The House on Foster Hill

by Jaime Jo Wright

  She sank onto the bench beside her hat. A squirrel scampered a few yards away and cocked its head to study her. She stared back into the beady black eyes. What did the rodent see that Ivy couldn’t? At night, when everyone was asleep. Did it witness Gabriella’s death? Or was it as indifferent as God himself? The creature scurried away, chirruping a warning to other squirrels that there was an intruder in the cemetery.

  Disenchanted by her thoughts, Ivy pulled her gloves from her hands and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and memorized the scent of the musty woods, wet with the aged earth and fresh with the new growth on the trees.

  “Your father told me I could find you here.”

  Ivy stiffened. She bit the inside of her bottom lip and fixed her eyes on Andrew’s name etched in the gray granite. Joel lowered himself onto the bench beside her, his hat in his hands. His shirt was open at the collar, void of a necktie, its white crispness fresh and starched.

  “You’re late,” she breathed.

  Joel’s head dipped, and he played with the brim of his black hat. He nodded without comment.

  “One week and twelve years late,” Ivy recited. “For reasons unknown.”

  “You never gave me an opportunity to explain.” Joel’s statement poked at Ivy.

  “I know,” Ivy whispered, a lump forming in her throat. She hadn’t. She should have. She should have asked much sooner too, as soon as they’d had a moment to discuss more than just Gabriella and her missing child.

  “Will you let me explain, Ivy?”

  She refused to look at the man beside her who, in her eyes, was still so much the young man from years before.

  “You made a promise, and you didn’t fulfill it.”

  Joel nodded, his shoulders sagging with . . . regret? Hurt? Ivy couldn’t tell.

  “I was as much affected by that day—that missed graveyard visit—as you, Ivy. There were circumstances I had no control over.”

  “I came here all alone.” The grief was as raw as that night, ripping at her soul, still hiding deep within. “You said you would meet me. That we would lay Andrew to rest together, the way it should have been. Not the showy funeral my father allowed the church to give him. Not the stares of the onlookers who made me feel like it was our fault Andrew died. We were going to tell him goodbye together.” Ivy faced him, the way she’d wished she could have so many times before. “So I knelt in the mud and the cold and I waited. All night I waited. And in the morning, when I went to find you at the home, Mr. Casey said you were leaving on the morning train, that you were leaving on a grand adventure. It was as if you’d already forgotten Andrew.”

  “Forgotten him?” The pain in Joel’s voice brought a twinge of guilt to Ivy. “Never.”

  Ivy moved from the bench and bent by Andrew’s stone. She reached out and traced his name with her hand, the purple silk of her sleeve stark against the cold, gray stone. Green lichen was growing in the carved letters, melted ice formed tiny pools on the base, and last year’s dead flowers were squashed into the ground. “Then it wasn’t a grand adventure?”

  Joel shook his head. “I spent three of those years begging for work, until I landed myself in jail after stealing one too many times. I was a bona fide street rat. If it weren’t for the attention of a God-fearing police captain who whipped me into shape with some hard work and dragged me to church on Sundays, I’d probably be wearing metal bracelets about now.” Joel leaned back against the bench. “If I learned anything in my ‘grand adventure,’ it was that without those you care about to urge you on in your life and in your faith, you shrivel into yourself.”

  Ivy raised her eyes to him. “And without those you care about in your life, you become alone.” She was talking about herself now. Vulnerable. Admitting what Joel’s absence had done to her, good reason for leaving or not. “I am alone.”

  “No.” Joel squatted beside her. More explanation could come later, but for now, his fingers brushed hers. When she didn’t pull away, he gripped her hand. “You’re not alone,” he whispered. “I came home.”

  Chapter 24

  Kaine

  Kaine wedged the crowbar beneath another floorboard and pulled with the collective force of her anger, her disappointment, and her guilt. Joy and Megan had left shortly after Detective Hanson’s call, giving her looks of concern as Kaine fell into uncharacteristic silence. Grant lagged behind, but Kaine wasn’t even sure where to begin to explain the call stating her husband’s case had been categorized as sloppy police work. Part of her wanted to be grateful it was finally reopened, and another part, the one Kaine was warring with the most, wanted to send the crowbar flying through the window with a scream of pent-up emotion. After a few tense moments watching Kaine rip away at the floor, Grant excused himself to take Olive outside for a walk in the dusk. It was obvious he had no intention of leaving her alone in Foster Hill House. He would either see her back to her motel or she’d crash on his couch again.

  To be honest, Kaine preferred that, yet sleeping on Grant’s couch was asking for more trouble. Once her anger wore off, she knew herself well enough to know she’d be a puddled mess, and when Kaine was like that, she craved affection. That need had landed her in heaps of trouble before. Before Danny and before she’d had the sense to stand on her own two feet.

  While working to remove a stubborn plank, the lightbulbs of the nearby floor lamp flickered. No doubt the house was poorly wired, yet another thing that needed updating. Kaine didn’t even like the lamp, but it’d been cheap at Walmart and served the purpose—along with the construction-grade work light Grant had bought and plugged in. She was alone for a much-needed moment and there was nothing else to do but take out her frustration over Danny’s case on the floor. Ripping up the floorboards was as effective at preserving Foster Hill House as Detective Hanson’s questions were at solving Danny’s death. Everything in Kaine’s life was like a Band-Aid. It covered the wounds and their bleeding but did little to heal them. Not even the old wounds no one knew about.

  The board released from the floor with a snap and a spray of dirt up her nose. Kaine buried her face in her elbow and sneezed.

  “Drat.” She dropped the crowbar to the floor and marched over to the box of face masks. Ripping it open, she tugged a white mask from inside. It tore from the force of her pull. “Drat!” Kaine threw it aside and yanked on another one. This time the rubber band for securing it around the wearer’s head snapped from the side of the mask. “Are you kidding me?” she growled at the empty room. Kaine sent the second face mask to join the other on the floor.

  This had to end. It all just needed to be over. As much as she hated the fact that Danny’s death had been ruled an accident, she despised the idea of revisiting it over and over again if nothing was going to be resolved. But, until his killer was brought to justice, she’d need a bodyguard just to maintain her sanity. In the meantime, here she was ripping up floorboards in a house that had almost killed her great-great-grandmother and held dirty little secrets that seemed to want to be revived right alongside Danny’s case file.

  Kaine maneuvered a third mask from the box. This one was defective, and the hole in the front of it served as Kaine’s undoing. She crumpled to the floor, releasing a string of curses that made her cast a nervous glance toward the bedroom door for fear Grant had come up the stairs and witnessed her backslidden soul’s darkness. Kaine pulled her knees up to her chin and buried her face in them.

  She wouldn’t cry. Not over stupid face masks. Not over a house so in ruins it was foolish for her to waste time ripping up this floor. Not over a case gone cold, or a man who toyed with her mind like a puppet master pulled strings. Tears were for those who couldn’t handle tough times. She was a fighter. She could do this. She could do this!

  “Why?” Kaine lifted her face to the ceiling as if her eyes could penetrate the cracked plaster and see into heaven. “Seriously?”

  Through everything, she had been faithful. She had copied Job and not cursed God. Cursed, yes, but God? No.
Sure, she hadn’t buried herself in prayer or in Scripture, but she’d remained steadfast and pushed forward. Wasn’t that why she’d come to Oakwood—to return to her family’s roots, to honor her dead husband, to find hope to live again? So why would God thwart that now? There had to be some reward for her faithfulness.

  Kaine kicked the box of masks with her foot.

  Nothing.

  No answer.

  The heavens were silent.

  Like always.

  Forget it. Kaine scrambled to her feet. No mask then. She would breathe in the mold, the asbestos, and the hundred years’ worth of dirt embedded in that floor. At worst, she would contract sarcoidosis and die from it. At least then God would have to answer her, because she would be face-to-face with Him.

  Kaine snatched the crowbar from the floor, hooked it on the next floorboard, and tugged. A small chunk gave way. She snarled, leveled the bar at the floor, and lunged with a primal yell. Grant would probably come running now. Too bad she wasn’t here at Foster Hill House alone and Danny’s killer had come to confront her. She had a crowbar and was in the mood to use it on his face.

  Two of the planks caved in as if made of styrofoam instead of wood. Another swipe with the crowbar demolished more. Surprised at how easily they cracked and the hollow beneath, Kaine took another hooking throw. The floor now had a hole the size of a small lockbox. The cavity she’d opened gaped at her with a century’s worth of dust inside. She let the crowbar hang at her side, breathing heavily from the three angry swipes at the floor. She blinked, wiping dust from her eyes and second-guessing her suicidal mission to contract sarcoidosis.

  Tossing the crowbar to the floor, Kaine slid the work light over so it could light up the gap. The floor’s framing bordered the sides of the cavity. These floorboards had cracked so easily in comparison to the others she’d pried up earlier. Kaine reached down and pulled back the remnants of the boards that were still attached. She crouched to get a better look.

  A bundle lay between the joists, wrapped in aged cotton material that was eaten away by bugs and time. Frowning, she reached in and carefully lifted it, hoping it wouldn’t disintegrate from her touch. It didn’t. The calico cloth was faded and worn, but dry. Her frustration ebbed away as she peeled back the layers of material.

  Her eyes widened.

  “No way.”

  Kaine ran her hand gently over the printed text on the sheaf of loose pages in her lap. The pages had been torn from their original binding and stacked. At the top of the musty typescript was the title Great Expectations, and in the margins, a woman’s intricate penmanship. Her fingers tingled with the knowledge she was holding a page that matched the one she’d found in the library downstairs. She’d discovered more notes from the nameless, haunted soul.

  Kaine focused on the top header of one of the pages: Save me, oh God. Deliver me.

  These had to be the writings of Gabriella. They had to be!

  The handwriting offered a familiar sentiment, echoing with her soul. She traced the letters with her index finger, her heart reaching through time and linking desperate hands with the writer.

  I will not survive.

  Chapter 25

  Jvy

  Ivy slogged through the mud. Her visit with Maggie at the widow’s house had been pleasant, and her conscience eased a bit from using the poor girl the other day on her jaunt to the orphanage. Maggie was still timid, but she seemed at home in her great-aunt’s house, and Ivy was pleased she’d coaxed a smile from her more than once. Now, Ivy hurried across the road from the mercantile, dodging a wagon. She hopped onto the boardwalk, a slop of mud falling off her shoe. Ivy started at a black gloved hand that wrapped around her wrist. Foggerty stared at her through black eyes. His slouched hat covered his forehead and brushed his bushy eyebrows. He squeezed Ivy’s arm.

  “Time you leave the dead to rest, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Pardon me?” Ivy tugged her arm away. The odd looks, the sidestepping, Ivy knew that Joel had been right. Since the paper published her claims that Gabriella’s baby could still be alive, the entire town viewed her with even deeper curiosity than before. It didn’t help that the paper insinuated she talked to the dead.

  Mr. Foggerty’s bony shoulders raised in a shrug. Ivy backed away a step. The old trapper unnerved her with his sharp gaze.

  “A passin’ fancy is one thing, but this witchery of claiming you see a dead child? Did ya see it in the afterlife?” He appeared far too curious, as if ghosts and spirits intrigued rather than frightened him.

  “No!” Ivy adjusted her grip on her purse and eyed the man with suspicion. “I never claimed to see the baby.” She stiffened. The rumors were becoming exaggerated. “I only—”

  “The town knows all about your death journal. But your toyin’ with the souls of the dead?”

  “How do you know the baby is dead?” Ivy demanded. Either Mr. Foggerty was a nosy and bored old man or he knew more than he was saying.

  He stared at her. “Stands to reason, don’t it?”

  Ivy spun on her heel and crossed the street to the boardwalk on the opposite side. She glanced over her shoulder, but Mr. Foggerty was rambling down the road, muttering to himself. The man’s assumption that the baby was dead only increased Ivy’s determination. While she wasn’t foolish enough to place herself in harm’s way again, she would make sure the sheriff and Joel were held accountable—to find justice for Gabriella and to rescue her infant.

  Ivy redirected her path toward the jailhouse. Didn’t they at least owe her the courtesy of an update on the search? No. Ivy knew Joel believed they owed her nothing.

  Ivy approached the jail, normally empty save for a drunk or two. She was reaching for the door when she heard voices filtering through the partially open window next to it.

  “. . . I want to kill him.”

  Joel’s hard voice stunned Ivy. She peeked through the window, careful not to let the men see her. Joel was slouched in a chair, elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled under his chin.

  “Settle down, Cunningham.” The sheriff sat opposite him, behind his desk. “We don’t need you personalizing this and becoming irrational.”

  “I don’t like the fact Ivy was attacked at Foster Hill House, and then he followed her again at the orphanage. He’s obviously made a connection that she recognizes him, or he’s toying with her for some sadistic reason—maybe the same as why he killed Gabriella? And this baby has Ivy all out of sorts.”

  Sheriff Dunst shrugged. “It has me out of sorts too. There’s been nothing to go on. If you hadn’t found that cradle at the house, I’d say the baby wasn’t a part of the equation and it was left wherever that girl came from. But the cradle with its obvious recent use definitely moves me.”

  Ivy watched Sheriff Dunst shove back in his chair, the legs scraping against the wood floor. “Talk. I need coffee.” He stood and crossed the room to the potbelly stove and lifted the coffeepot. “Want any?”

  Joel nodded. Ivy swallowed. She could use some as well, but she wasn’t ready to interrupt the conversation, however awful it was that she was eavesdropping. Joel hadn’t been forthcoming with her, and she wanted to know where the investigation was leading them.

  Raking his fingers through his hair, Joel propped his hands behind his head. “The girl was killed and her body hidden at the base of Foster Hill House. Ivy was attacked inside. She claims to have seen a book with scribblings in it she attributes to Gabriella.”

  “Claims.” Sheriff Dunst sipped his coffee, but his words didn’t imply Ivy was crazy like the rest of the townspeople seemed to believe. She could tell he was challenging fact versus theory and respected him for it.

  “The orphanage has no record of any young woman in her late teens who fits Gabriella’s description, nor have they had any girl go missing. And, as you know, Ivy only reconfirmed what Mr. Casey told me, and that is that there has been no infant left there unaccounted for who could be related to our victim.” Joel dropped his arms, agitated. Ivy co
uld tell by his expression that whatever trip he’d taken to the orphanage to inquire about the case had been unsettling for him. His memories there took up a good portion of his childhood. Unpleasant memories.

  The sheriff settled back in his chair after handing Joel his coffee. “There are really no solid clues to close this case. I was hoping you would find some for me, since I’ve not had a lick of help from anyone. No witnesses, nothing. It would have been nice to start your investigative services here in Oakwood with something that wasn’t going to become an unsolved murder.”

  Joel frowned. “I wasn’t looking for a boost in my career. But offering my services to the county seemed a way to earn a living. I was tired of Chicago.”

  Sheriff Dunst rested his coffee cup on his desk. “I understand that, and while I hate to admit failure, for either one of us, we’re grasping at straws trying to figure this out.”

  “So you’re calling it quits.” Joel ignored the coffee cup in his hand, his statement rhetorical and chilling. Ivy lifted her hand to open the door with a flurry of protest, but the sheriff’s response stopped her.

  “Don’t accuse me of that. I’ve had men canvassing the town and woods for anyone suspicious. I have ears in the saloons that will let me know if anyone dares to brag about the murder. I have a town to protect. A town that is unsettled, especially with Miss Thorpe’s newspaper announcement of the missing baby. Half my time is spent assuaging them that we have this thing all under control.”

  Joel set his cup on the desk. “The murder was personal. The attack on Ivy was vicious. And there’s no doubt the evidence points to someone being in that house for some time.” Joel stood. Ivy backed away from the window for fear he’d turn and see her. “What about the piano?”

  “What about it?”