“Yeah, well,” Marla said knowingly. “That doesn’t mean she’s not still out there. They couldn’t do autopsies back then, the way they do them now. My guess is her new husband pushed her into the creek and held her down. You’d have to be pretty dumb to fall into the water. Pushing somebody, that’s altogether different. At least, that’s what they kept telling me down at the Furman County Jail.”
“Tell me about the cabin,” Bo demanded as we rounded a stand of evergreens. The rain had once again turned to mist. “I suppose it’s historic, too?”
“Yes, we heard all about it last fall, too,” I said wearily. “Built around … oh, what did they say? 1860. It was a trapper’s cabin by the stream. The cabin became a stage stop and then a schoolhouse—the only one between here and Aspen Meadow. Then it morp
