The House on Foster Hill

by Jaime Jo Wright

  The newspaper he laid on the table had block letters identifying the Oakwood Herald. Beneath it, in letters almost as large, the headline Murder on Foster Hill.

  “Probably Oakwood’s most exciting paper ever printed.” Mr. Mason’s chuckle bounced his shoulders.

  Kaine leaned forward, her shoulder brushing Grant’s. He smiled, and Kaine dropped her gaze to the clipping. She scoured the article.

  A foul murder was uncovered Monday afternoon on Foster Hill by Mr. Averil Foggerty. The victim is an unidentified young woman who was strangled, according to Dr. Matthew Thorpe’s medical examination. Sheriff Dunst is investigating the case, and he claims the assault may have been perpetrated by a wandering vagrant. Detective Joel Cunningham has been commissioned to investigate the murder.

  “There’s nothing here about Ivy at all,” Kaine murmured.

  “Nope.” Mr. Mason laid another newspaper clipping in front of them. Part of the corner tore off. “But look here.” His finger rested on Ivy’s name.

  Though recent search parties have been unsuccessful, Ivy Thorpe has made the startling claim that the supposed infant of the murdered woman of Foster Hill House may still be alive. Inquiries at the Oakwood Orphanage indicate no orphan baby has been deposited there without a full account of parentage or history. Therefore, it is the opinion of this paper that Miss Thorpe’s assertions of such claims may also prove to be that of a mystic.

  Kaine stared at Grant. “A baby was involved?”

  “There was a big search for it supposedly, but the baby was never found.” Mr. Mason sagged onto a wooden chair. “Leastways not that we have record of.”

  Kaine ran her finger over the words, her heart feeling like it stretched across time and connected with Ivy’s. It was an empty, dark place to be when you had an intuition about something and no one would take your word for it. Ivy was charged with being a mystic. Kaine was threatened with being charged with false claims. “Ivy wasn’t a mystic. She must have known something the paper didn’t expose.”

  Mr. Mason nodded. “Well, you can’t deny that people were fascinated with death back then in a strange way. Today, we can go back and see that by looking at how they dressed the dead and propped open their eyes to take pictures of them postmortem as if they were still alive. Seems to me, Ivy’s death journal wasn’t much different, but folks just weren’t comfortable with the idea. It was maybe easier to explain Ivy’s claims away than deal with the fact a baby was never found. Speaking of weird, I even read of people who cut hair off the dead and saved it in books or jewelry.”

  Kaine exchanged glances with Grant. She didn’t miss the subtle shake of his head. Pulling her hand from her purse where she’d instinctively plunged it to retrieve the locket, she diverted with another question.

  “Why doesn’t the newspaper say anything about Ivy’s attack? Wouldn’t that have given her credibility?”

  “Maybe it did.” Mr. Mason shrugged. “We don’t have every paper, to be honest.”

  “And the Oakwood Herald doesn’t have them?” Kaine asked. “Or in the library? Would Patti know?”

  Grant said with a grimace, “The paper went under years ago. We don’t have a local paper anymore. We get our news from the town over. The library has microfiche, but I don’t think any of them go back much further than the twenties.” He tapped the journal Kaine had set on the table. “Ivy does describe her attack in here, though.”

  “In this? But it’s all memories of deceased people.” Kaine searched his face.

  “Until you get to Gabriella’s entry at the end. She’s the last one. Ivy’s last memory entry. It turns into more of a diary than a memoir.”

  Kaine raised an eyebrow. “So you read this, Grant?”

  “A couple years ago. Like I said, my dad—”

  “Was a history professor,” Kaine finished.

  “That,” Grant continued, “and Joy was the one who turned me on to it. She’s always had a fascination with the story. Her grandmother was alive during the time of the murder, so Joy grew up hearing some of the stories. She’s the one who said Ivy called the girl Gabriella, and Ivy’s journal confirmed it. Joy’s grandmother was the last one to pass away who lived during that time. She died sometime in the seventies.”

  “Shoot.” Kaine would have loved to speak to Joy’s grandmother. “Do you have any pictures?”

  “Of Ivy?” Mr. Mason raised his brows and struggled from his chair. “Darn arthritis,” he muttered. “Sure do.”

  As Mr. Mason once again disappeared into the back room, Kaine turned toward Grant. She tapped the locket in her pocket. “What if the hair in this locket belonged to the baby Ivy insisted was still alive?”

  Grant wrinkled his face in doubt. “That’s a stretch. There’s no record it was ever found.”

  Kaine wanted to open the locket but didn’t feel like answering any questions about it if Mr. Mason returned. “I don’t understand why the locket was in Foster Hill House. If Gabriella did have a baby . . .” Her voice trailed off as a morbid thought entered her mind.

  Grant frowned. “What is it?”

  There it was, the familiar sense of dread that accompanied her every time she knew someone had been in her house. But this time it echoed back to decades before and touched today. “What if the baby was buried in Foster Hill House? Like in a wall, or the floor? I’ve seen that in movies. It could happen.”

  Grant’s eyes widened.

  Kaine pressed, “What if Ivy found it?”

  “Then we would know, and it would have been buried by its mother in the Oakwood Cemetery.” Grant’s conclusion was logical. “I wouldn’t start imagining dead bodies in the walls, Kaine.”

  “Okay. So maybe the baby didn’t die, but if Ivy found it, what if she couldn’t tell anyone?”

  Grant shook his head. “Why wouldn’t she be able to disclose finding a child? And how would she hide it from everyone?”

  Kaine drew in a breath that reached into her soul. “Because maybe the same person who killed Gabriella posed a continued danger to Ivy’s life too. And the baby’s. Remember, my family tree in the old Bible did end with Ivy Thorpe. Maybe there was a reason no one kept it current. Maybe it was to keep them safe.”

  Chapter 20

  Kaine shoved some empty cardboard boxes out of the way in search of a plastic tarp. She didn’t miss the look Grant shot her. He still thought she was avoiding issues by starting demolition in an unimportant upstairs bedroom. But she needed to feel in control of something, especially after their trip to the museum. There was something too familiar with Ivy’s story, and the story about the dead girl and a missing child. Kaine needed to attack something and work off some of her angst on the old, dilapidated house.

  The trill of Kaine’s phone interrupted her sweep of a plastic tarp as she spread it over the floor of bedroom three. She spun, looking for her phone.

  “There.” Grant pointed at the toolbox in the corner.

  Kaine snatched up the glowing phone from among the tools Grant had been kind enough to bring.

  “Hello?”

  “So what’s it like?”

  The male voice made the hairs on Kaine’s arms stand on end. She glanced at Grant as he finished stretching out the tarp. “Excuse me?”

  “Being alone. What’s it like?” An unnerving chuckle echoed through the phone.

  “Who are you?” Kaine withdrew the phone from her ear and looked at the screen. The caller ID was blocked.

  “Do you miss him?”

  “I asked you who you are!” The sharpness in Kaine’s voice caused Grant to look up. He frowned, and she pointed at the phone.

  “It’s hard being alone. People thinking you’re crazy.” The pause that followed was emphasized by his long sigh.

  “I’m not crazy.” Kaine’s pulse pounded.

  Grant crossed the room, a scowl on his face.

  The stalker? he mouthed.

  Kaine nodded and tapped the speakerphone icon.

  “You should know. Your life
is defined by the ones you’ve lost.” The man stressed the words with an accent Kaine couldn’t place. Or perhaps it was more of a slur. The influence of alcohol maybe? Or a cloth held over the phone’s speaker to disguise the voice?

  “Why are you calling me?” Kaine demanded. She fought the urge to throw her phone across the room.

  “I asked if you liked being alone!” His voice rose, and Kaine clutched the phone tighter.

  Grant waved his hand and shook his head. Kaine followed his cue and didn’t answer. They could hear the man breathing on the other end of the line. Short, frustrated breaths, like he was agitated.

  “You know I’ll never leave you,” he growled. “I’ll make sure you are always reminded.”

  “Reminded of what?” Kaine shot Grant a frantic look.

  Grant passed his hand across his throat. Did he mean no more questions or did he think Kaine should hang up?

  Before Kaine could get clarification, the voice continued, “I want you to know what it is to be isolated, and the only presence with you is the one you hate the most. That person who haunts you, who ruined your life, who inhabits everything around you.”

  With that, Grant yanked the phone away and ended the call. He looked as if ready to jump into the phone and go all Darth Vader on the man. He swiped at the screen so that the number pad showed. Kaine grabbed the phone from him.

  “No!”

  “Kaine, you have to call the police.”

  “Not yet. Let me think.” She stuffed the phone in her pocket and marched over to the tarp. She made a pretense of straightening it, as if it was critical to cover every square inch of the floor with the blue canvas. She finally had a witness, Grant. Going to the police would be smart, and if Detective Hanson from San Diego really had reopened her case, wouldn’t that give her credence with Detective Carter here in Oakwood? Her mind spun. Or would it all backfire somehow?

  Grant tugged the tarp from her grip. “Kaine, that man is mentally disturbed. Why aren’t the police already involved?”

  “The police are involved. They think I’m the one who’s unstable. And if I make a habit of making unsubstantiated reports, then I’m in trouble.” She could barely think. She steepled her fingers and pressed them to her mouth.

  “But this isn’t unsubstantiated. I was here. I heard it.”

  He was right. She needed to report it.

  “How do people do this?” Kaine bit her lip.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve spent years helping women escape men like this. And I . . . I can’t even help myself. I sold my old car and bought the Jetta used from a private seller. I sold our condo. I pay cash for everything. My cellphone? It’s prepaid under a Jane Doe account. How did he get my number? I did everything but change my name.”

  She had coached many women through this type of scenario and could hear her own voice in her head telling them what to do.

  Have an emergency bag packed. Your vital documents, driver’s license, orders of protection, passport, Social Security card.

  The women’s shelter helped women regain their safety, their financial independence, and their emotional security. But Kaine never wanted to be running from her own abuser. A man without a face, without a name. How did one escape a ghost?

  “We need to go to the police and file a report.” Grant was definitive, and his expression emphasized the urgency behind his statement.

  Kaine stared out the bedroom doorway and locked eyes with the dead woman in the painting. Lines drew her face downward, as if circumstances had made her appear older and more worn than her age warranted. Had she fought through adversity, abuse, even fear? Kaine shook her head to clear her thoughts. It didn’t matter who she was. What mattered was who Kaine was. She wasn’t ready to give up the fight . . . not yet.

  Chapter 21

  Jvy

  Ivy curled her fingers around the edge of the church pew in front of her. Her starched dress of blue damask was as stiff as her back. She hadn’t been fond of church or God since Andrew’s death. Now, with her mounting passion to uncover the truth behind Gabriella’s life and the fate of her baby, Ivy could hardly stand still. She glanced across the aisle at Joel. How could he be so focused on church when Gabriella’s child could be out there somewhere?

  The church organ droned out “Near to the Heart of God,” and Ivy winced. She hadn’t been near to God’s heart for many years. The longer time marched on and stole more lives from the earth, the more it solidified Ivy’s inability to find hope in the shadow of death. Her father had suggested many times that Ivy escape the life of his assistant so she could cease witnessing the passing of so many souls. Even under medical ministrations, and in spite of her father’s expert care, the grave conquered souls. With death came the certainty that life would always be a mere breath of hopeful continuance. A hope that would be snuffed out in the end.

  Turning away from her dismal thoughts, Ivy released a sigh of relief when the warbling of the congregation stopped and the reverend prayed the benediction. Her father preceded her in front of their pew and nodded at a few fellow churchgoers. Ivy met Joel in the aisle as they exited, the echo of their footsteps muffled by the green velvet carpet beneath their feet.

  “I expect you’ll be at home this afternoon?” Joel spoke with congeniality, but Ivy knew his question was laced with more than one meaning.

  “My father prefers to take his afternoon naps in solitude.” She avoided a direct answer and slipped her purse over her wrist, its gold cord wrapping around her white glove.

  Joel nodded to a few community members, but commented out of the side of his mouth, “Perhaps a nap would suit you as well, considering your need to continue recovering from your attack.”

  “So true.” Ivy smirked. “Were I a broken porcelain doll freshly glued back together.”

  They reached the reverend. He shook hands heartily with Ivy’s father, who gave her a backward glance as he exited the church. Joel greeted the man of God with polite respect and a murmured, “Wonderful message.” Ivy rested her gloved hand in the minister’s briefly and dipped in a slight curtsy. She had no words of acknowledgment for him. She’d not been moved by his message at all, and her conscience pricked with guilt.

  The cool air of the spring morning blew against her face. Ivy adjusted the pin in her hat, ensuring it wouldn’t blow off in the March gusts, and wrapped her scarf around her neck.

  “Ivy.”

  Oh goodness. Joel again.

  “May I come calling this afternoon?”

  “Calling?” Ivy’s eyebrows lifted. Certainly not in a romantic sense? Her increased heartbeat betrayed her façade of indifference.

  “Because you refused me your companionship last night? Beneath your window?”

  They both noticed the sharp glance they garnered from a couple passing by. Red crept up his neck, and she was certain her cheeks matched.

  Joel gripped her upper arm with a light grasp and leaned in to whisper in her ear, his breath warming her neck. “We’ve yet to turn up any clues to the baby’s whereabouts or to Gabriella’s killer, but I need to be certain you bite your tongue regarding the infant. No more inquiring at places like the orphanage or elsewhere. The last thing we need is for rumors to spread that Gabriella’s baby is still alive, even if the odds are slight. You might endanger it if Gabriella’s killer for some reason has the child. If they believe we are still searching, they could—hasten the baby’s death.”

  Dread crept through Ivy. The kind of dread that paled her face and made her hands clammy inside her gloves. The idea had never crossed her mind—she’d never thought that maybe the person who had snatched Gabriella’s life may have taken the baby. She jerked her arm away from Joel, averting her eyes.

  “Ivy? What did you do?” Joel read the question on her mind. What had she done indeed!

  Ivy lifted her chin, and felt it quiver with shame. “I was only inquiring in case there was something someone knew and they simply weren’t speaking up. You know the newspape
r is often privy to anonymous tips. I thought perhaps someone had found a baby, or had a clue, or—”

  “You spoke to the Herald about the baby?” Joel’s shoulders stiffened. A hint of disbelief tilted his mouth. “Have you considered the ramifications of that getting publicized? Did it not cross your mind there was a reason Sheriff Dunst and I had not taken the same question to the paper?”

  Of course she had. The ramifications of it not being published could also cost the baby its life. It was a gamble either way. She caught the fury in Joel’s eyes. It hadn’t been her gamble to take.

  “You must put some faith in Sheriff Dunst and myself! We are not inept.” Joel snapped his mouth shut as a parishioner stopped to shake his hand. Ivy waited. Joel lowered his voice again after the man moved on. “Perhaps you should also consider, Ivy, that if you insist that baby is alive—who the sheriff and I are allowing the public to think is deceased—you will be branded as some superstitious spinster who thinks herself in touch with the dead.”

  “How is my reputation more important than the life of an infant?” Ivy really wasn’t trying to challenge his reasoning so much as justify the urgency behind her actions. The nightmarish thoughts of Gabriella’s missing baby consumed her, along with the ache that Gabriella had yet to be identified.

  Joel waited as the reverend walked past with another couple. He watched them head off toward their carriage before turning his attention back to Ivy. His eyes snapped with fervor.

  “You are linking yourself to Gabriella and her baby, and now, even more publicly. Whoever murdered the girl may have her baby and might be the man who already attacked you once and tried to a second time. He will come for you if he thinks you know who he is.”

  Ivy said nothing. Words escaped her along with her breath. The truth behind Joel’s words sank deeper than anything he had said to this point. Her actions were potentially endangering the very child she was trying to rescue, and most assuredly putting herself directly in the eye of the killer himself.

  “So, will you listen to me? Please?” Joel pleaded.