Jvy
It was nice of you to invite me for a walk.”
Ivy gave the girl strolling beside her an encouraging smile. She’d met Maggie just this morning on a stop for Ivy’s father to drop off medicine for Widow Bairns. She knew her father was trying to keep her occupied and busy. Since she and Joel uncovered the cradle at Foster Hill House yesterday, Joel had made no secret that she was not to become further involved or put herself in danger on her own crusade to find the missing child. So her father saw fit to create a list of to-dos that was busy work at best. But, perhaps meeting Widow Bairns’s new live-in caregiver was a blessing of sorts. She reminded Ivy a little of what Gabriella may have been like. Of course, she’d never tell the mousy, timid girl that. No one wished to be compared to a dead woman. Nor would she tell the girl that she’d requested her accompaniment not so much to be charitable and get to know her, since she was the widow’s great-niece from out of town, but because she knew it probably wasn’t wise to go on her secret jaunt alone.
She glanced at Maggie from the corner of her eye. The girl picked at her fingernails as they walked, her gesture nervous, and her shoulders stiff as though she was horribly shy. Ivy felt a moment of conscience prick her. She’d hate to be the cause of trouble for Maggie. But Ivy also didn’t particularly trust Joel with the responsibility of finding Gabriella’s baby. Sheriff Dunst was organizing a search party, and Joel was drumming up men to assist. In the meantime, no one was canvassing the town to investigate. No one except Ivy.
“Are you finding Oakwood pleasant?” Ivy owed some extension of genuine friendship to the girl.
Maggie nodded short, shy nods. She gave Ivy a quick wide-eyed look. “It’s very nice.”
“You must be delighted to foster a relationship with your great-aunt.” Ivy sidestepped a rock in the road, her eyes scanning the tree line on either side. Dark shadows played against bare trees and patches of snow. A squirrel hopped over a dead tree and chattered at them as they passed.
“Have you been here long?” Ivy adjusted her grip on her purse, her mind traveling a thousand steps ahead to the orphanage and to the moment she would inquire about a baby. What if there was an infant there? Could it be that simple?
“Only a week.” Maggie’s answer brought Ivy back to the conversation. She tightened her coat around herself, fiddling with the buttons, and smiled a timid, fast smile. “I like Aunt Edith.”
“Everyone adores your aunt,” Ivy reaffirmed.
Maggie stared down the road with squinted eyes. “How far are we going to walk?”
Yes. Walk. Ivy realized she’d invited Maggie for a friendly stroll, which Widow Bairns had encouraged, but Ivy hadn’t explained they had a destination.
“I need to make a stop at the orphanage, if you don’t mind.”
Maggie tugged at the warm gloves on her hands. “Oh. Yes. Yes, that’s fine.”
Ivy nodded. Good. They walked a bit more in silence, and then Maggie stopped, her eyebrows drawing together. “Oh dear,” she sighed with a quiver to her chin. “I completely forgot. I didn’t set out anything for my aunt for lunchtime. She isn’t able to prepare her own food.”
Drat. Ivy glanced up the road toward the orphanage roof that peeked above the treetops, then back toward town and Widow Bairns. So close.
“I’m so sorry.” Maggie read Ivy’s indecision as offense.
She couldn’t miss this opportunity to find Gabriella’s baby. Ivy reached out and patted Maggie’s shoulder. “You go on back.” Maggie would be safe, wouldn’t she? Ivy grimaced. The only danger would be to herself. She’d seen the book with writing in it, and for all her attacker knew, she’d seen him. Maggie was an innocent, but Ivy would need to retrace her steps home. Alone. Maybe she should return with Maggie. Before Ivy could reach a conclusion, Maggie smiled shyly.
“Thank you for understanding.” She whirled and hoisted her skirts, hurrying down the road without so much as a backward glance.
A stick snapped behind Ivy, and she spun back toward the orphanage, scanning the path and the dark edges of the woods behind her. She was committed now. Ivy hurried the final quarter mile to the orphanage and up the home’s stairs, stopping only long enough to brace her hand against the porch rail and survey the road one last time. A murder of crows fluttered from the trees nearby. Something had disturbed them. Most likely her own frantic pace and Maggie’s retreating form.
Ivy rapped on the orphanage door, her furtive glances over her shoulder revealing nothing but the birds. Murder of crows. Horrible term, considering the circumstances. Why couldn’t they be flocks like other birds?
The orphanage door opened, and Ivy saw the familiar inside of the home. Its interior was plain, just as she remembered. Mr. Casey, the orphanage director, peered at her, his expression a scowl. He’d never been pleased with her visits, and apparently nothing had changed. She and Andrew had met Joel when their small Sunday school group had come for an afternoon to recite Bible verses for the orphans and share homemade cakes. Something had been markedly unique about Joel. The mischief in his eyes perhaps? The way he could stare right into her eyes and read her mind? Whatever the case, she and Andrew hadn’t wanted to leave with their group because they’d found unusual comradery in the orphan. So they’d returned the following day with the excuse of bringing Joel a storybook. The day after that, it was a wooden whistle in hand as a gift, after which Mr. Casey put a stop to their almost daily visits to see Joel. Yet the refusal to allow them friendship was not to be entertained by the trio. Because of that, their childish selves snuck out at nighttime to seek adventure in the woods and to be together. It continued into their teenage years, Joel savvy enough to avoid his absence at night from being detected, but then their escapades halted abruptly when Andrew—
“Well, well, Miss Thorpe.” Mr. Casey’s deep voice broke into Ivy’s chaotic nostalgia. “It’s been quite some time.” His hooked nose reminded her of a pirate, or a villain, or—Ivy blinked to clear her thoughts. Her mind was running wild, something she rarely allowed it to do. She was just unnerved. Joel had unnerved her—on many levels.
“What can I do for you?” Mr. Casey opened the door with a grimace that indicated he did so more out of etiquette and obligation than hospitality. For twelve years she had avoided this home and its memories of Joel. Twelve years she’d denied the orphanage even a charitable service. Mr. Casey had the right to hold some sort of grudge.
Ivy stepped inside, thankful when the orphanage door closed with a solid thud behind her. She never conceived of taking refuge in the orphanage, but for now it served its purpose and hid her from the shadowed woods.
“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.”
Otters. Dead, trapped otters. Ivy swallowed at the idea of the trap’s vengeance on the little animals. “Goodbye then.” She waved at the older man. He returned the wave and set off in the opposite direction. Thankful he wasn’t going her way, Ivy regretted not returning with Maggie, especially now that she’d uncovered nothing at the orphanage.
Hurrying forward, Ivy followed the footprints in the patchy snow she had left on her walk there. They overlaid some carriage tracks and one of an automobile, until she joined with Maggie’s footprints coming toward the orphanage and then returning to town.
Ivy increased her speed. An unnerving sensation of being watched had raised bumps on her arms. Had Mr. Foggerty opted to follow her instead? He and his sack of dead animals?
A raindrop hit her cheek, and she swiped it away with her hand. The clouds were dark and churning. A spring storm with its icy drops and thunder was exactly the ambience she didn’t need on her lonesome return to town. Ivy rushed down the aisle of trees, their scraggly arms reaching for her. Her toe caught on a stone in the road and she stumbled, righting herself as her left foot planted alongside her footprint from earlier.
Ivy froze.
Beside it was the impression of a larger set of footprints. Most assuredly not hers or Maggie’s. They were booted and deep. The weight of a man that overlapped her original steps.
A frigid gust of wind surged through the woods and plastered loose tendrils of hair to Ivy’s cheek. Shivering, she fastened the top button on her coat. She searched the woods for a face, a form, a pair of eyes, anything.
“Mr. Foggerty?” Her voice quivered as she called. Perhaps he’d followed her and Maggie, innocently checking traps. But traps were set in the woods, not on the road.
Movement by the trunk of a maple tree made Ivy squint. Rain began to fall in earnest, the drops like tiny knives assaulting her face. The figure of a man came into view, and her eyes widened. He stepped from behind the tree, his features hidden by the downpour and shadows.
“Mr. Foggerty?” she called again, unable to make out details in the heavy rainfall. Thunder rumbled and rolled its warning through the thick clouds.
“None to hear you. None to care.” The figure’s voice mocked her, mingling with the pounding of rain against the canopy of trees. She didn’t recognize the voice but could distinguish its tone as thunder swallowed the words.
Terror catapulted Ivy into a sprint. Her feet slipped in the mud as she ran. He was right, whoever he was—there was none around to hear or see. She was alone. Foolishly alone.