Praise for The Curse of Misty Wayfair
“Wright creates an inspirational mystery with thrilling finesse, blending chilling supernatural elements with the raw interiority of mental illness, and taking readers on Heidi’s haunting search for identity, which is sure to keep them up at night.”
—Booklist
“The past and present collide in this time-slip suspense, weaving the lives of two women together in a high-intensity thriller. . . . Prepare for a mystery transpiring through time that will stimulate the senses.”
—Hope by the Book
“With a masterful dual narrative, subtle romance and spine-tingling suspense, Jaime Jo Wright navigates the lives of two young women seeking a sense of identity.”
—BookPage
“In this thought-proving novel, the contemporary story and the 1910 threads intertwine to explore the consequences of past sins and the way light can break through the dark. . . . With depth and intelligence, Wright explores the role of faith in life.”
—Christian Retailing
“A pitch-perfect gothic that highlights the extraordinary talent of Jaime Jo Wright. I stayed up past midnight gobbling up this mesmerizing tale and was sorry to see it end.”
—Colleen Coble, author of the ROCK HARBOR series
“Stellar writing combined with stellar storytelling are rare. Wright brings both in abundance to The Curse of Misty Wayfair. The intrigue starts immediately and doesn’t let up until the final pages.”
—James L. Rubart, author of The Man He Never Was
“Two tales twist together into a story that draws the reader in and won’t let go. The Curse of Misty Wayfair is deliciously thrilling, with a resolution steeped in light and hope.”
—Jocelyn Green, author of Between Two Shores
The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond
“The movements between time periods are perfectly done to heighten the intrigue of each unraveling mystery. . . . A complex story with sympathetic characters and many surprises.”
—Historical Novels Review
“Brilliantly atmospheric and underscored by a harrowing romance, The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond pairs danger with redemption and features not only two heroines of great agency but one of the most compelling, unlikely, and memorable heroes I have met in an age.”
—Rachel McMillan, author of Murder at the Flamingo
“Intoxicating and wonderfully authentic . . . delightfully shadowed with mystery that will keep readers poring over the story, but what makes it memorable is the powerful light that burst through every darkened corner in this novel—hope.”
—Joanna Davidson Politano, author of Lady Jane Disappears
“The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond is true to Wright’s unique style and voice. Multilayered characters who intrigue the reader and a story the threads of which are unpredictable and well woven together make this a must-read for anyone who enjoys suspense.”
—Sarah Varland, author of Mountain Refuge
The House on Foster Hill
“Jaime Jo Wright’s The House on Foster Hill blends the past and present in a gripping mystery that explores faith and the sins of ancestors.”
—Foreword Reviews
“Headed by two strong female protagonists, Wright’s debut is a lushly detailed time-slip novel that transitions seamlessly between past and present. . . . Readers who enjoy Colleen Coble and Dani Pettrey will be intrigued by this suspenseful mystery.”
—Library Journal
“With one mystery encased in another and a century between the two, Wright has written a spellbinding novel.”
—Christian Market
“Jaime Jo Wright is an amazing storyteller who had me on the edge of my seat. . . . The House on Foster Hill is a masterfully told story with layers and layers of mystery and intrigue, with a little romance thrown in for good measure.”
—Tracie Peterson, author of the GOLDEN GATE SECRETS series
© 2019 by Jaime Sundsmo
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-2166-4
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Cover photography by Roy Bishop/Arcangel
Author is represented by Books & Such Literary Agency.
To Gramma Lola . . .
You taught me to be strong,
to embrace grief,
and to remember the ones we love
with our eyes lifted toward Hope.
I will always hear your voice.
It echoes in my heart every day.
Contents
Cover
Endorsements
Half Title Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
Questions for Discussion
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
CHAPTER 1
Imogene Grayson
MILL CREEK, WISCONSIN
JULY 1946
She should have paid more attention to her longtime neighbor, Oliver Schneider, when she passed him on the road at dawn. Her, hiking at an energetic, running-late march, and him strolling the lane, hands in his pockets, and overall straps over thin but strong shoulders. After all, they’d grown up together—albeit more acquaintances than friends—and Oliver rarely said anything that wasn’t worth listening to. But, while Imogene had paused for a polite morning greeting, she hadn’t taken his words and let them sink into her soul as perhaps they should have.
Oliver gave her his resigned smile—the smile the community of Mill Creek had grown used to since his return from overseas. A sad one, with ghosts in his eyes.
“Red in the mornin’,” he quoted, “sailors take warnin’. Red at night, sailors’ delight.”
Oliver pressed his lips together and raised his brows as if to add a silent apology for the brewing storm. He was an Army boy, but he’d cros
sed the ocean of the Pacific. He’d experienced war. He knew if the adage was true or not.
Imogene should have listened. Instead, she tossed him a saucy smile, tilting her full lips. “Aw, Ollie. You know nothing is as red as my lips—cherry-apple with a kiss, if you want one. And no one ever sent a warning out ahead of my arrival!”
She glanced at the sky. The morning rays of deep reds and oranges. A thin line of clouds glowing pink and sparkling. The Schneiders’ red barn rising above acres of knee-high corn like a marvelous crimson farm mascot.
Red was a color of beauty. Of joy. Of anticipation and excitement of home.
She should have listened to Oliver Schneider that morning on her way to work. But she didn’t. The day passed uneventful. She returned home for dinner, for that perfect still evening on the front porch with a paperback as cows mooed and a cat scampered across the drive.
Instead, her day was ending with the beginning of a new war. A more personal one. This time it chose to visit her home. A place that should be secure, should be sacred, should be safe.
People hustled around her. Blurs and forms as Imogene stumbled past them. Her breaths were shallow, but they resonated in her ears like hollow echoes, drowning out the commanding voices. She pushed her way through the front door of her home and onto the front porch. An iron shoe scraper by the mat caught her eye. Shaped like a cricket. Bristles dirty with earth. Hazel loved that cricket. She said it was “unseen but served a purpose.”
Imogene tripped down the porch steps. She planted her feet in the yard, her dress hanging to her calves with its flirty bow tied at the waist. She lowered her head, staring down at her hands. They were turned palms up toward the sky, fingers curled as if cupping the air.
“Red in the mornin’ . . .”
Imogene fixated on her hands.
“Sailors take warnin’ . . .”
A storm was coming. A storm had come. The scarlet stained Imogene’s skin, forever redefining the color red.
It was Hazel’s blood.
Her sister’s blood.
Yes. Yes, she should have listened to the war-weary GI that morning. He knew what red signified. Now Imogene understood it too.
It was the color of death.
CHAPTER 2
Aggie Dunkirk
MILL CREEK, WISCONSIN
PRESENT DAY
It was irony at its best that she stood over an open grave again, two years to the day that her mother’s grave had beckoned Aggie to join her. The chasm in the ground that swallowed the last physical remnants of the woman who had raised Aggie Dunkirk to be bold, to be courageous—to stare challenge in the eye and breathe a prayer for strength. None of that had helped the day her mother was buried.
Even rain had a double-edged blade. It could be comforting and cozy on a crisp autumn day like today, or it could be the omen of all things destructive. A thunderstorm. A hurricane. Or, as in this cemetery, a flood.
“This is what I call Fifteen Puzzle Row.” Mr. Richardson’s stooped shoulders, covered in a wool sweater, hitched up just a bit as he caught Aggie’s attempt to conceal a sniff of confused laughter at the nickname. He waved his hand over the expanse of land. “Well? Look at it? Back in the day, when these folks were breathin’, anythin’ that was confusin’ was a fifteen puzzle. And I’d say we’re not far from that now.”
No. No, they weren’t. Aggie adjusted her footing in the soggy grass, not for the last time, cursing the fact she wore red heels that sank into the sod like a knife through butter.
“Any-whose-a-whats-un.” Mr. Richardson’s brown loafer landed just shy of an overturned headstone that lay half buried in mud. He toed it with the tip of his shoe. Respectful. Gentle. But with an element of resignation. “We were tryin’ to map out the plots in this section before the rain came. What with the floodin’ two weeks ago, most of this was underwater. Who knew it was a floodplain? But then all them houses that had water in their basements? No flood insurance either. They’re callin’ it the hundred-year flood for these here parts.”
Aggie pulled her heel from the grass and tried to reposition herself. Her pencil skirt was keeping her legs limited as to their movement. Her tailored red jacket was perhaps the only bright spot in the Victorian section of the Mill Creek Cemetery. She stifled a sigh. She hated cemeteries. Hated death. Hated the gloom and the pallor that always settled in places like this. Yet here she was.
Washed up—no pun intended—in her own career, with circumstances thrusting her back into the one community she’d avoided. Her grandmother’s hometown. Mumsie with her silly little Midwestern quirks, her persnickety tongue, and her eccentric ideas.
“So, ya up for it?” Mr. Richardson turned, the ground beneath him saturated with moisture, squishing brown bubbles around his heels.
Aggie tried not to grimace, tried not to give the appearance of being too good for Mill Creek Cemetery. Oh, but she was. She really, really was!
“I always appreciate a challenge.” Aggie gave a quick nod and pushed her long, blunt-cut black hair over her shoulder. Yes. A challenge. Like selling an upscale home in Chicago’s Lincoln Park community. Oddly, Lincoln Park had its origins as a cemetery for smallpox and cholera patients who’d succumbed to the tentacles of death. It’d claimed the death of her real estate career too, when she’d failed to make sure the agents under her kept their licenses up to date. Being terminated for something she did was one thing, but being given the ax for something those underneath her hadn’t done . . . well, it was the pitfall of being in leadership. Ultimately it was her fault.
“Good.” Mr. Richardson’s nod and gravelly voice yanked Aggie from her thoughts. He waved his arm over the muddy earth, the upended gravestones, the plots where the earth had washed away, revealing old wooden encasements and the edges of coffins that held the remains of people who’d passed away before the century had turned 1900, let alone 2000.
“And what is my official job description then?” Aggie ventured.
She’d come here before visiting Mumsie. Before facing the ninety-two-year-old tigress in her dusty, antiquated house. Secure employment. Finances. It was her priority. But Mill Creek’s employment opportunities were like looking for groceries in a dumpster. It was this or waitressing.
“Cemetery Secretary,” Mr. Richardson barked out. His jowly cheeks tipped in a slight smile, and there was a knowing look in his eye when he said it. “We’re not worried about all those highfalutin titles here. You’re a secretary. We got a small office in the west corner of the cemetery where you can work. We just got Wi-Fi put in.”
Aggie managed a smile.
Mr. Richardson motioned to the asphalt drive that paved its way through the cemetery. “Let’s head back. No need to hang around Fifteen Puzzle Row. They’re not goin’ anywhere, for now anyway. And land’s sake, it’ll be a trick to figure out who’s who and what’s what. We’re gonna hafta get you to pull records and the old maps. I’ll have you work with the archaeologist. He can help figure it all out.”
“Archaeologist?”
If they were going to literally exhume the coffins and use paintbrushes to figure out the plots’ occupants, Aggie would have to rethink that waitressing job.
“Yep. One of the cemetery board members had some golly-waggled idea that we needed an archaeologist to bring their expertise.” The way he said the word made Mr. Richardson sound as though he thought archaeologists knew less than he did about dead people.
“I see.” Aggie’s response was minimal. Best to keep it so. Her heels met with the paved ground, and she glanced down at them. Mud up to the hilt. Aggie squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, collecting herself.
She’d fallen from a lucrative career to this—identifying and plotting out graves in a cemetery. Oddly, one could even argue she wasn’t qualified for it, if they cared to. But wasn’t that just indicative of her own life?
No one alive really cared.
Aggie was used to that.
Now that her mother was dead.
It
took all her courage and then some to knock on the door of her grandmother’s house. It’d been eight years. Eight. The last time she’d seen Mumsie, Aggie was a delightfully innocent twenty-four years old. Two years out of business school, already firmly planted with a reputable realty company and ready to conquer the world of residential and maybe, eventually, commercial sales. The world seemed so within her grasp then. Until Mumsie critiqued her dreams to the point of making Aggie question herself. Distance had been her escape, which had turned into a permanent separation.
She could see a person’s argument for divorce. Removing negative voices from one’s life. Granted, a grandmother was different from a marriage partner, but c’mon. For the sake of the argument, Aggie was going with it. Coming back was like returning to those old, nasty influences that only made her feel small. Insignificant. No. Stupid. Less than. Returning to Mumsie was like returning to an old ex, because you were still tied to them somehow. It was uncomfortable, undesired but circumstantially obligatory.
Aggie held out her hand, poised to knock on the green front door. She glanced up at the roof of the portico. It was triangular, a small shelter, miniaturized by the two-story rise of the old Victorian house with its gables and many crooks.
She was headed for a future of grave plotting and grandmother babysitting. She’d give anything—anything—to talk to Mom one more time.
Mumsie sent a letter, Mom. Said she broke her hip and needs assistance. I don’t want to go. I tried calling Dad, but he’s off in Germany with brunette-headed wife number four. I know what he’d say anyway. Mumsie isn’t his mother.
Aggie could imagine her mother’s response. Gentle. Calm. Stable.
She doesn’t bite, Aggie. She just snaps. Love her. I always did.
And Mom had. She had loved Mumsie with every ounce of her being. Aggie might have separated herself from Mumsie eight calendars ago, but Mom hadn’t. Not until she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Not until she had been through so much radiation and chemotherapy, seeing Mumsie would have been a miracle, let alone living another month. And she hadn’t lived. She had died, leaving Aggie alone to pick up the pieces of her heart and pack them away someplace where she could piece them together later.
Echoes among the Stones Page 1
