Ivy tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I believe we’ve chatted quite enough.”
Joel crossed his arms, and his black coat stretched over his shoulders. He chose to ignore her admonition. “I need to gain your promise that you will not put yourself in any further danger while we are investigating the murder.”
A small thrill ran through Ivy as she allowed herself to read the protection written across Joel’s face. “And you insist on chatting about this in the dead of night on the lawn below my window?”
“I don’t trust you not to do something addlebrained in the middle of the night.”
“I rarely do anything without deep thought and contemplation.” Ivy rested her elbows on the windowsill.
“Oh, really?” Joel’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “Recent events suggest otherwise. Come down and we’ll talk.”
“I politely decline.” Ivy ducked inside and reached up to push the window shut.
“Ivy . . .” Joel’s voice sounded hoarse, as if he were a beau trying to avoid a father’s discovery. “Please, don’t close that window,” he insisted.
She brought it down a few more inches.
“I’ve said it before. You cannot insert yourself into this investigation.”
Two more inches.
Joel grew agitated enough to make Ivy pause.
“Gabriella was murdered, Ivy. I don’t want to see you end up in the same state.”
Ivy’s smile waned. She knew that in spite of her angst over Joel’s return, he was wise in what he said. “I have no compulsion to wind up stuffed into a tree, if that’s what concerns you.”
“So you promise not to return to Foster Hill House?”
“Not alone, no.”
“Not at all,” Joel tried again.
“If you offer companionship, I will certainly oblige.” She was feeling somewhat giddy, the emotion of the last week catching up with her.
“Don’t be coy with me,” Joel said, his tone adamant.
He was right, she knew, but his words stung all the same. Against his protests, Ivy slid the window closed, loosening the tiebacks on the white curtains. She let them fall into place, concealing Joel, and leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. There was a time when she believed Joel Cunningham would have done anything to protect her. But now he was only inspired because he was a duty-driven detective whose protectiveness was born out of his position.
Ivy had no desire to be the recipient of obligation.
Chapter 19
Kaine
The Oakwood Museum was about as inviting as a biker bar on a stretch of deserted highway. Kaine shot Grant a sideways look. No wonder Great-Great-Grandmother Ivy’s quilt had been so easily stolen. If the museum was as ramshackle in 1963 as it was today, a toddler could break into the place. The old granary had been converted into a secured building only by the installation of basic stormproof windows and a front door lock that Kaine could break into with a credit card. Either the museum held little of monetary value or the crime rate in Oakwood, Wisconsin, had plummeted after Ivy’s quilt was stolen.
A thud drew Kaine’s attention back to the elderly man in faded blue overalls and a green plaid shirt. His wispy gray hair formed a sparse crown on his balding head. Mr. Mason, Grant had called him. The curator. Curator of what? Some old photographs on the wall featuring a farmstead, a plow, three vintage people in Edwardian garb, and a dog? Oh, and the framed sequences of Foster Hill House at different stages of its hundred-plus years. Because it wasn’t disturbing enough today, she had to see it back in the 1800s when it was even spookier-looking.
“This here is about all we have now.” Mr. Mason handed Kaine an old leather journal. “The town calls it Ivy’s ‘death journal.’ Would’ve probably been stolen back when the quilt was stolen, but it was locked up in a safe. Don’t know why. It’s not like it had monetary value.”
“Death journal?” Kaine echoed. Could it get any weirder? Ivy’s locket with hair in it lay in Kaine’s purse, making her squirm. A book of death and potentially the hair of a dead person reminded her of a Gothic black-and-white movie.
Mr. Mason smiled, wrinkles reaching the corners of his eyes. He really was a sweet old man. “She was a self-appointed grave keeper of sorts. Made sure everyone who died had a memorial in her journal. Like an obituary, only more.”
“A brief memoir,” Grant offered.
“That’s it.” Mr. Mason nodded. “Stories say the town didn’t know her too well and all in all thought she was a bit crazy or maybe toyed with the otherworld.”
“Doubtful.” Kaine felt the need to defend her dead ancestor.
Mr. Mason tapped the book in her hand. “I tend to agree. It’s really a nice collection of mem’ries.”
Kaine opened the old book. Its pages were crumbling on the edges, and the script inside was small, cursive, and loopy.
“Look at this.” Kaine motioned to the page, and Grant leaned over her shoulder. “She chronicles people who passed away under her father’s medical care.”
Grant tipped his head to look closer.
“It’s touching.” Kaine ran her finger along the script.
Marigold Farnsworth passed away at only twenty-two years of age. She has been married only one year, and the infant born to her this night will grow without the warmth of his mother’s embrace. I remember Marigold as a gentle spirit. She was beautiful in life, and even in death a smile touches her lips. What I recall the most about Marigold is . . .
The entry continued, but Kaine stopped and acknowledged Mr. Mason, who waited patiently for her to finish with the artifact. “This is amazing. It’s a treasure. Think of the lives Ivy chronicled.”
The wonder of the concept filtered into Kaine’s voice, and Mr. Mason nodded in agreement. “She was just tryin’ to keep the dead alive.”
Kaine blinked against the sudden moisture in her eyes, and Mr. Mason swiped a Kleenex from its box on the counter. He handed it to her without comment about her tears.
“Other’n that journal,” he continued, “there wasn’t much else for memorabilia. Just her quilt stolen back in ’63. I think we have a few doilies in the back storage that belonged to her. No one really cares anymore.”
She cared. Now, especially, since she held the same book her great-great-grandmother held so many years before. Foster Hill House, the place where Ivy had been attacked, became suddenly more important. Kaine turned a page in the journal, its binding loose and fragile. She wanted to understand the details of what happened to Ivy, why she had been there and how the dead girl named Gabriella fit into the story.
“What do you have on record about the murder that happened there?” Grant’s blunt question sliced the nostalgia out of the air.