“I need to make an inquiry about the children here.” Best to remain polite and pleasant. Ivy smiled with as much charm as she could manage.
“Ah, I see. Looking to adopt an orphan, are we?” Ivy didn’t miss his sarcasm as he smoothed back his thinning gray hair. Mr. Casey made no effort to hide his sigh as he led her into his office. He moved behind his desk as if he was most comfortable there in his place of authority.
Ivy shifted her weight onto her other foot. “It will only take a moment.”
“Very well.” Mr. Casey motioned for Ivy to sit, so she eased onto a green leather chair with wooden arms. “But, I should tell you, unmarried women are not allowed to adopt.”
Ivy nodded. “I know.” For goodness’ sake, he was going to make this difficult.
“Least of which, being yourself,” he muttered under his breath.
Ivy stiffened, her ire raised. “Pardon me?”
Mr. Casey eyed her as he made a tent with his fingertips and tapped them together. His eyebrow raised. “You’re the memory keeper. Your death journal? There is much about you, Miss Thorpe, that has become . . . shall we say, a bit concerning, especially since everything that happened some time ago.”
“I merely write the stories of those who have gone before. Nothing more.” Ivy resisted having to defend herself. Why couldn’t others understand that keeping memories alive wasn’t a fascination with death? Life was so important. The image of Andrew fluttered through her mind, and Ivy blinked it away. She loosened her grip on her purse before she strangled it. “I’m not looking to adopt, Mr. Casey, although I did want to inquire if you’ve received any babies recently.”
Mr. Casey choked and eased onto his chair. “Babies do not fall from the sky, Miss Thorpe.”
Ivy bit back a retort. “Mr. Casey,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “I only meant to inquire as to whether you have taken in a baby that might be traced back to Gabriella.” She winced. Applying a name to an unidentified body would only build his case that she did in fact have an unhealthy friendship with the dead.
“The murdered girl?” Mr. Casey pursed his lips.
“Yes.” Ivy had a fleeting moment of sympathy for Joel, growing up under this man’s care.
“How recent would you like me to report to you?” There was no missing the scorn in Mr. Casey’s question. “A year? A month? A week?”
No one knew how long Gabriella had been living in Foster Hill House, but the physical evidence pointed toward childbirth no further back than a couple of weeks.
“Any time in the last month?” She hoped the time frame would give some range for the director to work within.
Mr. Casey clasped his hands over a ledger on his desk. “We did. A girl.”
She’d been right! Ivy’s excitement pushed her to the edge of her seat. But Mr. Casey’s smug expression sent her hope crashing as fast as it had risen.
“The girl was left here several days ago. But she was brought by her mother herself. She was simply a young lady in a position of serious indiscretion.”
“What did she look like?” Ivy wasn’t willing to accept his dismissal. The timeline was perfect.
Mr. Casey frowned even deeper as he reached for a quill pen and tapped its tip with his index finger, fixing his stare on her. “Brown eyes, dark hair, and she wore a blue dress.”
Ivy’s shoulders sagged. That was nowhere near the angelic Gabriella with her nearly white hair and pale blue eyes. “You’re certain the woman was actually her mother? Perhaps there was another baby that you received.”
Mr. Casey lifted his spectacles from the desk and slipped them on his face. “Miss Thorpe, contrary to rumor and common perception, orphans are not delivered to us like used inventory to be logged and shelved.”
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“And”—Mr. Casey lifted his hand to stop her—“the ones that do arrive here I most certainly remember. So to imply I have a baby brought by the dead waif who was murdered on Foster Hill and I merely misplaced it is heinous.”
Ivy had no words. There was truth in what he said.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Mr. Casey rose to his feet, a sure sign any further inquiry was not welcome.
Ivy stood reluctantly. “Thank you for your time.”
She followed him out of the office, noting the way his polished black shoes took firm steps toward the door with no hesitation. He certainly didn’t seem like he was lying or hiding anything, and he had no reason to. Once he pulled the front door open, Mr. Casey looked at her and said, “Best of luck in whatever it is you believe you’re trying to do.”
She paused at the base of the porch stairs and glanced back at the house where Joel had spent the majority of his childhood. It was certainly more welcoming than Foster Hill House, but there was a chilly air surrounding its asylum appearance. Ivy sighed. When Andrew died, it was clear she needed Joel more than she ever had before, and when he didn’t show at the grave that night, she was more than crushed. She was betrayed. But now, as she pondered the civil but stern interaction she’d just had with Mr. Casey, a twinge of conscience made her wonder whether she’d misjudged Joel.
Ivy walked across the barren yard and past the picket fence that bordered the orphanage acre. She reached the road, then hesitated. Its gravel was packed but moist, and stretched longer and emptier than she wished.
She startled as a bulky form rounded the corner of the fence. Her body tensed, poised to run back into the orphanage, but then her shoulders sagged in relief. “Hello, Mr. Foggerty.”
The trapper’s bushy eyebrows raised in recognition. His hat was squashed onto his head, making his wiry gray hair stick out like horns over his ears. “Ivy, hello. Any word on that poor girl yet?”
Ivy eyed him for a moment. He was the first to discover Gabriella. She either owed him a great debt or . . . a great amount of suspicion. She shook her head. That was unfair. Mr. Foggerty had been trapping in these woods since she was a child. “Nothing yet,” she finally answered.
Mr. Foggerty clucked his tongue. “Such a shame. Pretty little child.”
Child. Yes. Gabriella had been quite young, it appeared. Ivy nodded. “We will find her killer.”
Mr. Foggerty adjusted the burlap sack over his shoulder. Ivy stared at the bottom of it, soaked in dark red, the blood of his trapped animals that must be piled inside. Her stomach turned. There was something violent about the sack, intimidating and threatening.
“I’d best be on my way.” He pointed to the woods beyond the orphanage. “Mr. Casey let me set traps over yonder at the creek. I’m hopin’ for some otter today.”