“The only thing I can do. Confront Michael Westlake.”
“I’d pay admission for that,” Sam said, “but something tells me you’re not going to be selling tickets.”
41
I spent a sleepless night waiting for Monday morning. My plan was to call Michael Westlake as soon as his office opened at nine a.m. It was time for the moment of truth.
The moment came sooner than anticipated, albeit not in the way I’d envisioned, when Leith Hampton called at precisely 7:37 a.m. I don’t get a lot of phone calls at that time of the morning, especially from Leith. I prepared myself for his latest news blast, thinking back to the deaths of my father, my great-grandmother. Who would it be now? My grandfather, Corbin Osgoode? My grandmother, Yvette? A long-lost Barnstable? I picked up the call.
“You’re officially off the Brandon Colbeck case,” Leith said brusquely.
“Off the case? I don’t understand. You told me I had three months. It’s been less than a month, and I’ve made a lot of progress.”
“I’m sure you have, but your services are no longer required. Don’t worry about the money. You still stand to inherit under the terms of Olivia Osgoode’s last will and testament.”
The money? That’s what Leith thought concerned me? This wasn’t about the inheritance. Brandon Colbeck’s disappearance consumed every waking hour, haunted my every night, maybe even messed up whatever relationship I’d had with Royce. And now Leith was telling me that I’d been fired.
“It’s not about the money,” I said. “It’s about finishing what I started.”
Leith let out one of his practiced, theatrical sighs. “There’s nothing to finish. Brandon Colbeck returned home Wednesday. He initially made contact with his stepfather, Michael Westlake. In turn, Westlake took what he assures me were the necessary steps to authenticate the man’s identity before contacting me, and before informing the rest of the family.”
“They’ve done DNA testing? I thought that process took longer than a few days.” Admittedly my knowledge was based on television crime shows, but still…
“No DNA test. Westlake wanted to bring his family together without unnecessary delays, said they’d waited long enough. A rigorous questioning by the officer in charge and Westlake himself erased any doubt that the man who now calls himself Brian Cole is Brandon Colbeck.”
“Well, I guess that’s that then,” I said, feeling strangely hollow.
“If it’s any consolation, you’ve been invited to Brandon’s official welcome home lunch. The family thought it was the least they could do after all the work you’ve done on their behalf.”
“When is it?”
“That’s why I’m calling you this early. It’s at noon today. Jeanine Westlake is hosting at her house,” Leith said, rattling off the address. “In fact, it’s Jeanine who insisted on your presence. With the exception of you, this is strictly a family affair.”
In other words, no Chantelle, no Shirley, no Misty, and by extension, no Sam Sanchez. It seemed to me that Brandon would want to see Sam, but perhaps he wanted to do that privately.
I wasn’t sure what someone wore to a welcome home lunch for someone who’d been missing for years. I figured casual was best, black jeans and a jewel-toned sweater that brought out the green in my hazel eyes. Minimal makeup and I was ready to go.
Jeanine Westlake lived in a two-story brick and stucco townhouse in a new subdivision on the southeast edge of town. The lot was barely wider than the length of my car. I parked and made my way to the door, suddenly apprehensive.
The door swung open before I had an opportunity to knock.
“Callie, thanks so much for coming.” Jeanine ushered me past a gleaming hardwood staircase leading up to the second floor, and into a surprisingly spacious living room. The décor was what could best be described as urban contemporary with a touch of Ikea, neutral tones of tan and taupe accessorized with vivid punches of turquoise and teal. A grouping of silver “Welcome Home” helium balloons bobbed in one corner like a giant bouquet.
Lorna and Michael were already seated on the sofa, Eleanor in the middle, presumably acting as a buffer. There was no sign of the man of the hour.
“Brandon will be down momentarily,” Lorna said, as if reading my mind. “Please, take a seat.”
I gave Eleanor a brief hug, shook hands with Lorna and Michael, then sank into a butter-soft leather chair positioned near the balloon brigade. Lorna had significantly altered her appearance. With the exception of a beaded macramé bracelet, she’d traded in her bohemian hippie look for crisply pleated black dress slacks, brightly patterned paisley scarf, and long-sleeved black jersey tee. This version of Lorna was as buttoned-up as her ex-husband’s blue button-down shirt. Eleanor appeared to be oblivious. Maybe she was, or maybe she’d learned that escaping into her own world could provide sanctuary.
A linen-covered folding table: champagne flutes and miniature bottles of sparkling wine, a platter of deli sandwiches, napkins, paper plates, and plastic utensils. It looked more like a corporate reception than a welcome home celebration, but what was I expecting? A church social?
Jeanine kept fluttering in and out of the room, reminding me of one of the origami birds at her office, their wings trembling in the harsh florescent light. An oven buzzer went off and I followed her into the kitchen, wondering what the heck was going on. This wasn’t the calm, collected social worker I’d met on two previous occasions.
This woman was a nervous wreck.
Jeanine was arranging an assortment of appetizers, the heat-and-serve kind you buy in the frozen food section of the grocery store: spring rolls, battered mozzarella sticks, jalapeño poppers, and spinach puffs.
“What’s going on, Jeanine?” I asked.
She stared at me, wide-eyed and frightened. “Can I trust you, Callie? I mean really trust you.”
“Of course. Why?”
“Because I think the man claiming to be my brother is an imposter.”
42
I stared at Jeanine. “An impostor? Are you sure?” I kept my voice low, so as not to be heard in the next room.
“No, I’m not positive,” she whispered. “That’s why I insisted on having you here. I thought you could find out.”
Find out how? I’m an investigator, not a magician. “What about your parents? Your grandmother? What do they think?”
“They’re convinced he’s the real deal. He certainly seems to have most of the answers.”
“Most of the answers?”
“He forgot about the teapot. I may be overanalyzing, but how could he forget a thing like that?” She was about to say more when Lorna flitted into the room; Brandon was waiting for us in the living room. I shot Jeanine a quick look, which I hope relayed that I was still on the case, all the while deliberating. Would a forty-year-old man remember covering up for his kid sister the time she broke a teapot in the kitchen?
Maybe, if he’d been beaten with a belt for taking the blame. But just because a memory had haunted Jeanine, didn’t mean it had haunted him. I followed mother and daughter into the living room, wondering what I could find out without it coming across like an interrogation.
My first impression of Brandon Colbeck was that he resembled the age-progressed sketches well enough. Unlike the clean-cut and scruffy versions of the man in the sketches, he fit somewhere in-between, with silver-streaked reddish-brown hair curling at his collar and the sort of perfectly trimmed five o’clock shadow that had become the fashion of late.
“Brandon, this is Calamity Barnstable,” Jeanine said, guiding me toward him. “I’ve told you about her, the owner of Past & Present Investigations.”
“It’s Callie,” I said, shaking Brandon’s hand as he rose from his chair.
Brandon smiled warmly, though I noticed the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You’ll have to tell me where your investigation led, Callie,” he said, the smile still in place. “I didn’t think I’d left any bread crumbs behind.”
/> “Everyone leaves a trail,” I said. “Yours was just a bit more complicated.” I took my position by the balloon bouquet. “What brought you back to Marketville?”
“I’ve been homesick for a very long time, but I was too proud, or too stubborn, to come back before now. I googled myself, found the article in the Marketville Post, and that led me to the Ontario Registry of Missing and Unidentified Adults website. I realized how selfish I’d been, how much pain I’d caused everyone. I was ashamed of myself, of my behavior. I finally summoned up the courage to call Nana Ellie.” Brandon’s expression was filled with remorse. “I botched it. I sounded like I was trying to scam her.” His turned his attention to Eleanor. “I’m so sorry, Nana Ellie. I should have talked about how much I missed our days at the cottage with Grandpa Tom, or the time I tripped over my fishing rod and smashed my nose on the dock. Instead, I only upset you. I can never forgive myself for that.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Eleanor said, misty-eyed. “We’re all just happy you called Michael and asked to come home.”
“Brandon called me a week ago,” Michael explained. “I’m afraid I put my stepson through his paces, asked him a litany of questions about our past. He passed with flying colors, even recalled some of the not-so-pleasant memories every family has, no matter how close. Once I was satisfied, I had Lorna, Jeanine, and Eleanor ask their own questions, and they’re satisfied.”
Except Jeanine isn’t entirely satisfied. And you alone made the decision to bypass a DNA test. Why?
“Michael is being kind,” Brandon said. “I didn’t comment on Mom’s macramé bracelet until she asked me if I remembered making it. And I’d forgotten about taking the blame for Jeanine breaking a teapot when we were kids. But Jeanine doesn’t remember the umpteen times I moved her bike out of the driveway because she always left it right behind the car.”
“What color was the teapot?” I asked.
Brandon held his hands in the air, palms towards me in mock surrender. “Mea culpa. I can’t remember. But Jeanine’s bike was pink. Any other questions to try to trip me up, Callie?”
I blushed. “I’m sorry, I’ve overstepped. I’m afraid it’s a hazard of the trade.”
“Why don’t we eat?” Lorna said, in an attempt to diffuse the tension. “Jeanine’s put on a lovely spread and there’s champagne to celebrate Brandon’s return home.”
We filled our plates while Jeanine poured the champagne.
“Time for a toast,” Michael announced once we each had a glass. “To my stepson, Brandon. Welcome home.”
We clinked glasses, Jeanine’s eyes seeking mine, and I registered her silent plea. I took a deep breath and hoped my next idea would pay off.
“We’re missing someone who would love to be here.”
Five curious expressions stared back at me.
“Who’d we miss?” Michael asked, his tone tinged with annoyance.
“Sam Sanchez.”
“Sam Sanchez?” Eleanor asked. “Who’s he?”
Brandon set down his champagne flute and rolled up his sleeve to reveal a fully finished tattoo of The Fool. “Sam Sanchez started this tattoo nineteen years ago on a blustery March day. I had it finished in Sudbury. It’s the first card in tarot, the beginning of what believers call The Fool’s Journey. Back then, I thought of it as symbolic, the start of my own fool’s journey.” He produced a disarming grin. “What can I say? I was young and idealistic.”
Now I really did wish Sam was here, because though the tattoo looked new to me—the lines not “blown out” the way she’d described—I wasn’t sure.
Michael Westlake spoke, an undercurrent of warning in his voice. “The vintage tattoo art you sold to the gallery in Burlington last week, Brandon, that was by Nestor Sanchez, was it not? You said you didn’t want any more reminders of the past, that it would be too painful. It’s probably best if you don’t see Sam Sanchez again.”
“I appreciate your concern, Michael,” Brandon said, “but Callie’s absolutely right. Sam and I met in our first year of college and we became best friends, even confidantes. He should most definitely be here. Perhaps Callie can set something up.”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “There’s just one small problem.”
“What’s that?” Brandon asked.
“Your good friend, Sam? Her name is Samantha, as in she versus he. But then again, you’d have known that if you really were Brandon Colbeck, wouldn’t you?”
43
There were audible gasps in the room from everyone but Brandon and Michael, who were stone-faced and silent. Lorna and Eleanor appeared to be shell-shocked. I couldn’t read the expression on Jeanine’s face? Relief? Disappointment? A combination of the two?
“What’s your real name?” I demanded of the man who had been posing as Brandon Colbeck.
“Adam,” he said.
Michael looked surprised. “Adam? I thought your name was Brian Cole.”
“Brian Cole is the name Brandon assumed after he left home,” Adam said.
“Adam or Brian, the name doesn’t matter. You still knew he was an imposter,” I said to Michael, gesturing toward Adam. “Before you took him to Light Box Auction Gallery? After? What gave him away? Did you know all along? If so, why did you want to deceive your family?”
Michael’s body sagged as if the air had been let out of him. In a way, I suppose it had, not that I felt any sympathy for him. What kind of person lied about something so important?
I focused my attention on Adam next. “And you, capitalizing on a family’s grief. How could you?”
He flashed a sardonic smile. “How could I? Simple. I needed money. Michael Westlake was willing to supply it.”
“But how did you find him? Find us?” Lorna speaking now, her face tear-stained, her voice barely audible. “How did you know about Brandon?”
“I really did google him, but I looked for Brian Cole. I eventually found him as a Missing Adult on the website for the Ontario Registry of Missing and Unidentified Adults. But trust me when I tell you that my initial intentions were pure.”
“Pure? Is that the tale you’re going to spin?” Michael hissed out the words. “The only reason you came to me was to demand money in exchange for what you knew.”
Adam shrugged. “Admittedly, I’d hoped for a sizeable reward in exchange for the information, but the rest of this unfortunate charade was your idea, Michael.”
It was the only plausible explanation, of course, the one I’d anticipated from the moment I’d heard that Brandon’s first contact had been with the stepfather he hated.
Lorna stepped forward and slapped her ex-husband’s face hard enough to leave an imprint of her hand across his check. I’m not an advocate of violence, but I couldn’t help but think he deserved that, and more.
Lorna walked across the room, put her back against the wall, and clenched her fists. She glared at Michael with a mixture of loathing and disdain. “All these years,” she said, “All these years I blamed you for Brandon leaving, your tough love, installing spyware on his computer, yammering at him night after night after night about finding a job. But I blamed myself, too, because I knew what you were doing, and I stood by and let it happen. Even with all of that, never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined you’d be evil enough to perpetrate this deception. How could you?”
“Yes, father, how could you?” Jeanine asked. She crossed the room and put her arms around her grandmother. A spark of some emotion—sadness? Anger?—flitted across Eleanor’s face before she retreated back into her fog, jaw slack, eyes unfocused. I wondered if she’d ever reenter reality. I didn’t think so. Maybe it was better that way.
“I just wanted the constant searching for Brandon to be over,” Michael said. “I thought it was, then Calamity Barnstable came knocking, and everyone started believing again. Worse than that, Callie kept digging, never satisfied until she’d found out every one of our secrets, secrets better left in the past. She was tearing this family apart all over again
. Don’t you see that? The same way Brandon tried to tear this family apart all those years ago. I had to find a way to end it. And then Bri…Adam called and I thought I’d found the answer.”
“And Brandon?” Jeanine asked, her voice barely a whisper, a thread of hope running through it. “Is he alive, just not wanting to come home?”
Adam shook his head. “I’m sorry, Jeanine. I’m afraid your brother died many years ago.”
44
The room fell silent, each of us processing what Adam had revealed. Brandon was dead. It was one thing to suspect it, quite another to have your suspicions acknowledged.
Jeanine spoke first. “Will you tell us everything you know? We’ve waited so long to find out what happened to my brother.”
Adam considered the request. “Perhaps I should retain a lawyer first.”
Lorna shot Jeanine a quick look, and I could almost feel the mental telepathy between mother and daughter. Jeanine gave a barely perceptible nod, stood up, and requested my presence in the kitchen. I followed her, intrigued.
“We don’t want to report Adam to the authorities,” Jeanine said. “To do so would mean exposing my father’s complicity in the matter. That, in turn, would bring unwelcome attention to the rest of our family.”
“I understand. I will have to include everything I’ve learned in my final report, of course, but I have been retained on behalf of your family. Who you share that report with is entirely up to you.”
“Thank you.”
I followed her back to the living room, once again observing the exchanged glances between mother and daughter. For two women who claimed to have an uncommunicative relationship, they were communicating pretty well.
“Hiring a lawyer won’t be necessary,” Lorna said, once we’d taken our seats. “We have no intention of pressing charges, and Ms. Barnstable has assured my daughter of her firm’s complete discretion. Your impersonation of my son will never leave the confines of this room. If you’d like us to sign something to that effect, it can be arranged.”
A Fool's Journey Page 21