We want to see the family trees of my great-great-grandmother Ivy and of Joy Wilson, as well as the family tree of Myrtle Foster.”
Mr. Mason, museum curator, blinked. He looked nonplussed, as if the museum was there merely to provide entertainment for the few tourists who were historically inclined. Certainly not as an archive for research. But he was adorable, in a curator sort of way, and Kaine felt sympathy toward the man for his looking like a deer in the headlights. His wispy gray hair perked on top of his head with more interest in life than he seemed to possess.
He took a sip of coffee from a green thermos. “I’ll see what we have,” he said, then ambled off toward the back room.
Kaine suppressed a smile. “I think we should’ve gone with my suggestion. Online databases are more thorough now. Haven’t you watched those TV shows that trace celebrities’ ancestors back to the Tudors?”
Grant’s expression scolded her mildly. “I have. But sometimes I prefer paper.”
Kaine slugged his arm. “Traditionalist.”
He smiled. “Let’s start here and then we’ll pull up whatever else we need online.”
“If there is anything.” Kaine figured the way Oakwood went about protecting records, they probably wouldn’t have a thing submitted to any online database.
Mr. Mason shuffled back into the room. He laid a manila folder on the counter that stood between them. “That’s all I could find.” He scratched his head. “I know we had more at one time, but Patti probably put them somewhere. That woman and her infernal filing. Not to mention there was that break-in back in the sixties. I think some stuff got swiped along with Ivy’s quilt.”
“Did you work here then?” Grant asked.
Mr. Mason chuckled. “I was in my early twenties. Rather than volunteering my time at a museum, I went to go fight in Nam.”
“Oh.” Kaine nodded. Vietnam War.
“I didn’t know you were there,” Grant said with a quizzical look.
Mr. Mason nodded as he flipped open the folder but said nothing more on the subject.
Kaine and Grant exchanged glances and decided to let it drop.
“Here.” Mr. Mason tapped a copy of old scribblings. “This is Joy’s family tree. Wilson is her married name, so most of this will show you the line of the Slaskis, Joy’s maiden name.”
“What about Ivy’s family tree?” Grant said.
“We all know there’s not much on her,” Mr. Mason muttered. He began thumbing through some loose papers. “Must’ve got stolen too or something. Here. An old Wisconsin census from 1915.”
“Nine years after the dead girl was found,” Kaine mused. She ran her index finger down the paper. She could barely read the handwriting.
Grant peered over her shoulder. “Obviously Ivy married, so what was her married name?”
Kaine looked closer at the census. “I don’t know for sure. My grandfather’s name was Prescott, and my mom had us take that name instead of my father’s. But my grandfather’s mom was from Ivy’s line. I don’t even know what her maiden name was.”
Grant shifted back to the genealogy Mr. Mason handed him. He scanned it until he came to Joy’s name.
“And the Foster family?” Kaine set aside the census records. She didn’t even know what she was looking for. The census was line after line of names, households, occupations, and so forth. She’d have to call Leah later to see if she recalled Grandpa Prescott’s mother’s maiden name.
Mr. Mason heaved a sigh. Apology filtered through his eyes as he met hers. “I have some of the Fosters’ family tree here.” He handed her two sheets of paper, again copies. “But it only goes up to 1909.”
“Why did it stop? I mean, why didn’t anyone continue writing it down?” Kaine noted Myrtle Foster’s name in the genealogy.
Grant took a break from surveying Joy’s genealogy to look over Kaine’s shoulder again. “Well, they did move out of Oakwood in the late 1840s. I’m surprised anyone kept track of them at all after that.”
“Myrtle Foster was married to Billy. He was born in Alabama and transplanted to Wisconsin. They had a son and daughter born in the early 1850s. So they would’ve not been quite teenagers when the Civil War started.”
“What happened to her husband?” Grant frowned, leaning closer to read the copy. “I always heard Myrtle was run out of town, but not much about him.”
“He left Oakwood to join a vigilante group for the South.” Mr. Mason pointed to a line of text. “Left his family behind and was killed by Union soldiers.”
“So Oakwood ostracized his family too.” Grant nodded, his lips puckered in concentration.
Kaine’s eyes rested on his lips. She quickly looked away as Grant spoke again, his sideways glance making her blush. “I bet they didn’t send vigilantes home for special honors and burial.”
“’Course not.” Mr. Mason took the genealogy sheet from them and surveyed it with a squint of his faded blue eyes. “Looks like the records stopped with the death of the Fosters’ son, Arnold.”
“Who recorded this family tree?” Kaine asked.
He shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Whoa.” Grant’s exclamation drew their attention to Joy’s family tree. “Check this out.” He pointed to a branch, and Kaine leaned into him.
“What is it?” she said.
“Joy’s grandmother. She didn’t die until the late 1960s.”
“So?”
“So she was only sixteen when all this went down with Gabriella and Ivy.”
“How old was Ivy when it happened?” Kaine lifted her eyes to the museum curator.
“Her mid-twenties,” Mr. Mason answered.
Grant winked at Kaine. “Like you.”
“I’m thirty.” She ducked her head and stared at the paper. “What if Joy’s grandmother and Gabriella were held captive together in Foster Hill House?”
Mr. Mason shook his head. “I never heard of women being held at the house. Just the story of the murdered girl.”
“Well,” Kaine went on, “we know Gabriella was kept there—for some reason, somehow. If Joy’s grandmother knew her, that’s the only feasible way they could have been connected.”
“What makes you think they knew each other?” Mr. Mason set the Fosters’ genealogy back in the manila folder.
“Joy. Some stories she remembers her grandmother telling her,” Grant said with a quick look at Kaine. She bit her tongue. He was right. They needed to sort out all the clues before they broadcast Gabriella’s letters and Maggie’s diary to Oakwood.
Mr. Mason cleared his throat. “Sounds like you’re leveling some pretty hefty accusations on Foster Hill House.” He chuckled. “Patti won’t like it.”