‘What about it?
‘When you tell this story to our grandchildren, you better get that part straight.’
A battered red Frisbee sailed across the Abbeville town square, and landed at Will’s feet. He saw a shadow approaching rapidly from his left; a really small shadow. He turned to look. Apple cheeks, the brightest blue eyes, wispy blond hair sneaking out of a knit cap. Will picked up the Frisbee, handed it to the girl, who was no more than four years old.
Our grandchildren.
Will got off the bench and was across the street before his emotions betrayed him.
23
When Ivy had heard those two words, she knew.
It’s bad.
‘You have your cell phone with you, Missy?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, Chief.’
‘I’m going to call you right now.’
Nothing. Just radio static.
‘Missy, you have to tell me that you hear me, and that you understand. Can you hear me?’
‘Yes, Chief.’
‘I’m going to call you right now on your cell phone. Do you copy?’
‘Yes.’
When Ivy called Missy Kohl, she answered in one ring. Usually, cell communication was inferior to radio communication in this part of the county. Not today. At least Ivy could understand what her officer was saying now.
‘What’s going on, Missy?’
‘There’s . . . there’s a dead body.’
‘Where are you?’
Missy gave her the location. It was about ten miles south of the village square, down a two-lane road that was mostly county-owned land, sparsely populated overgrown farm land, near the Abbeville Wetlands. The Wetlands was a seven-hundred-acre preserve located within the upper Cuyahoga River watershed.
‘Male, female?’
‘Female,’ Missy said. ‘Young.’
‘A juvenile?’
‘Teenager, I think.’
Ivy felt a cold finger on her spine. She glanced south, toward the crime scene location, and in the darkening clouds saw the face of Paulette Graham.
‘I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes,’ Ivy had said. ‘I need you to secure the scene.’
No response. It was infuriating.
‘Missy?’
‘Hurry, Chief.’
What do you see, Ivy Lee?
It was her mother’s voice, her mother’s question.
Ivy’s first recollection of the riddle was when she’d once accompanied her mother to a minor disturbance on a Saturday afternoon, just a few days after school let out for that year. Ivy had been about ten years old at the time.
The ‘disturbance’ was a domestic dispute, but in those days it was called wife beating. Bill Rogers had taken a hand to his wife again, it seemed.
When Ivy June emerged from the Rogers house with a disheveled, unshaven Bill Rogers in handcuffs, he wore only one corduroy slipper. There was blood on his ripped T-shirt.
Her mother leaned in the window of the patrol car and asked the question.
What do you see, Ivy Lee?
In that moment Ivy saw past the obvious, saw the beetles beneath the sod. She saw the nature of some men, and the way they treat their women. She saw that these men – her father was one of them – were just bottom shelf bullies, and even in defeat could not stand up to what they truly were. Bill Rogers had taken a few licks from his wife, but he’d rather go to jail than admit it.
It was one of the reasons Ivy first picked up a camera, a Kodak Instamatic she found at a barn sale in Huntsburg. She wanted to document the things she saw, print them out, and compare the photograph to her memory.
More than once she found that her memory, and what really happened, were two different things.
The scene was an isolated clearing a half-mile north of a dying parcel of land that had one time been a small but thriving dairy farm. Pell Gardner’s place. As Ivy approached she saw that there was still a main house with a swaybacked roof, a large barn and a pair of small outbuildings, all but owned by time and neglect and nature.
What do you see, Ivy Lee?
She could see the north side of the main house, the curled paint chips on the siding. The roof was in deep desire of repair, patched and tarred in a dozen spots, the gutters on the west side of the house dangled. The side yard was overgrown with knee-high grass. A pair of truck fenders marked the entrance to the access road that disappeared into the tree line about a quarter mile behind the barn.
Officer Melissa Kohl was twenty-eight, a petite brunette in just her second year on the force. As a rule Missy was quiet and reserved and exceedingly well-mannered, a blusher of the first order. Today, Ivy noted, her complexion was paper white.
Missy was deployed at the end of the driveway, halfway between the house and the main barn. She was nervously drumming the fingers of her right hand on her right thigh. Ivy knew that this was her officer’s first suspicious death.
‘Hey, Chief.’
Ivy nodded. ‘Where’s the scene?’
Missy pointed to the path that led to the woods. ‘Back there. Maybe a half-mile.’
‘This was a 911?’
‘It was.’ Missy had her notebook in hand. She flipped a page back. ‘Call came at 8.21 this morning. Man named Dallas Lange.’
Ivy knew Dallas. ‘Did he say what brought him back here?’
‘Not that I heard.’
Ivy had a good idea what it was. Dallas Lange was a four-season hunter. These few weeks, in Holland and surrounding counties, were designated for bearded turkey shoots. There was a good chance that Dallas was on the hunt or clearing the area of bait. It was unlawful to hunt bearded turkey with bait.
‘Is Mr Lange still here somewhere?’
‘No, Chief. I met him here, he showed me the spot, then he said he had to take his wife to the doctor. Said he’d be right back.’
‘Okay.’
‘Where do you want me?’
‘Right by my side, Missy.’
Officer Kohl blanched.
‘Tell you what,’ Ivy said. ‘I’ll get Walt on his cell phone, have him come out and help us secure the scene.’ Officer Walt Barnstable was off duty today, or at least that’s how his day began. He was on duty now. ‘Then I’ll call BCI and get that started. Meanwhile let’s get out the tape and cordon this area off.’ Ivy pointed at the four corners she meant, boxing in the house and outbuildings, as well as the path. ‘If you don’t have enough tape, check the backseat of my SUV. You’ll need some stakes, too. But first I need you to walk me back.’
Officer Kohl nodded, stole a quick glance at the path, still looking a little shaky. A lot shaky.
‘You okay?’ Ivy asked.
‘I believe I might be sick.’
Ivy put a hand on the young woman’s shoulder.
‘I believe you will not,’ Ivy said. ‘I believe you are going to take a few deep breaths, and remember in full color your training. We are hewn from the same tree, Missy Kohl.’
On the tail of a deep breath she said, ‘Okay.’
‘Plan B,’ Ivy said. ‘You raise Walt, I’ll string the tape. Then I’ll walk myself back.’ Ivy patted her belt. ‘Need to work off Sandy’s fry pies.’
‘I’m on it.’
In short order Ivy had the yellow tape staked and strung. Before walking into the woods, Ivy returned to her SUV, took out her Nikon D60.
She then approached the overgrown path. At the foot of it were two wooden posts that were not buried deep enough into their post holes, and were canted at sharp angles. A rusted chain lay half buried in the ground, as was a rusted NO TRESPASSING sign.
But someone had trespassed.
As Ivy walked toward the woods she did not notice any recent tire tracks of either the two-wheel or four-wheel variety. The weather had been on a routine of rain and shine every day for the past week or so, sometimes every few hours.
Every ten yards or so Ivy would turn and glance back at the receding homestead, as well as the road. If the victim ha
d taken this route into the woods, and something was gaining on her, Ivy wanted to see it the way she saw it.
About five minutes later she emerged into a clearing, approximately fifty yards square. In the center was a charred circle of earth and burned logs. The logs had moss on them. It had been a long time since someone had built a campfire here. Dotted around the clearing were rusted objects, broken things.
When Ivy stepped from the trees, and saw the victim, she knew. The forensics might prove her wrong, the circumstances surrounding the death of this girl might demonstrate something wholly other, but Ivy felt something awaken in her at that moment, something that began its life twenty-five years earlier, and now, with the still-unsolved death of Paulette Graham, and the sight of this girl, it roused to great and terrible life.
Mindful of where she was stepping, Ivy drew closer. The girl was indeed a teenager. She was white, no more than fifteen or sixteen. She had long, nearly ink-black hair, pulled into a single braid that wrapped around her throat. She was lying on her right side.
Ivy stepped to the victim to look more closely, to confirm she saw what she was seeing.
‘My God.’
Just a few inches from the victim’s head was a crown made of bird wings. The pair of wings seemed to be attached to a circle of thin branches, bent and lacquered and secured by a wire. The wire was not rusted. Whatever this was, it had not been out here long.
And neither had the victim. Although Ivy would wait for the coroner, she believed the girl had been exposed to the elements fewer than three days. Anything longer would surely have invited the attention of any number of wildlife, as had the body of Paulette Graham, which made the cause and manner of death inconclusive in that case, just as it had with Charlotte Foster.
Ivy closed her eyes for a moment, saw Paulette Graham’s body in that other field, located about twenty miles south, saw all the girls, and wondered if it was the same for them, if they had taken darkness by the hand and willingly walked a winding path into the forest, into the beyond.
24
Will had thought he would give himself a day to settle at Red Oak, but he was restless. There was still one document to sign, not to mention getting the keys to Godwin Hall.
He decided to get it all out of the way.
The law offices of Charles Bristow, Esquire were located above an independent shoe store on Melville Street, just off the town square.
Will called and made an appointment.
As it turned out, Mr Bristow had an opening, and within an hour Will signed the necessary documents, and was told he could have the keys that afternoon, as soon as the notary returned from his morning fishing trip.
At no extra charge, Will learned that the Bullfinch Tavern had a tasty lunch special available until 2.30, and that Centennial Village would be worth the visit, even though the main attractions were not yet open for the season.
Centennial Village was a two-acre site that, according to the bronze plaques near the entrance, was laid out to resemble Abbeville as it was plotted and built in the early nineteenth century. To the east was the banks of the Cuyahoga River. To the west were a few hundred trees of the orchard that bounded the Fairgrounds between Godwin Hall and something called Veldhoeve.
The attraction was comprised of a dozen or so buildings that had been built around Holland County in the past two hundred years, many of which were transplanted to the site and set up to create the village writ small. And all of it overlooked a breathtaking view of the valley and the river as it wound its way through the countryside.
In addition to the first house built, there was a saw mill, a tin shop, a blacksmith and a tannery.
Will imagined what it would be like in summer, and he could see how Godwin Hall could be a viable business, even if it only attracted guests for the spring, summer and fall months. The attraction was a bit shopworn, but was still quaint and carried enough history to be a destination of sorts. At the north end, near the town square was a two-story yellow clapboard building.
At street level a small sign announced that the Abbeville Historical Society was housed on the second floor, above the barber shop. The entrance, on the side of the building facing the school, was an exterior stairwell.
Will glanced at his watch.
He had time.
The main room was small and carefully cluttered, with a glass counter to the left. On the counter were a number of wooden boxes and wire racks in which were displayed vintage and current postcards for sale.
Under the glass were older items; a top hat, a pottery pitcher, a pair of antique ice cream scoops, a whale oil lamp. On the bottom row were cast iron bookends, cupboard jars, and a tin shaving mug, each with a small card detailing their year and significance. Over the door was a crest bearing two beautifully carved ravens. One black, one white.
Feeling a bit like an intruder, Will closed the door behind him, and stepped fully into the room. Straight ahead was a display of antique household machines, corn shellers, washing tubs.
To the right there were three other rooms. A glance into the room on the right showed that it was a small area dedicated to vintage and antique clothing. Will could see that there were a pair of glass cases that held jewelry and women’s accessories like hats and scarves and mufflers.
‘Hello.’
Will spun around. Before him stood a man of indefinable old age, perhaps in his eighties. He wore a powder blue cotton shirt, buttoned to the top, loose around his thin neck. Over this he wore a navy blue suit coat, shiny from many a Sunday’s wear, a four button style that Will had not seen in years.
‘Didn’t mean to startle you, young man,’ the man said.
‘I guess I was just . . . ’
‘Lost in time?’
‘I think you’re right,’ Will said. ‘This is a really interesting collection you have here.’
‘I will say thank you on behalf of the Abbeville Historical Society,’ he said. ‘They were around long before I was born, and they will be around long after I’m gone, I expect.’ The man straightened a few brochures on the counter. ‘What brings you up here today, young man?’
‘Curiosity, I guess.’
‘Are you just visiting Abbeville, or have you fallen under the spell of Holland County and decided to pound your stakes?’
‘I guess you could say the latter. I just moved here. Just this week.’
The old man slowly made his way around the counter.
‘Name is Eleazar Johnson,’ he said. ‘Folks call me Eli. Welcome to Abbeville.’
‘Will Hardy.’
The moment drew out. ‘You’re here for Godwin Hall.’
‘I am.’
Eli continued to hold his hand for a while.
‘I have something to show you,’ he finally said.
Eli returned to the area behind the counter. It took everything Will had not to help him, but the man made slow, steady progress. Once behind the counter Eli reached over, opened a drawer, retrieved a single key on an old leather fob. He made his way back around into the main part of the room, this time a little more spryly, a man on a mission.
They passed through the room with all the household displays. Eli pushed open the drapery, revealing an old door with a skeleton key lock.
Eli opened the door. He reached inside, fumbled for a few moments, then found the light switch. Will could see that the lighting in the room was provided by a pair of large, globe fixtures. Above the door was a legend. It read:
Godwin Hall.
Nearly all of one wall in the small room was dedicated to photographs of Godwin Hall over the years. On another wall there were nearly three dozen posters and photographs. The Apple Butter Festival, the Maple Syrup Festival, the River Fest, Ice Festival, various pancake breakfasts, wine fests, ice cream socials.
The largest poster was for something called Appleville.
Will pointed at it. ‘Is that a typo?’
Eli laughed. ‘You’re not the first person to think so. Fact is, the Appleville F
estival is a pretty big deal around these parts. It’s only held every twenty-five years.’
‘Why twenty-five?’
‘That’s when the white raven returns. People come from all around just to get a glimpse.’
‘Kind of like the cicadas?’
Eli winked. ‘Or Brigadoon.’
‘Have you ever seen it?’
‘The white bird? Oh yeah. First time when I was eight. Next time wasn’t until fifty years later.’
‘And you say the festival is a big draw?’
‘It is. If you get the Hall spruced and fit in time you’ll make out all right.’
‘Wait – you’re saying the festival is this year?’
‘This very one. The gala is put on by the van Laar family, which has been bankrolling it since 1869.’ Eli pointed at the largest photo, a beautiful portrait of Godwin Hall in its glory years. ‘The Hall has a history, as does any building of its age. More than most, seeing as it was a hotel and rooming house for many years. People come and go, and leave their stories behind, don’t they?’
‘Yes they do,’ Will said.
‘Are you a family man, Will Hardy?’
The question caught Will off guard. Even when he anticipated such a query, it was an arrow. He said, simply: ‘Yes.’
‘Any children?’
‘I have a daughter. Her name is Bernadette. She’s fifteen.’
‘Is she taken by stories of ghosts and lingering evil?’
Will didn’t have to think about this too long. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not particularly.’
It was true. Detta was always the level-headed one, the realist. Just like her mother. If anyone was ‘taken by ghosts and lingering evil’ it was Will. He’d grown up reading Shirley Jackson, H.P. Lovecraft, and Richard Matheson, books his father had read between calls.
Eli pointed to a photograph, a small sepia print. ‘Can you hand me that one there?’
‘Of course,’ Will said. He crossed the room, took the framed print from the wall. The area behind the photograph was a much lighter shade of yellow. The picture had not been moved for many years, it seemed. He handed the photograph to Eli.
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