Ivy could only nod. Though she hadn’t trusted Joel for twelve long years, it appeared she might have to begin again.
Chapter 22
Kaine
Their little work crew of four gathered to help Kaine on this sunny Saturday afternoon. Joy and Megan were downstairs stirring up some refreshments Joy had hauled in her car while Grant and Kaine were beginning demolition—of sorts. Kaine dug her crowbar into the floor to pry up a board.
She paused and stole a glance at Grant, who had already pried up three floorboards to her one. He caught her staring and offered her his signature crooked smile. “What’s up?”
Kaine glanced back at the floor and winced. “I was just thinking, what if we find a body buried here? Under the floor.”
Grant’s chuckle filled the room. “Well, it’d be bones by now, if that happened.”
“Let’s hope,” she said, prying up the board with her crowbar. “But I can’t help but relate to Ivy—to Gabriella. I have this gut feeling there’s way more to their story, and now here I am in a similar situation. I can’t even be in my own home alone for fear I’ll be attacked.” The floorboard popped up with a loud snap. Kaine threw the board onto their newly started pile and turned to Grant. “I’m glad you’re here, but . . . you can’t always be with me.”
“Here we are!” Joy’s singsongy voice interrupted them. She lofted a tray of lemonade, her specialty. Hand-squeezed lemon and orange juice mixed with water and lots of sugar.
Kaine lowered her crowbar. Megan followed her mother in, her smile mimicking Joy’s. Joy poured the drink and handed Kaine a cup. She took a long gulp.
“Wow.” Kaine licked her lips after tasting the lemonade. “This is amazing.” She drained the last of her lemonade, her mouth delighting in the mixture of citrus and sugar. Sweetness. She needed that in her life to overcome the sour.
“My grandmother’s recipe.” Joy tweaked Megan’s nose, and the girl laughed. She ducked from her mother’s affectionate play. “She taught it to me when I was little. I used to squeeze the oranges while she mangled the lemons into something sweet.”
“More, Kaine?” Megan raised the pitcher with a worshipful expression on her face.
“Absolutely, sweets.” Kaine held out her red plastic cup.
Joy perched in a pink camouflage camp chair she’d brought with her. Her version of help was food, drinks, and chatter.
“Joy, did your grandmother grow up in Oakwood?” Kaine took a sip. She tossed Grant a quick look over the rim of her cup. Grant narrowed his eyes.
Joy blinked and her ruby earrings bobbed in a haphazard dance as she shook her head. “Her later years, yes. She was born in Canada actually, but other than that, she never talked much about her childhood.”
“Did she know my great-great-grandmother?” Kaine sank into another camp chair, this one with the Green Bay Packers logo printed on its back.
Joy’s laugh filled the room. “Oh, buttercup, you age me. My grandmother knowing your great-great-grandmother makes me realize just how old I am.”
Megan patted her mother’s hand as if Joy was experiencing authentic distress.
“Oh, honey, I’m teasing.” Joy squeezed her daughter’s hand. She turned back to Kaine. “My grandmother did know Ivy. She thought highly of her too, and Ivy’s family.”
Kaine set her cup on the floor. “Did she share any memories of Ivy? Her family? Babies?”
“Babies?” Joy wrinkled her nose. “Funny you should ask. That’s one thing my grandmother always brought up. How Ivy wasn’t much for children or babies. She was very independent and private, and while she was kind toward children, she didn’t gravitate to them like most women do. But she did have her own. Daughters, I believe.”
“Daughters? One of them must have been my grandpa’s mom, then.”
“I thought there were three girls, but I don’t recall exactly.” Joy crossed her leg over her knee and bounced it up and down. “I suppose I could have my facts mixed up. It was my grandmother who made sure Ivy had a memorial in the museum. Along with Ivy’s journal and the memory quilt that disappeared way back when.”
Kaine shot Grant a look. She gave her head a little shake. She’d prefer he not reveal she had Ivy’s quilt in her possession. She wasn’t ready to try to explain how it ended up back in her family.
“Memory quilt?” Kaine evaded any explanation. She noticed Grant take a drink from his cup. Good. He wasn’t going to say anything.
“Yep. She made a quilt with patches from the clothes of her dead brother.” Joy reached over and pulled Megan’s camp chair closer to her.
“Her dead brother?”
“I think she said his name was . . . Adam? Andrew? Grandma said Ivy was an odd duck. She kept to herself most of the time. The town always figured that when her brother died, it traumatized Ivy.”
“If your grandmother thought Ivy was so peculiar, why did she want to have her memory quilt and a story with such limited information kept at the museum?”
Joy shrugged, and her earrings dangled and caught the sunlight. “I always wondered that myself. Frankly, I have no idea.”
Kaine caught Grant looking at her. He had been protective since the other night when she’d knocked on his door. She wasn’t used to it. The way he took off work to help her, then went with her to the museum, and texted her at night to be sure she was all right. A part of her was thankful for his self-appointed guardianship, especially since they hadn’t known each other that long. Another part of her worried she was just a psychological challenge to him. A case of grief with lots of baggage, which he wanted a shot at cracking.
Danny had been protective, but in a mild way, not like the intense dedication that oozed from Grant. Danny was more longing, as if he would protect her but knew that, in reality, she was stronger than he was. It had worked—their marriage—but Kaine had found security in the fact Danny didn’t probe into who she really was or into her memories. One look into Grant’s eyes and she knew he was born to analyze, question, and diagnose. That was both comforting and disconcerting.
Her cellphone rang. Kaine reached into her pocket and pulled out the phone. She eyed it warily. It was a California number. Not Leah’s or one of her long-ostracized friends or co-workers, but at least it was a number and not Caller ID Unknown. She tapped the green button on the screen.
“Kaine Prescott?”
It was a female voice. “Yes?”
“Sorry to call you on a Saturday, but this is Detective Tamara Hanson. I believe your sister spoke to you already?”
“Oh!” Kaine jumped to her feet and threw Grant a look to assure him everything was okay. Finally! She’d wanted a new phone since the suspicious call, but hadn’t wanted to miss Detective Hanson’s call. She hurried from the room and into the hallway. “Yes, Leah did. Thank you for looking into my husband’s case again.”
“I had questions about how thoroughly the case was investigated after your testimony.”
Kaine wasn’t sure what to say.
“Anyway,” Detective Hanson continued, “I’d prefer to interview you here at the precinct. But since you’re in Wisconsin, I’d rather not wait for you to fly back.”
“Fly back?” Kaine leaned against the wall and looked up to meet the beady gaze of the woman in the ancient portrait hanging in the hallway.
“We may ask you to return if this case turns into something other than what was concluded. Not to mention your sister stated you suspect the perpetrator may have followed you there? I’d prefer to have you back in San Diego so we can offer protection. You’re completely out of my jurisdiction right now.”
Kaine pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “I did receive a threatening call.”
“You did?”
“Yes. I-I filed a report here with the local police department.”
“And?”
“Well, they’re looking into it, I guess. There wasn’t much to go on, of course. The number was blocked.”
“Good to know. I’ll t
ouch base with the precinct there and get a copy of the report,” Detective Hanson assured her. There was no implication in her tone that she thought Kaine was crazy. “Miss Prescott?” The detective’s voice broke through her musing.
“Yeah?”
“Do you have any idea who you believe may have killed your husband?” The detective’s straightforward question caught her off guard.
“Of course not. If I did, I would have said so two years ago.”
“I figured as much. Did Danny have any enemies?”
Kaine gave a wry laugh. “On World of Warcraft, sure. But in real life? He was . . . good.” Her eyes burned. Too good.
“Do you have any enemies? I see you were a social worker?”
“Yes. I suppose I could have enemies. I mean, I helped a lot of women escape their abusers, even a few from sex trafficking. I suppose there could be a whole list of enemies.” Kaine swallowed hard.
“Sure, sure. I see.” Something clicked in the background, as if the detective was typing on a keyboard. “Okay. So the intrusions into your home. You stopped filing reports. Didn’t we have you install an alarm system?”
“No. I was told there wasn’t any credible evidence of a break-in. No broken locks, windows, jimmied doors. A few times of my filing reports and their dispatching someone to check it out—they gave me a pretty strict warning to knock it off unless I had proof.” Apparently, daffodils weren’t considered threatening. “I did install my own alarm system, though.”
“Was it ever triggered?”
“Once.” And the police still found nothing. Everything in her had wanted to move in with Leah and her husband. But what if it became worse? More threatening? She couldn’t endanger them.
“Had you been officially diagnosed with any type of anxiety disorder or depression?”
Kaine held back a growl. This wasn’t the kind of help she was hoping for when it came to solving Danny’s murder and arresting her stalker. Flying home was becoming less and less appealing. She would be returning to more questions about her own mental state. “It was insinuated that I should be seen.”
“And did you ever visit a psychologist?”
Did Detective Hanson have a checklist? “I saw a counselor. I was not diagnosed with PTSD.” Depression, yes, but admitting that wasn’t going to help her cause.
Grant peeked around the corner. You okay? he mouthed.
Kaine nodded. For now.
“All right.” Detective Hanson’s voice sounded like she was biting back a sigh. “It’s been two years since your husband’s death, but I want to revisit just a few facts.”
Kaine gripped the phone tighter.
“You said your husband never took drugs of any kind?”
“That’s right.” Kaine squeezed her eyes shut. She’d been through this so many times.
“And yet drugs were found in his system.”
Kaine was silent. She couldn’t deny that, but then that had been her biggest argument for his murder. Danny would have never, never taken narcotics of any kind.
“So your statement said that you never knew Danny to use, and you were certain it had to have been slipped to him before he got in his vehicle to drive, therefore causing the accident?”
“Yes.” Kaine had no proof. She never would.
“I went through the evidence. There was a disposable coffee cup found in the car.”
Kaine smiled, tears filling her eyes. Yes. The Bean and Brew. Danny loved that place.
“I pulled the cup and had it tested. It came back positive for drug residue. It’s possible Danny’s coffee was spiked with a narcotic. But in black coffee, it would be difficult for him to have known.”
Detective Hanson’s statement was a sucker punch to Kaine’s stomach. “What would it have done to him?”
“Nausea, dizziness, poor coordination, even amnesia in some surviving cases.” The list went on like a pharmaceutical warning label. “I have to apologize. It was sloppy that it was written off as drug use by the detective assigned to the case. It’s obvious your husband wasn’t using narcotics, and . . . well.” Detective Hanson left it there, and Kaine understood the reason why. She probably couldn’t say much about the detective who’d handled Danny’s “accident.” Unfortunately, Kaine could almost read between the lines. It was likely narcotics that had affected that detective as well, hindering his judgment and ultimately costing him his job.
A wave of realization surged through her. Someone believed her!
“I told them Danny was murdered.” Kaine sagged against the wall, her shoulder brushing the vintage frame. She caught the dead stare of the Victorian-era woman and saw sadness in her eyes. As if somehow she could relate to tragedy caused by the hand of man. Unnatural and premature. “Why didn’t anyone listen to me?”
Silence for a moment, followed by the clearing of a throat. “I’ll be honest, Miss Prescott,” Detective Hanson began. “The detective assigned to your husband’s accident two years ago is no longer with the force. He ran into some . . . trouble. Lost his badge a few weeks ago. And I was assigned to look over a few of his past cases that had lingering question marks as to how thoroughly they were processed.”
Kaine couldn’t utter a response. Anger and anxiety warred within her, wanting to lash out at the department’s inept ability to manage their investigations, and anxiety that two years was too long to go back and resolve Danny’s death.
Detective Hanson was still talking.
“. . . so I also need to check into the reports you filed. Do you still have your condo here in San Diego? Is there a possibility you’d give me access so I can try to gather forensic evidence, like fingerprints?”
Two months too late. “No. I don’t own it anymore.”
“Oh. And I see here that you’ve already filed a similar report with the Oakwood police? Not in regard to the call you already mentioned but a break-in?”
Kaine closed her eyes. “I have.”
“Did they find anything?”
“No.” She wondered if her grimace could travel through the phone to San Diego.
“Okay.” Kaine could imagine the detective’s exasperation. Having to reopen the case already ruled an accident, then finding enough evidence to suggest murder, and at the end of it all a widow whose claims of being followed were substantiated by zero leads. “Well, I’ll still be in touch with them. Maybe we can piece this whole thing together.”
“That—would be great.” Understatement of the year. “Thank you. For everything.” And she meant it. Detective Hanson had risen to heroine status in Kaine’s eyes. Validation. Someone who believed her.
“Thanks for your time, Miss Prescott. I’ll do what I can.”
Kaine ended the call and faced the dusty, moth-damaged painting. Grant said that Patti, the librarian, had found the portrait of Myrtle Foster, the original owner of the house, in the basement of the museum and insisted it be hung in the house. A few old photographs of Foster Hill House had shown them it originally hung in the hallway. Patti’s obsession with positioning it in an abandoned house had seemed odd to Grant, he’d said, but then she’d been transfixed by this place for years.
Kaine studied the portrait. The eyes of the woman came more alive the longer she stared. Was it possible that her expression mimicked the wasteland left behind in Kaine’s soul? That burned-up blackness shadowed by the knowledge that the worst of the battle was still to come? She shook her head free of the hypnotic hold of the woman who couldn’t have been much more than five or ten years her senior when it was painted. It was silly to believe, yet Kaine couldn’t help it. This woman, whoever she was, knew what encompassed that awful stillness that fooled its victim into thinking peace had arrived, only to be stabbed by the wickedness lurking in the shadows.
Kaine’s gaze traveled down the long hall toward the attic stairs and then in the other direction toward the stairwell that took its traveler downward into the daylight of the foyer.
Foster Hill House was already written in history as the p
lace where two women had found mercy to be far from reach. One survived, one didn’t. Kaine reached up and wiped her hand across the woman’s face. It was like the soul of the house itself stared back, a soul imprisoned in these walls, hating the misery of it.
“Did this place bury you too?” And her unspoken question was even louder. Will I be next?
Chapter 23
Jvy
Ivy’s steps through the graveyard were muted by wet leaves and grass now exposed to the air with the final melt of snow. The hem of her skirt where it dragged along the earth was soiled, and she’d long since given up trying to keep it clean. The warm air made her glad she’d traded her coat for a shawl. Many of the gravestones around her were familiar. She saw the names, recalled many of their faces, and treasured their stories. If no one else remembered them, she would, as would her children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and anyone else who would read her journal in years to come. Like the Thorpe family Bible, labeled with the names of generations, her journal recorded the memories of those who could no longer speak. Eternity had embraced them, leaving behind the chasm they once filled.
Eternity. Ivy hated the word.
She paused in front of Gabriella’s grave, the ground mounded with dirt void of grass and life. A wooden cross marked it. No name. Just Unknown. But it was the two markers at the far corner of the yard that captured her attention. One, her mother’s. Esther Mathilda Englewood-Thorpe was a memory inspired only by what her father told her. The stories of a mother who’d given her life to bring Ivy into the world. It was the stone next to her mother’s that garnered Ivy’s affection.
It had been too long since she’d visited her brother, but he was never far from her thoughts. Ivy came here every year, always one week after he died. The day of the second darkest moment in her life.
Andrew Matthew Thorpe
B. August 4, 1879 – D. March 29, 1894
Always Remembered
Ivy unpinned her hat and set it on a wooden bench. She had used her own money to have the bench built and placed beside Andrew’s grave. Some days she simply needed to sit and be near him. She liked to talk with Andrew as she always had and hoped he heard her—because it didn’t seem that the Lord did. His ears had closed the day Andrew died.
The House on Foster Hill Page 15
