom, who is an elderly woman with long white hair, immediately leans forward and clasps your hands. (She is sitting in an armchair; you are opposite her on a sofa.)
"I'm so sorry your dear grandmother was murdered," she says.
"Great-aunt," you correct.
"Still so sorry," she says. "You know, the lock was picked." 
Do you a) agree with her as a pleasantry, b) agree with her and tell her how the lock rattles, or c) agree with her and tell her everything, including your dream?

Hawkstar, it's OK to answer multiple times in a row if nobody else is commenting. (Thanks for being interested in this!) Also, the posts have been further spaced apart, mostly because when school and swimming are in session I don't have lots of time, but thanks for being patient. 

--------

February 3, 1903 | Mrs. Soderstrom's House and the Streets of Likely 

"The lock was loose,"  you say. "It rattles quite a bit." 
"Indeed." Mrs. Soderstrom leans back. It is starting to rain; as you listen to the noise on the roof, a small puddle starts accumulating on the ground.
"Katherine!" Mrs. Soderstrom calls. "The tub, please!" 
"Yes, mother," says Miss Soderstrom, who hurries in, carrying a washtub. She puts the tub on top of the puddle and then leaves the room. 
"Please don't tell Katherine any of this," says Mrs. Soderstrom. "She believes that it was a peaceful death, but it wasn't. Oh, no, it wasn't. A few nights before I had slept in her house because we were knitting late into the night, and, well, at my age one wants to get as much sleep as one can. I was in the guest bedroom, and I wanted to ask her for some blankets, but I couldn't open the door. That knob was stiff, I tell you, stiff! And now it's as loose as the hinges on the roof door up there." She points at the ceiling. 
"A roof door?" you ask. 
"Yes, back in the old days, there was a loft and a door where you could get out. My husband got rid of the loft. Said he wanted high ceilings. But, anyways, now there's a loose door up there and it won't close," says Mrs. Soderstrom. "It rains real hard whenver it rains, you might best get home." 
"All right," you say. 
"You may borrow an umbrella." You take an umbrella from the stand and walk back to Mrs. Smith's house. At the intersection between South Street and First Street, someone barrels into you. They appear to be about your age, holding a satchel of newspapers. The person is quite wet and so, by slamming into you, gets you wet.
"So sorry," says the person. "I'm just delivering some newspapers." 
"Do you have any extras?" you ask. At home, every single day, you read the newspaper. 
"Yes. One penny, please." You hand him a penny from the pocket of your coat and he gives you a thin newspaper. "I'm Justin Simons." 
"Rose Thornton," you say. 
"Thornton? I'm so sorry your grandmother died. My mother thinks she was murdered, and I have to agree," says Justin. You wonder how everyone knows that Mrs. Smith was your grandmother when you've never been to Likely except when you were very small. 
"Who's your mother?" you ask. 
"Gretchen Simons," says Justin. "She runs the Main Street Hotel. I can take you to her if you want. She likes giving people free lunch." 
Will you go to see Gretchen or not?

February 3, 1903 | Main Street Hotel

"Sure," you say. 
You walk with Justin to the hotel. There are people there; instead of going in through the restaurant or the main door, Justin takes you through a side door that leads to the side of a spacious room with a front desk. 
"Justin!" says Gretchen, who's working at the desk, which appears difficult. There are people periodically coming downstairs from the room, people waiting to get rooms, and waitstaff coming in from the room next door. 
"You put the people in the rooms," says Gretchen. "And you have company! I'm so sorry, who are you?"
"Rose Thornton," you say.
"Ah, Tabitha's great-niece," says Gretchen. Again! And your last name isn't even Smith. "Please wait until we're done with the lunch rush and then we can have some nice conversation."
How can a hotel in such a small town be so busy? you wonder.
"I'm sorry, what, Miss Thornton?" Gretchen asks. 
"I don't think I said anything," you say. 
"Something about this being busy for such a small town?"
Oh dear.
"I'm so sorry," you say. "I was only trying to think it." 
"Understandable," she says. "I know that all too well, trust me. And the population of Likely skews older, so people have lots of relatives. The Jones children and Justin and the Fletchers are the only children here, and obviously children tend to move when they get old enough. I'm sorry? You have a dog?" And she starts talking to someone else. Once somebody else has left with their dog in a box, she adds, 
"Like Celia. We were best friends in school, but she dreamed of going to the city. I never thought she actually would." 
"You knew my mother?" you ask. You suppose they're reasonably the same age. 
"Yes. No soap? I'll call for a janitor..." and she starts talking to someone else again. After a few more frenzied complaints and requests for a room, she says, 
"Now then, you seem pretty interested in your mom, but if you'd like to talk about Tabitha first or instead of, that's fine." 
What would you like to talk about, Mrs. Smith or your mom's past?

February 3, 1903 | Main Street Hotel, Likely

"Tabitha," you say. 
"All right," says Gretchen. "I know a thing or two about murder, 'kay? The Modoc County Justice of the Peace was staying right here in this hotel. It's the only hotel in town. He had his last meal at my restaurant, cooked by my husband, Justin's dad. And I solved the case." 
"You did?" you ask. 
"Yes. The killer was convicted, dragged off to Alturas in chains. Anyway, my point is that your great-aunt was murdered, I just don't know who. I'm a detective in my spare time, but right now Edward is on a business trip, so I'm having to manage the restaurant and the hotel. Edward is my husband." She fiddles with the ring on her finger. Other than that she's not wearing anything fussy; simply a black dress. It doesn't look funereal at all on her--maybe it's the absence of any sort of frills. You guess she'd wear trousers if she could get away with it.
"Anyway," she says, "the lock had been picked, according to Mrs. Soderstrom, and dear Mrs. Smith was stiff as a board and her mouth was open as though she'd been screaming. And she was on top of the covers--even though it was a summer murder, according to Mrs. Soderstrom, Mrs. Smith needed blankets on her to sleep well." 
"That must be why the blanket in the guest bedroom was so thin," you muse. "The bedroom hasn't been touched since summer." 
"True," says Gretchen.
"I have a question," you say. 
"Say it," says Gretchen.
"You seem to trust Mrs. Soderstrom a lot." 
"That isn't a question," Gretchen points out.
"Okay, why do you trust her so much?" you finish. 
"It's a small town. You either trust someone to the letter of their every word or you don't trust someone at all. Now. Your lunch. Would you like to take it here, with me, or in the restaurant?" 

Where would you like to eat, with Gretchen or in the restaurant?

February 3, 1903 | Main Street Hotel, Likely

Gretchen rings a bell. A man comes scuttling out of a door.
"Yes, Gretchen?" he asks. He is clad in a waiter's uniform.
"Thomas," says Gretchen, "would you please make four slices of buttered toast and bring them here." 
"With salt?"
"In a shaker," says Gretchen decisively. "Thank you, Thomas." Thomas leaves and Gretchen tells you, "He's the headwaiter. Very good one, too. Here, sit." 
She draws a third stool out from under the desk and you sit on it. Soon, Thomas brings a platter of toast, expertly buttered with a silver salt shaker near them. 
"Thank you," you tell Thomas. 
"Anyway," says Gretchen. "Celia and I were such dear friends, but we were so different. She was always going, and she couldn't think about all the costs of things. She wanted to move to the city and become an actress." 
"An actress?!" you exclaim softly. Your mother is a dressmaker--was? She hasn't done much work since she married the comfortably-situated Thomas Thornton. 
"All I wanted was to stay here. I could find all the hidden pits long before Celia would've gone dancing into them. This hotel was the family business, and it was losing money when I was in my teens. Needless to say I was kind of depressed, but I didn't want to run away from it. I just wanted to stay and let life take me where it wanted, which was eventually better places. In this little town, everyone saw Celia as bright orange mixed with blue and me as grey. The thing is, this little town is much more grey than anything else. Except maybe green.
"Anyway, she left very young, sixteen, to go to a ladies' boarding school. That was when I started to have this little thing called business savvy, and then the Main Street Hotel was turned over to me earlier than it would've. Apparently Celia's marriage with Thomas was arranged, she wasn't all that happy in the first few months before she discovered how to not be tethered, and soon after that, there was a new chef at this hotel, and that was Edward, and the rest is history." 
"So you're happy here," you say. You wonder if perhaps you might not dislike Likely as much as you thought you would. Grey and green. You always think of yourself as green and pink, like the roses and thorns of your name. 
"Very," says Gretchen.
You finish the toast. 
"I think I should be going," you say. "I don't mean to impose."
"Oh, it's fine," says Gretchen. "But, in all honesty, I am a touch busy, so this chat would have to end. Don't mean to be brusque, but life doesn't stop until your dying day." 
"Goodbye," you tell her.
"Goodbye," says Gretchen. "See you soon, hopefully."
As you walk, you keep thinking about what Gretchen said. Life doesn't stop. Not through all the heartbreak and sadness and tears and trouble and happiness and joy and five-million-emotions-at-once.
Until, all of a sudden, it does.
And it did, in your late great-aunt's bedroom, very mysteriously and even dangerously. As you go inside, an inkling of an idea comes to you. 
Would you like to search Mrs. Smith's room for clues?

February 3, 1903 | Mrs. Smith's House, Likely

You think back to what Gretchen said about either trusting people fully or not at all.  You decide that, since you don't want to become a "not at all" character, as soon as you go into the room you'll draw the curtains and, if anyone knocks on the door, you'll immediately run down and answer and not say you were doing anything. 
It takes you awhile to gather the courage to walk into the room. As you stand in the doorway, you have a very good view of the street. Justin is walking by selling papers, and then Elizabeth and Harry go out into their front yard and play some sort of ball game. Eventually they go indoors. You go in and close the curtains. As you reach for the knob on the desk drawer, you remember not to leave fingerprints and then bolt and fetch a pair of gloves from the guest room. 
You look in all the drawers of the desk. There is nothing there, other than lots of journals and ink. It appears that Mrs. Smith wrote stories. Some of them are very good, you discover. Then you look under the bed and inside the closet. There is nothing there, until you reach a staid brown tartan overcoat with ugly wooden toggles. It doesn't seem like something Mrs. Smith would wear, if she's as good as her stories. You slip your hand into the pocket. 
Inside is a tiny piece of paper, with the same texture as the paper in the journals, and it has writing on it. Sloppy, scrawly letters. Those of someone honoring a last wish, because perhaps they were guilty that the last wish had to come so soon. 
I HOPE I WILL SURVIVE.
It appears that, as well as a sleepwalker, you are a prophetic dreamer. 
Someone knocks on the door and you bolt downstairs. It is Nora Jones.
"We'd be honored if you'd like to join us for dinner," she says. 
Will you eat with the Joneses or at the Hotel?

The Joneses

February 3-4, 1903 | Mrs. Smith's house, Likely

"With you," you say. You are very conscious of the little scrap of paper clutched in your hand, and suddenly you get an idea. 
"Nora," you say, only showing her the "I hope" part. "Do you know anyone whose handwriting looks like this?"
"Well, there's Taylor Fletcher, and, honestly Adelaide, and maybe Mr. Kane who lives up on the hill? I don't quite know everyone's handwriting." 
"Who is this Taylor Fletcher?" you ask, deciding not to incriminate Nora's sister.
"She's the smartest girl in this town. And she's a good singer." The smallest note of envy creeps into Nora's voice. 
"All right," you say. "And Mr. Kane?"
"He's a recluse of sorts, but he loves saving animals." You don't think that Mr. Kane would murder anyone. 
"How old is Taylor Fletcher?" 
"Seventeen." You also don't think that she's a teenage murderer.
"Okay," you say. "Do you think it would be possible for me to meet Mr. Kane?" 
"Well," she says, "you could wait until he comes to town and ask Gretchen to leave you a message. He likes going to the hotel. Or you could go to his house." 
Which do you want to do?