* * *
The imagery evokes a sense of freedom, of a journey ready to begin. Even the card’s number is meaningful: an egg-shaped zero, from which new life will begin. Only one other card in tarot features someone dancing—number 21, The World, the final card in the Major Arcana. Signifying the end, it features a woman centered inside an egg-shaped wreath, the journey coming full circle.
I flipped the tablet closed. “She did a nice job.”
Chantelle nodded. “Do you think we should let her know we appreciate what she’s done here, maybe send her an email?”
I picked up the phone. “I do, and it will be even more meaningful if we call her.”
“Uh, Callie, I appreciate the sentiment, but it’s not even 8:30. Not everyone is up at the crack of dawn.”
“For your information, dawn cracked at 5:35, but I take your point. I’ll text her to call me when she’s up.” I sent the text, smiling as I wrote it. Chantelle liked to tease me about my perfectly worded and spelled texts, but I just couldn’t bring myself to abbreviate you’re to yur or worse, yer, and seriously, how difficult was it to add an apostrophe? “Call me if you’re up.”
Misty rang me within a minute, her voice breathless. “Did you see the page? Is it okay? I shared it on all the usual social media platforms.”
“You’ve outdone yourself, but the journey is just beginning, pun fully intended. Are you up for more work?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
I updated Misty briefly on my visits with Sam Sanchez and Jeanine Westlake. “According to Sam, Brandon was planning to go on a fool’s journey. Jeanine claims to be unaware, though she admitted he’d gotten heavily interested in tarot. I’m inclined to believe her about not knowing about The Fool’s Journey, but I get the impression she knows more than she’s saying. So is Sam, or at least that’s my gut feeling. Do you think you could create a post about The Fool’s Journey? The history behind it?”
“I could definitely do that,” Misty said, a lilt in her voice. “What if…what if I followed it up every few days with the next card in the Major Arcana to create a better understanding of the cards?”
“Hmmm… I’m not sure how you’ll be able to tie it into Brandon, given we don’t know where he is or if he’s even alive.”
Misty’s silence spoke volumes. She’d come up with a concept and all I had done was naysay it. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll enter my interview notes from Sam and Jeanine in Word and send them to you in the next couple of days. It’s a long shot, but you may be able to find a nugget of something that will tie in with the cards. If so, I don’t see the harm in trying it. But let’s start with The Fool’s Journey, okay? I think it’s the key to this case, and I don’t want to dilute the importance of that with a bunch of posts, even if they are interconnected. Besides, we may find, in time, that one card is more important to the investigation than another.
“I totally understand,” Misty said, and I could hear the enthusiasm creep back into her voice.
“Okay, good. Chantelle and I are meeting with Lorna Colbeck-Westlake in about thirty minutes, so there’ll be that one coming as well. I don’t have an appointment yet with Michael Westlake—Lorna has promised to set that up for me—and at this stage we still don’t know the name of Brandon’s biological father. I’ll update you whenever I have that information.”
“I’ll get working on The Fool’s Journey post as soon as we hang up.” Misty paused. “And Callie? Thank you for including me. It means a lot that you trust me with this.”
“Thank you, Misty.”
I disconnected and smiled at Chantelle. “She’s on it.”
The phone rang. I glanced at the call display expecting to see Misty calling back. Instead it was Shirley Harrington. “Hey Shirley, what’s up?”
“Sorry to call you so early, but I figured you’d be up and I want to head down to the Cedar County Reference Library when it opens. I’ve been going through the archives of the Marketville Post, but so far all I’ve found are a few articles on Eleanor Colbeck’s philanthropic initiatives. I can’t imagine they’ll be helpful, but I’ve printed them nonetheless. There’s been nothing else so far, but it’s early days. Everything earlier than 2009 is on microfiche.”
I knew how tedious that could be and sent her a silent hug for tackling it. “I appreciate the update, though there’s no need to call unless you’ve got anything riveting. In the meantime, keep digging.”
“I plan to. At least the Toronto Star will be easier since the Toronto Public Library has everything but the past three years digitalized.”
A thought crossed my mind. “Actually, it’s probably good that you called because I have four more names for you to check out.”
“I’ve got a pen and paper handy.”
“Samantha, a.k.a. Sam, Sanchez. She’s the owner of Trust Few Tattoo on Poplar Street, established sometime in 2003. The other name is Dave Samuels. He owned a tattoo parlor called Such & Such. It was in the Nature’s Way store, at the back, where Sun, Moon & Stars is now. I'm not sure when it opened but my guess is the late nineties. He closed the shop in August 2003, died shortly thereafter.”
“Samantha Sam Sanchez. Trust Few Tattoo. Dave Samuels. Such & Such Tattoo. Got it. What are you expecting me to find?”
“The Marketville Post may have something about Such & Such Tattoo closing. The Post or Star may have an obituary for Dave Samuels, which could prove enlightening.”
“Nothing like reading a good obituary,” Shirley said, a chuckle in her voice. “I’ll be in touch.”
Shirley might chuckle, but I knew only too well the truth of that statement. Obituaries could be more than a record of when someone was born and when they died. A statement like, “Donations to Cancer Society or Heart & Stroke” and you could pretty much guarantee the person died of cancer or something cardiac related. “Died suddenly” often meant by suicide, especially when combined with a call for donations to a mental health organization. But it was more than that. The best obits listed family members: parents, children, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews—that’s where the magic lay.
I turned to Chantelle. “You know, we have a great team.” We were clinking our coffee cups together when the doorbell rang.
15
Lorna Colbeck-Westlake wore a beaded, off-white macramé vest over a rainbow-hued, long sleeved, tie-dyed T-shirt, a woven brown leather bracelet with fringes, and faded acid wash jeans. I found myself checking to see if the hems were bellbottomed and frayed, circa 1978. A vague memory surfaced: sitting at the kitchen table with my mother, a gridded board, twine, and colored beads in front of me as she attempted to teach me a few simple knots. The memory surprised me, but that was what remembering her was like, random thoughts drifting in when I least expected them. I shook the thought aside and focused on Lorna.
Jeanine definitely took after her, at least physically. Like her daughter, Lorna was petite, with delicate facial features and pale blue eyes, but where Jeanine’s highlighted blonde hair had been cut short, Lorna’s gray-streaked curls had been twisted haphazardly into a messy bun, strands spilling out at odd angles. Lorna looked to be in her late fifties, too old to carry off the look, but somehow she succeeded. I wondered how this free spirit had managed to marry, and stay married to, an authoritarian like the Michael Westlake their daughter had described. I’d expected someone bottled up, tight and prudish.
“Welcome to Past & Present,” I said, realizing that I’d let her stand in the hall longer than could be considered polite. “I’m Callie, and this is my business partner, Chantelle. Have a seat at the table and I’ll bring you a coffee. Mug or cup?”
“Mug. The bigger the better. Black, no milk, no sugar.”
I bustled into the kitchen, eager to get started. Chantelle was already chatting with Lorna when I came back.
“Lorna was just telling me that she filed for divorce yesterday,” Chantelle said. “Irreconcilable differences.”
Her other a
ppointment, the reason she couldn’t see us yesterday. I wondered what would be considered an appropriate response and settled for, “I’m sorry.”
“There’s no need to be sorry. Our marriage was on a slow path to destruction from the day Brandon left home. Michael and I both blamed each other, though no one could have blamed me any more than I blamed myself. Michael said I was too soft. I said he was too hard. Both statements are equally true.” Lorna gave a resigned shrug. “My daughter has labels for such things, as you no doubt learned when you met with her yesterday.”
“I was under the impression you no longer communicated.”
Lorna barked out a bitter laugh. “Is that what she told you? You mustn’t take Jeanine so literally. We talk, most days, in fact. We just don’t talk about anything of substance. The weather, how the Raptors are doing, how much the house down the street sold for. I started losing Jeanine somewhere in her teens, my fault, not hers. I was too consumed with guilt and grief to be a proper parent. Every day, every week, every year that ticked by without word of Brandon closed me further off from the world. Michael, on the other hand, handled things with more resilience. Once Brandon was gone, whatever little affection Michael felt for him was quickly and efficiently transferred to Jeanine. He’s like that. Efficient with his emotions.”
Efficient with his emotions. Interesting. “Jeanine implied that Michael was tough on Brandon.”
“Tough? That’s a nice way to put it. He bullied Brandon and bubble-wrapped Jeanine. It’s probably the reason she went into social work. If so, at least Michael and I did something right as parents. She’s done well for herself in trying to help others. Unfortunately, one of those others isn’t my son.” Lorna looked down at her clothes as if noticing them for the first time, then ran a bird-like hand through her hair. I noticed she was still wearing her wedding rings.
“I don’t think she’d approve of my new look, though admittedly I’m not usually quite so bohemian. Found these at the back of my closet, couldn’t believe I’d kept them, or that they still fit. The one positive of being a frayed sack of nerves for the better part of two decades. I can’t keep weight on, even when I binge, which truthfully isn’t often, and I’m a manic exerciser. I tried drinking to excess for a while but it didn’t help. I usually favor well-cut slacks and silk blouses, and my hair is usually wrestled into a French braid or something equally reserved. I’ll probably go back to that look in a day or two. Right now, I’m enjoying this retro phase.” She laughed again, embarrassment replacing the bitterness. “Listen to me blathering on about my wardrobe choices. You wanted to talk about Brandon. Let’s talk. Though I can’t imagine I’ll have much to add beyond what you’ve already been told or read.”
“Jeanine also told us that Brandon had become increasingly interested in learning about his biological father.” I didn’t add that she’d told us about Brandon’s “you’re not my father,” rants, though by the tight expression on Lorna’s face, she knew that we knew. I continued on. “Chantelle is an expert in genealogy. We thought if she prepared a family tree for Brandon, it might provide a direction to take.”
“What you’re actually asking is for the name of Brandon’s biological father. The rest is window dressing.”
Chantelle blushed. “We’re not trying to be invasive, but it’s important to explore all avenues. The more information we have, the better chance of success at finding a connection.”
“I don’t think you’re trying to be invasive, but the police have already asked these questions.”
“Then let’s start with what you told them,” I said, and Chantelle nodded her agreement.
Lorna assessed us both. “Okay, sure. What harm can it do after all these years? Brandon’s father was a guy I met in a bar one night. He was maybe early thirties, though he could have been younger or older. I was underage, over-served, and feeling amorous. He was handsome and charming and laughed at all of my jokes. When he offered to drive me home, I agreed, though we both knew it would be more than that. We drove into the Cedar Park Soccer Field and made love under the moon and stars. He even had a blanket. At the time it seemed romantic, and neither one of us thought about using protection. I found out I was pregnant six weeks later. I went back to the bar, looking for the guy. Never saw him again. No one had. My guess is he was just driving through.”
“What was his name?” I asked.
Lorna blushed. “He said his name was Alexander, but it could have been anything. We didn’t get to last names. I remember he had a tattoo of an eagle across the top of his back, went from shoulder to shoulder. I’d never known anyone with a tattoo.”
“What did he look like?”
“Like the age-progressed sketch of Brandon. The one with the beard. When the police first showed me that sketch, I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I knew Brandon took after the man who knocked me up, but to see him as an adult…” Lorna bit her lip. “You’d think something like that would bring me comfort, but instead, it broke my heart.”
I sat there, not sure of what to say. Chantelle came to the rescue.
“Do you remember the name of the bar? Where it was?”
“Sure. It was on the corner of Lancaster and Water, long gone and replaced by a strip mall. It was called the Running Jump, though locals called it the Running Dump, a reputation well deserved, I assure you. Not a place for nice girls. Then again, I wasn’t a nice girl, or at least I didn’t want to be, gave my parents plenty of room for concern during my teen years. That changed after I found out I was expecting. I never once thought of having an abortion or giving my baby up for adoption. I wanted to be a good mother. I think I was, for a while. We’d go to my parents’ cabin in the summer and swim and fish and hike. Then I met Michael at work. I thought he’d be good for us. A boy needs a father, you know, and Brandon was seven. So we got married, and I got pregnant pretty much right away, and any talk of adopting Brandon went by the wayside.”
“Jeanine said that you never told Brandon about his biological father.”
“That’s where she’d be wrong, not that I’ve ever told her differently. I did tell him. I told him a couple of weeks before he left to find himself. That’s why it haunts me. Day and night, the thing that makes me believe my son left with the intention of never returning home.”
I felt clueless. “What is it that haunts you, Lorna?”
“He took his laptop, clothes, even his toiletries. But he left his ID behind, the one thing that identified him as Brandon Colbeck. Without that, he could be anyone.” Lorna looked at us, her cheeks stained by tears. “He could be anyone, couldn’t he?”
I didn’t have an answer for that. Neither did Chantelle.
16
Lorna had no sooner left when my phone rang. I checked the call display. Royce. I’d had a handful of voice mail messages and texts from him asking me to call him. I showed the phone to Chantelle who made an “answer it” gesture.
“Hi Royce, I got your messages, but I’ve been busy with this new case. In fact, Chantelle’s here now.”
“I’d like to come by when you’re free. Later on today, after she leaves.”
No preamble, just, “I’d like to come by when you’re free.” It might have been nothing more than annoyance at my not calling him back, but I sensed something more in his terse tone. “Do you want me to make dinner?”
“No, that’s okay. Just text me when Chantelle leaves and I’ll swing by. There’s something I need to talk to you about, and I’d rather do it in person.”
“Will do,” I said, and hung up, a disconcerted feeling seeping into my bones.
“Royce coming over for dinner later?” Chantelle asked.
“He says he doesn’t want any dinner. He does, however, have something he needs to tell me.”
A raised eyebrow. “Hmmm. How’s it going with him, anyway?”
“If you’d asked me an hour ago, I would have said we were figuring out our relationship.”
“And now?”
“I’m pretty su
re he’s coming over to break up with me. Royce would be chivalrous like that. He wouldn’t do it over the phone.”
“Are you misreading the situation?”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so.” I caught Chantelle’s sympathetic glance and felt my defense mechanisms kick into overdrive. I didn’t want or need her pity, especially over some guy where my feelings were as yet undefined. “Seriously, it’s fine. I like him as a friend, and I’ll admit to being physically attracted to him, but you know as well as I do that it’s never going to feel right between me and his family, and family’s important.”
“You don’t have to extol the virtues of family on me,” Chantelle said, “but I think if you gave it some time, things would sort themselves out. If you like Royce, he’s worth fighting for.”
“The thing is, I’ve been in love twice before, and it felt different than this. More heat in the passion. More daydreaming about what our future together would look like, right down to the house we’d buy and the kids we’d raise. This feels more like…I don’t know…best friends with benefits?” I thought back to the guy who dumped me on Valentine’s Day when I was expecting an engagement ring. Then came the two-timing triathlete. Talk about clueless. At least this time, I’d be semi-prepared.
“There’s nothing wrong with being friends with benefits if that’s all you want,” Chantelle said.
“Why am I sensing a but?”
“Because I think it’s more a case of you’ve been in love twice before and been hurt twice before, and you don’t want to be hurt again. God knows, I can relate. Anyway, I should go, let him come over, get whatever it is he needs to say, said.”
“Don’t you think we should review what Lorna told us?”
“I think we should both write up our version of the meeting and compare notes on the weekend. Speaking of which, I can’t make it when Lucy Daneluk comes over tomorrow. I have a…thing.”
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