“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 could 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?”
“There have been rumors for years that piano music has been heard coming from inside of Foster Hill House. The fact the piano was untouched by time suggests occupancy. I remember Andrew Thorpe telling me when we were kids that he heard the music himself.”
Dunst heaved a sigh and shifted in his chair. “There have been ghost stories circulating about that place for decades, Joel. Piano music. Strange lights in the middle of the night. Some even say they’ve spied a ghost. Certainly you’re not telling me that’s all evidence for this case?”
Joel sank back down onto the chair, taking up his coffee again. “It’s possible evidence to support the idea that the house hasn’t been as deserted as we thought. Perhaps our victim stumbled there for sanctuary and disturbed whoever has been staying there.”
Ivy peeked back in the window. Joel’s back was to her.
“I find it difficult to believe someone has been living there for over a decade and passing themselves off as a ghost. They would need food, supplies. Someone would have seen them coming and going.” Sheriff Dunst gulped the last of his coffee, then slammed the cup down on the desktop.
“I understand it’s farfetched.” Joel gave the sheriff a nod of affirmation. “Who were the last people to live at Foster Hill House?”
“From what I’m aware, the Fosters themselves were the last people to live there. They were run out over forty years ago as Confederate sympathizers. I was just a toddler then. Ever since I can remember, it’s been abandoned. The Fosters had two children, but they’ve never returned to Oakwood.”
“The fact is,” Joel said, “there are signs someone has been inhabiting the house for far longer than the last two weeks. If Gabriella had stumbled on someone who believed the place to be theirs, she paid with her life—and very possibly her child’s too. And now that someone seems to be focusing his attention on Ivy. I don’t like it. She needs to be protected.”
“I agree. She never should have involved herself—even though her intentions were noble.” Dunst rubbed his hands over his eyes.
“It’s her good intentions that make me admire her, in spite of her idiosyncrasies. She has an empathetic heart and that’s a rare gift.” Joel rose to his feet and this time he reached for his hat. “Someone is hiding something—more than Gabriella’s murder. If they weren’t, they would have fled, not gone after Ivy over by the orphanage. Foster Hill House is holding secrets, and I’m going to find out what they are before they claim Ivy’s life.”
The pen dripped ink on the page of her journal, like the drop of blood that had dried at the corner of Gabriella’s lip. It was a morbid memory. Ivy pulled her quilt closer around her shoulders, treasuring the feel of the cotton squares cut and sewn together from remnants of Andrew’s clothes. It was all she had left of him. She dabbed the drip with an ink blotter and tried to redirect her thoughts to imagining what Gabriella had been like alive. She set the cloth aside and lifted her pen once again. The recent pages she had written in her memory book had evolved into a diary of sorts.
Ivy looped her L as she penned more thoughts. She could only imagine that Gabriella had felt abandoned by everyone, even God, in the end. Sometimes she grieved her own loss of faith almost as much as she did Andrew’s death or Joel’s abandonment. Maybe that was one reason why she could not release Gabriella to the grave. They shared the commonality that God was indifferent to their pain.
She spun on the organ stool that served as her chair when a stone plunked against her window. Joel. Not again. She padded over to the window and moved the curtain aside just a bit to peek out. His frame was recognizable and distinct. Ivy let the curtain fall back into place and leaned her temple against the wall. Tonight she was vulnerable, and seeing Joel would only revive that longing for oneness of soul with another person . . . and with God. For the past twelve solitary years, her own mind had been her solace, and she had been content.
Joel had created the wound she bore the day he left her alone at Andrew’s grave. He had reopened the wound the day he returned to Oakwood.