Murder. It was a shocking word that played in her memory on repeat since Danny’s death. Tragic that both she and Ivy were linked by violence toward individuals they cared about.
Mr. Mason scratched behind his ear and shuffled into the back room. “Not much anymore.” The open doorway allowed them to watch him as he dug around in a crate, then shoved it aside and opened a metal filing cabinet. Apparently, the museum was more of a hobby now than a place of historical archive.
“Patti?” His voice wobbled with age as he called. Kaine startled at the sound of footsteps coming down the back stairs. She glanced at Grant, who smiled.
“She’s the town librarian who volunteers here sometimes,” he explained.
Patti rounded the corner. Oh my. Kaine tried to steel herself. The librarian’s shrewish expression skewered her with a dark gaze. “Yes, Mason?” she answered while keeping her stare locked on Kaine.
“Do you remember where you put those files on the murder at Foster Hill?”
Kaine tried not to flinch. Cataloguing historical archives digitally must not be top of the list here at the Oakwood Museum. Patti’s lips pressed together. Still staring at Kaine, she said to Mr. Mason, “In the bottom filing cabinet.”
“Ah!”
Patti crossed her arms. “So you’re the one who bought Foster Hill House.”
Kaine cast Grant a cautious glance. His eyes twinkled. She looked back to Patti. “Yes.”
“Good luck with that.” It wasn’t nice sounding, not at all sincere, and almost sinister. Patti’s pinched expression never wavered, and she spun on her loafer-clad heel and disappeared back to where she’d been.
Wow. Kaine mouthed the word to Grant.
He leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “Rumor has it Patti always wanted to buy Foster Hill House.”
“I’d be glad to sell it to her!” Kaine whispered back.
“She’s as poor as a church mouse. She gambles every weekend at the casino just north of here.” Grant shrugged.
Bewildered by the unexpected interlude, Kaine’s attention shifted as Mr. Mason shuffled back into the main room with the speed of a tortoise.
“Ooookay. I found some newspaper clippings from back then. Pretty crumbly, though. I should probably have Patti put them in plastic sleeves.” Mr. Mason laid the folder on a wooden tabletop and opened it. He began thumbing through the browned sheaves of clippings, then stopped to lift one up to read it in the light. “Let’s see here . . . 1906. That’s the right year.” He laid it down and thumbed some more.
Out of the corner of her eye, Kaine could see Grant wince at Mr. Mason’s roughness with the material.
Finally, Mr. Mason cleared his throat, sounding like he was in the early stages of emphysema. “Okey-dokey. Here we go.”
The newspaper he laid on the table had block letters identifying the Oakwood Herald. Beneath it, in letters almost as large, the headline Murder on Foster Hill.
“Probably Oakwood’s most exciting paper ever printed.” Mr. Mason’s chuckle bounced his shoulders.
Kaine leaned forward, her shoulder brushing Grant’s. He smiled, and Kaine dropped her gaze to the clipping. She scoured the article.
A foul murder was uncovered Monday afternoon on Foster Hill by Mr. Averil Foggerty. The victim is an unidentified young woman who was strangled, according to Dr. Matthew Thorpe’s medical examination. Sheriff Dunst is investigating the case, and he claims the assault may have been perpetrated by a wandering vagrant. Detective Joel Cunningham has been commissioned to investigate the murder.
“There’s nothing here about Ivy at all,” Kaine murmured.
“Nope.” Mr. Mason laid another newspaper clipping in front of them. Part of the corner tore off. “But look here.” His finger rested on Ivy’s name.
Though recent search parties have been unsuccessful, Ivy Thorpe has made the startling claim that the supposed infant of the murdered woman of Foster Hill House may still be alive. Inquiries at the Oakwood Orphanage indicate no orphan baby has been deposited there without a full account of parentage or history. Therefore, it is the opinion of this paper that Miss Thorpe’s assertions of such claims may also prove to be that of a mystic.
Kaine stared at Grant. “A baby was involved?”
“There was a big search for it supposedly, but the baby was never found.” Mr. Mason sagged onto a wooden chair. “Leastways not that we have record of.”
Kaine ran her finger over the words, her heart feeling like it stretched across time and connected with Ivy’s. It was an empty, dark place to be when you had an intuition about something and no one would take your word for it. Ivy was charged with being a mystic. Kaine was threatened with being charged with false claims. “Ivy wasn’t a mystic. She must have known something the paper didn’t expose.”
Mr. Mason nodded. “Well, you can’t deny that people were fascinated with death back then in a strange way. Today, we can go back and see that by looking at how they dressed the dead and propped open their eyes to take pictures of them postmortem as if they were still alive. Seems to me, Ivy’s death journal wasn’t much different, but folks just weren’t comfortable with the idea. It was maybe easier to explain Ivy’s claims away than deal with the fact a baby was never found. Speaking of weird, I even read of people who cut hair off the dead and saved it in books or jewelry.”
Kaine exchanged glances with Grant. She didn’t miss the subtle shake of his head. Pulling her hand from her purse where she’d instinctively plunged it to retrieve the locket, she diverted with another question.
“Why doesn’t the newspaper say anything about Ivy’s attack? Wouldn’t that have given her credibility?”
“Maybe it did.” Mr. Mason shrugged. “We don’t have every paper, to be honest.”
“And the Oakwood Herald doesn’t have them?” Kaine asked. “Or in the library? Would Patti know?”
Grant said with a grimace, “The paper went under years ago. We don’t have a local paper anymore. We get our news from the town over. The library has microfiche, but I don’t think any of them go back much further than the twenties.” He tapped the journal Kaine had set on the table. “Ivy does describe her attack in here, though.”
“In this? But it’s all memories of deceased people.” Kaine searched his face.
“Until you get to Gabriella’s entry at the end. She’s the last one. Ivy’s last memory entry. It turns into more of a diary than a memoir.”
Kaine raised an eyebrow. “So you read this, Grant?”
“A couple years ago. Like I said, my dad—”
“Was a history professor,” Kaine finished.
“That,” Grant continued, “and Joy was the one who turned me on to it. She’s always had a fascination with the story. Her grandmother was alive during the time of the murder, so Joy grew up hearing some of the stories. She’s the one who said Ivy called the girl Gabriella, and Ivy’s journal confirmed it. Joy’s grandmother was the last one to pass away who lived during that time. She died sometime in the seventies.”
“Shoot.” Kaine would have loved to speak to Joy’s grandmother. “Do you have any pictures?”