“Nothing’s up. I called Lorna Colbeck-Westlake as you suggested, and she told me she would only speak to you, even after I explained that we were partners. She was having none of it. Apparently that’s the way Leith set things up.”
“No worries, I’ll call her now. Hang tight.” I hung up, found Lorna’s number, and dialed.
Lorna answered on the first ring. I introduced myself as Calamity Barnstable, co-owner of Past & Present Investigations, the firm appointed to investigate Brandon Colbeck’s disappearance.
“I recognized the name on my call display,” Lorna said, her voice so quiet I had to strain to hear. “I’ve already heard from your partner, a Chantelle Marchand? Your lawyer made it clear we were to deal with you directly. We promised to cooperate, but I’m not sure what you expect to accomplish.”
Hardly the words of a mother desperate to find her son. What had changed since that newspaper article three years ago? Or had it all been for show? “I thought the mandate was clear. We’ve been hired by the estate of Olivia Osgoode, on behalf of Eleanor Colbeck, to find Brandon, or at least what became of him.”
“I understand that part. What I don’t understand is why a total stranger would care all these years later.”
“Olivia was your mother’s friend. She was also my great-grandmother. Regardless of the personal motivation, I’m trying to fulfill the terms of the contract.” I fought to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “I need your help. Right now, all we have to go on are some sketches and a three-year-old newspaper article, which may or may not be accurate.”
There was a long silence. “You must find me tedious. It’s just that I don’t know how many more times I can go down this road. Every time I try, it chips off another piece of my soul. My husband, Michael, and I had agreed, after the report in the Post didn’t yield a single result, that it was time to let it go. Especially after that scam phone call to my mother. What kind of person does that?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “You may find our daughter, Jeanine, holds more optimism, though you’d have to ask her. I assume you have her number?”
The strain in Lorna’s voice spoke volumes. Clearly her son’s disappearance had fractured the family. “Yes, I have her number, thanks so much for asking. I’d also like to meet with Michael. Even the smallest detail or bit of history can help move an investigation forward. The police tend to be clinical in their approach. Our approach is more…organic.”
That netted something that may have been a choked sob or a dry chuckle. Without seeing her, I couldn’t be sure. “In that case, I’ll sit down with you, though I suggest that you and I meet without Michael, at least initially. I’ll ask him to give you a call after you and I have met.” There was a lengthy pause, as if she was waiting for a rebuttal. When none came she continued. “Let’s just say Michael has a tendency to be every bit as clinical as the police.”
Interviewing each family member separately during the first sit-down was my ideal scenario, though Lorna making the suggestion spoke volumes about her relationship with Michael. “I’m happy to do that. When and where do you want to meet?”
“Do you have an office?”
“We work out of the main floor of my home on Edward Street in Marketville. Number 300. It’s a Victorian detached on the corner of Edward and Water.”
“The place that used to be a physiotherapist’s office?”
“That’s the one.”
“I have another engagement tomorrow, but I can do first thing Thursday morning, say around nine? Ask Chantelle to come along.”
“I’ll do that. Do you prefer coffee or tea?”
“Coffee, black and strong,” Lorna said. “I’m going to need the caffeine. Something tells me I won’t be sleeping much before then.”
She hung up before I could comment.
I called Chantelle and told her about the meeting Thursday at nine, promising to update her on Eleanor if she showed up early.
“How early?” Chantelle wasn’t much of a morning person, the reason she took so many late afternoon and evening shifts at the gym.
“Seven thirty should do it. I’ll have the coffee ready.”
“What about your homemade carrot date muffins?”
“You’re in luck. I have some in the freezer. I’ll take a couple out to thaw.”
“Heated with butter?”
“Yes to both.”
“Okay, then. See you at seven thirty. And Callie?”
“Yes?”
“I would have settled for coffee and toast.”
“I know. But you’d have been grumpy.”
Chantelle laughed. “You’re probably right.” She was still laughing when we hung up.
I phoned Jeanine Westlake next. A recorded greeting told me that everyone at New Beginnings Center for Life was out at the moment, but to leave a name, number, and brief message. I did as instructed, curious about the company name, and wondered if it was a nod to Brandon’s partially finished tattoo of The Fool.
A quick internet search revealed a simple website with a home page listing the Center’s services: family or individual counseling, computer skills upgrading, and resume preparation, along with the slogan, “Let us help you find your way.” It wasn’t exactly “Let us help you find yourself,” but it was darned close.
On the bottom left-hand corner of the page there was a photograph of an attractive woman in her late twenties or early thirties, captioned Jeanine Westlake, MSW. Had she gotten her Masters of Social Work and started her practice with the hope of finding Brandon? Or was the objective to stop another family from going through the same pain the Westlakes had experienced? I suspected it was a bit of both, but Jeanine would be the one to fill in those blanks.
I searched my contacts for Gloria Grace Pietrangelo’s telephone number next.
Gloria answered on the third ring, her voice breathless. A middle-aged woman of generous proportions, I could picture her in her usual attire: black turtleneck and olive green cargo pants with matching vest, the pockets filled with a jumble of photographic accessories.
“Callie, it’s so great to hear from you. I’ve been meaning to call you forever but I’ve just been crazy busy. I started teaching photography part-time at Cedar County College, and that, along with running the studio…let’s just say I never seem to have a spare minute. But enough about me. I read about Past & Present Investigations in the Marketville Post. Congratulations. That’s so exciting.”
“Thank you. In fact, Past & Present is the reason for my call. I’m hoping you can shed some light on an old case we’ve taken on. Or should I say cold case.”
“I should have known,” Gloria said with an exaggerated sigh. “And here I thought you were calling to come by for tea and blueberry scones.”
“I’m always up for tea and scones.”
“I’m teasing, you know that, though the offer of tea and scones is a standing offer. Now, in all seriousness, what’s the case? I’m not promising I’ll remember it, but I’ve kept all of my old interview notes, can’t seem to bring myself to purge them. I’d be happy to share whatever I have with you if it will help.”
“Thank you. The case involves a twenty-year-old boy who left home to find himself in March 2000—without a scrap of ID or a hint of a destination. No one has seen or heard from him since, although as you can imagine, his family wants closure.”
“Closure is a television term that doesn’t exist in real life. There are always loose ends and unanswered questions, and both come with heartache.”
“The missing boy’s name is, or was—”
“Brandon Colbeck,” Gloria said. “I remember the case well. I’ve always believed that every single member of that family was holding something back, not that the police courted that view. If they had, the case may well have been solved by now.”
“Are you saying that the family lied?”
“Lied? I’m not sure I’d go that far. Withholding an inconvenient truth that may have put them in a compromising situation? Almost certain
ly. Find out their secrets, Callie, and you just may discover the truth.”
10
I arranged to meet Gloria Grace at her studio in Barrie at noon the following Monday. It was almost a week away, allowing me time to interview the family members first, something we both felt was advisable. Nonetheless, I was looking forward to seeing her again, and guardedly optimistic that she’d be able to add something to Brandon’s story.
I’d just finished documenting what I’d discovered so far—a nod to the late Sue Grafton’s detective, Kinsey Millhone, and her investigative methods, albeit without the index cards and the all-purpose black dress—when my phone played its familiar By the Light of the Silvery Moon ringtone. The call display read “New Beginnings” and I picked up before it went to voice mail.
“Past & Present, Callie speaking.”
“Jeanine Westlake. Sorry I missed you earlier, I was in a session. I’ve been expecting your call.”
“I appreciate you getting back to me so quickly. I was hoping we could meet to discuss your brother’s case.”
“My first session tomorrow starts at ten a.m. Does nine o’clock work for you? The Center is located at 15 Edward Street in Marketville, Unit B.”
The time worked, though I couldn’t pinpoint the location. “I’m at 300 Edward, and I shop and dine on Edward Street all the time. I don’t recall seeing New Beginnings.”
“We’re on the second floor, above Spinners. There’s a sign on the door leading to the upper level, but there’s no reason to notice it unless you’re specifically looking for us.”
Spinners was an indoor cycling studio, a form of exercise that held little appeal to me, though a few people in my run club were enthusiasts. “I know the place.”
“See you then,” Jeanine said, and hung up before I could ask anything else. Like mother, like daughter. I wondered how closely their stories would match.
With my phone calls out of the way and nothing scheduled until the next day, I was left with a couple of hours to kill before dinner. I decided to contact Lucy Daneluk, the administrator for the Ontario Registry of Missing and Unidentified Adults, and drafted up a quick email, rereading it twice before hitting SEND.
Dear Ms. Daneluk,
My name is Calamity Barnstable and I’m a partner with Past & Present Investigations. Your website was mentioned in an article in the Marketville Post in regards to a missing adult, Brandon Colbeck, your file number ONT-2000-03-09-1. Our firm has been commissioned to investigate Brandon’s disappearance. While I realize you may have no additional information beyond what is listed on his profile page, I’m hopeful that you can find the time to meet and/or speak with me.
Sincerely,
Calamity Barnstable
It was a long shot, but I’ve learned that even the slimmest lead can yield something of importance. Which led me to my next mission, googling tattoo parlors in Marketville. There were three listed, all with multiple reviews and ratings averaging 4.0. Two were at the edge of town, the closest to me was Trust Few Tattoo, located on Poplar Street, which ran east-west off the upper north end, and less desirable section, of Edward. The proprietor was listed as Sam Sanchez, tattoo artist.
I slipped the photocopies of Brandon’s pictures and the sketch of his partially finished tattoo into a manila folder, grabbed my purse and a light jacket, and headed out the door. It was time to pay a visit to Trust Few Tattoo.
Poplar Street was a mixed bag of retail, commercial, and questionable residential. Real estate ads liked to suggest that it was a neighborhood in transition, though which way it was transitioning was uncertain.
Trust Few Tattoo was sandwiched in with Triple P Pizza, Pasta & Panzerotti, and Totally Tempting Thai. The building itself was narrow, with a red brick façade and charcoal board and batten framing a gilt-lettered window and canary yellow door. Food smells from both restaurants wafted out to the street and I knew I’d be getting takeout for dinner.
I opened the door and was greeted with the droning sound of a tattoo machine. My senses were further assaulted with the sickly-sweet smell of industrial strength sanitizer and walls completely covered with framed pages of brightly colored tattoo designs.
The front desk attendant was leaning on a glass display case full of various jewelry items, half of which I wouldn’t know where to put. She glanced up from her smartphone when I walked in. I wasn’t sure if it was the head-to-toe look she gave me, or her heavily tattooed hands and fingers that made me feel slightly out of place. She stood up and favored me with a gap-toothed grin.
“Hey, welcome to Trust Few. I see you’re checking out the flash. What can we do for you?”
The flash? The dazed expression on my face must have given me away, because the shop assistant’s grin broadened.
“The generic drawings,” she said, waving her intricately patterned hands. “They’re called flash. Not as popular as they were once, if I’m being honest. Most of our clients are looking for custom work, unless, of course, they’re underage or impaired. Sam won’t work on either. But flash still makes nice wall art, don’t you think?”
I nodded and then got straight to the point. “I have some questions about a tattoo.” I felt a flush of embarrassment creep up my neck. Why else would I be here, if not about a tattoo? “I was hoping you could help me.”
“Sure.” She pulled a large day planner out from behind the jewelry-filled display case, and her arms opened to reveal a tattoo of a bear trap inside her left elbow. I winced, thinking of the pain.
The assistant caught my look and laughed. “Don’t worry. We never do ditch tattoos on newbies.”
Ditch tattoos? Once again I must have looked clueless, because she elaborated.
“Inside the crook of an elbow is called a ditch tattoo, and yes, it hurts like hell. Not as much as this one did, mind you.” She raised her right arm to reveal a black rose covering her armpit. “Anyway, Sam’s with a client right now, but I can probably slip you in for a consult in a few minutes. When and what were you thinking of getting tattooed?”
I shook my head. There was nothing in this world that I cared enough about to have it permanently inked on any part of my body. “The tattoo isn’t for me.” I reached into my bag for the photocopy I had brought of Brandon’s tattoo. “I have some questions about someone else’s tattoo, and I was wondering if you could help me?”
The shop assistant eyeballed me further, her former grin transformed into something resembling a scowl. “Like, what kind of questions? Is it infected or something? Because we usually recommend the person comes in so we can look at it…”
I placed the photocopy of the tattoo on the counter as the girl trailed off. As she spun the image around to face her, I was able to make out the tattoos on each of her digits—what initially had appeared to be random shapes and lines were actually symbols of the Major Arcana. Thank heavens for Pinterest.
“I like your finger tattoos,” I said, quickly realizing how hokey the words sounded.
“Thanks.” She extended both hands so I could take a closer look. “Sam is big on mystical things. She wanted to practice, so I said she could give me a few finger-bangers.”
Flash. Ditch tattoos. Finger-bangers. I was getting a primer on tattoo talk. I wondered what kind of monopoly you placed on your own skin to let someone randomly practice tattoos on a place as visible as your hands. I also felt my pulse quicken as I realized that I’d made the right choice in selecting Trust Few, though I felt moderate surprise at the fact that Sam was a woman. I’d expected Sam Sanchez to be a big, burly, intimidating biker-type. It served as a reminder to let go of any preconceived notions. That type of thinking could block an investigation. I pulled myself out of my thoughts when the shop assistant spoke.
“What do you want to know about this tat…oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”
“Callie,” I said, extending a hand. The assistant shook it, and I was surprised at how soft her hands were, despite their harsh exterior.
“Tash,” she said
. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. As for the tattoo, I’m curious about the young man who got it. That is, if he got it here.”
“It looks like it might be Sam’s style, but she’d be the expert on that. C’mon around and we can ask. Like I said before, she’s with a client, but they’ve been at it for quite a while. I’m sure they can both use a break.” Tash waved me around the desk.
I picked up the photocopy and followed her down a narrow hall. More tattoo flash was on the walls, along with a neon Jägermeister sign and a framed poster of The Tragically Hip’s Man Machine Poem final concert in Kingston on August 20, 2016. Three small offices opened into the hallway; the one at the end of the hall had its door slightly ajar and I could hear laughter mixed with rock music and the buzz of the tattoo machine. Tash rapped on the door three times and pushed it open.
“Hey, Sam, sorry to bug you, just wondering if you can help this lady out with a question about a tattoo?”
The buzzing stopped. “Sure.”
Tash moved out of the way and I took it as my cue to step into the doorway. A thirty-something woman wearing combat boots, a sleeveless black Nine Inch Nails T-shirt, and torn jeans with more rips and holes than denim looked up at me and nodded. A tattoo of a woman on a bucking brown horse took up most of her lower right arm. The words “Cowgirls don’t cry” were written above it, with a green heart below circling “We can be heroes.” The image reminded me of the 1950s Calamity Jane movie poster I’d discovered in the attic of Snapdragon Circle, and I wondered if there was an equally personal meaning behind her artwork. There were countless other tattoos on her legs, arms, chest, and I imagined, on body parts I couldn’t see or begin to imagine, but I didn’t want to stare.
“Hi,” I said, holding out my hand.
“Ah, sorry. Sterile environment.” Sam held up two latex-gloved hands. Her current client was lying facedown on a padded table, and turned her head away from the wall to face me. I tried to look at what was being tattooed on her lower back, but couldn’t make it out. Sam put the tattoo machine down on a stainless-steel countertop, the surface covered in industrial grade paper towels, and gave me her full attention. Her cornflower blue eyes were in stark contrast to her long dark hair, which had been shaved on one side. Under the buzz cut I could see “Sanchez” and I found myself wondering how much getting your scalp tattooed would hurt. I figured a lot, maybe as much or more than a ditch tattoo, maybe even more than one under an armpit. I had no plans to get any of them.
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