In Sheep's Clothing by Rett MacPherson

pulled it off of a shelf behind her desk and handed it to me. “Anything else?”
    â€œWhere would I get ahold of the census records for Greenup?”
    â€œAt the library.”
    I nodded to Aunt Sissy. We needed to go to the library, then, if for nothing else than to get a look at the 1850 census for Greenup. “What about church records? I noticed that you’ve got two churches in town. Do you have their records here or are they at the churches?”
    â€œThey are at the individual churches. I think they’ve been copied by the Latter Day Saints Library, so you can probably find them on-line now. Or at your local LDS Library. But since you’re here, I would just go over to the church and ask to see their records,” she said.
    â€œGreat.”
    â€œWhich church do you need?”
    â€œI don’t know. What kind of churches are they? I saw a Lutheran one when we came in.”
    â€œYes, the other one is Catholic.”
    â€œMmmm, I doubt that they were Catholic.”
    â€œWhy’s that?” Aunt Sissy asked.
    â€œShe called him a parson in the book. I think even in 1858 if she were Catholic, she would have referred to him as Father or as a priest. I don’t think she would have called him a parson. So I’m thinking the Lutheran church would be our best bet. But if I come up empty, I’ll still check out the Catholic church,” I said.
    â€œThe office at the Lutheran church is open from about ten in the morning to four in the afternoon,” Roberta said.
    â€œGreat,” I said. “Oh, and land records. I need to find out who owned a specific lot of land.”
    â€œDo you know when it was bought?” she asked.
    â€œI want to know who owned Aunt Sissy’s land before she did.”
    â€œOh, that’s easy,” Roberta said. “The Olsons owned it.”
    â€œNo, I mean, all the way back.”
    She handed me a stack of books. “The land records we have transcribed,” she said. Roberta was proud of herself, smiling at my Aunt Sissy, happy that she could assist with my hunt. That’s the thing about us historians and genealogists. We get almost as much satisfaction helping others with their hunts as we do when we’re solving our own mysteries.
    I looked around the room and there were no other chairs, so I just opened the books on one of the glass cases and began scanning them. Roberta was correct: Kevin Olson and his wife, Belinda, had owned the property before my aunt.
    â€œSo, you’re going to try to find the authoress of the novel?” Roberta asked.
    I looked at her quickly and then at my aunt. “You know about it?” I asked.
    â€œOf course,” Roberta said. “Sissy tried to figure it out herself, before calling you. She sort of enlisted all of our help.”
    â€œWho’s all?” I asked, and flipped a page.
    â€œEverybody in our quilting bee and prayer group,” she said. “Which is one and the same. We all get together and pray that our stitches hold.”
    I laughed, which was what I was supposed to do, and flipped another page.
    â€œI’m the youngest one in the group,” Roberta said. “Why don’t you come to our next meeting? It’d be nice to have somebody my own age in the group. I’m forty-one, and the next closest is … Diane. She’s what, about fifty?”
    Aunt Sissy nodded. “About that.”
    I did not slap the woman across the face for suggesting that I was forty-one. I was pushing forty, but I wasn’t there yet. Instead, I smiled and flipped another page, accepting the fact that I was no longer a spring chicken. It wasn’t the fact that I was not a spring chicken that bothered me. It was the fact that everybody else knew I was not a spring chicken. People treat you differently when you’re over thirty, and once you hit forty, it’s as if everybody just counts you out. Of course, revenge would be mine,