“Do you know what led to his fixation?”
“I know he hired a private investigator when your mother first left, but nothing came of it. It was as if she’d vanished into thin air. There may have been some other attempts that I’m not aware of. But it was his last tenant in the Marketville house that reignited the fire.”
“How so?”
Leith gave a dry chuckle, but there was no humor in the sound. “Apparently the tenant was a psychic, or at least she claimed to be. A woman by the name of Misty Rivers.”
As someone named after Calamity Jane, a Wild West frontierswoman of questionable repute, I wasn’t about to criticize anyone else’s moniker. I was just grateful my parents had the good sense to give me a different middle name. “What did this Misty Rivers do or say to get my father’s attention?”
“She told him the house was haunted by someone who once lived there, someone who loved lilacs.”
“And from that he reached the conclusion my mother had been murdered?”
“It’s a reach, I know. But in the past another tenant had complained of weird noises. Creaking in the basement, footsteps in the attic, that sort of thing. We both dismissed the complaint as the tenant’s attempt to get out of her lease. If that was the objective, it worked. She moved out early without paying a penalty.”
“But then after the psychic—”
“Exactly. After Misty Rivers, your father wasn’t so sure. When you moved out of the Marketville house, he’d locked up all of your mother’s things in the attic. He said he couldn’t bear to go through them after she left, then the years just ticked on by. Misty made him believe there might be clues hidden amongst your mother’s belongings.”
It was as if Leith was talking about a stranger. “He never told me about any of this.”
“He wanted to be sure, to protect you from getting hurt. He didn’t want you believing in what might only have been a fairy tale.”
A fairy tale. Except this one didn’t seem to have a happy ending. I fished around in my purse for my cocoa butter lip balm, found it, dabbed some on while I thought about it.
“What’s all this about lilacs?”
“Over the years, folks have tried planting a variety of things, flowers, a vegetable garden, all without any measure of success. The only thing that grew on the property was an out-of-control lilac bush in the backyard. It didn’t matter how many times it was cut back, the following spring it would come back full and bushy. Apparently your mother had planted it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Lilacs are known for their indestructibility. And it would be easy enough for someone to see an old lilac bush and draw the conclusion the original owner had planted it.” Another thought occurred to me. “This Misty Rivers, did she want money?”
Leith nodded, his expression grave. “I believe your father was going to pay her to investigate. Against my advice, speaking on the record. Unfortunately for Ms. Rivers, his premature death intervened.”
Unbelievable. My common sense, union dues paying, hardworking tradesman of a father. Hiring a psychic. What had he been thinking?
It was as if Leith Hampton had read my mind.
“I know it’s a lot to take in, Callie. All I know is that in the past few months, your father became increasingly obsessed with your mother’s…disappearance. I have to admit that I didn’t see it coming. All these years, he refused to talk about her, and for good reason.”
“What good reason?”
Leith clamped his lips together as if he wanted to bite back the words he said, or was going to say.
“What good reason, Leith?” I asked, again. “If I’m going off on this wild goose chase, at the very least I need to know everything there is to know.”
Leith sighed, but there were no theatrics this time. “I suppose you’re right, and besides, once you get digging into the past, you’re bound to find out.”
I know lawyers get paid by the hour but there was no need to drag this on. I leaned forward, standing semi upright while my fingernails tapped on the polished mahogany surface. “Bound to find out what?”
“Although your mother’s body was never found, no one ever saw or heard from her again. The police suspected foul play. Although your father was the one who reported her missing, he soon became the prime suspect. There was a lot of neighborhood gossip.”
“Because the spouse is always the first one police suspect,” I said, thinking of the countless episodes of Law and Order I’d seen over the years.
“Exactly. Eventually, the police moved on, but the case was never closed. The damage it did to your father’s reputation in Marketville…he just couldn’t stay there. He also couldn’t bear to sell the home. Hence, the rentals over the years.”
“And going back now? Revisiting ancient history, opening old wounds. What was he hoping to prove?”
Leith shrugged. “Maybe he just wanted to clear his name, Calamity. Maybe adding the codicil was his way of asking you to do the same. I wish he’d confided in me more than he did. When it came to his legal matters, he didn’t treat me as a friend, he treated me as his lawyer. I encouraged that view of our relationship.”
“I work at a bank call center. The only thing I know how to investigate is customer complaints.” I tried to process everything Leith had told me. “You said I needed to move into the house. What if I don’t find out anything?” What if, as was entirely likely, there was nothing to find out? What if I found evidence that implicated my father?
“Your only obligation is to try, and of course, to live there.”
“If I don’t want to?”
“Fifty thousand dollars would be held in escrow for renovations. Misty Rivers would be allowed to live in the Marketville house, rent-free for the period of one year, with the proviso she investigates your mother’s disappearance. I would be given weekly progress reports, for which she would be paid one thousand dollars per report. The same sort of progress reports you would be expected to give, should you agree to take this on. The entire fifty thousand dollars would be paid outright should the mystery of your mother’s disappearance be solved before the year was up.”
Weekly progress reports saying what? The lilac was back in bloom? I wanted to scream. Instead I asked, “What happens after a year?”
“Misty Rivers moves out. The house will come into your full possession, to do with what you like. No more strings.”
In the meantime, some swindling psychic would be pawing through my mother’s belongings and living rent-free, probably without any interest in clearing my father’s name. Not on my dime and not on my time.
“As I mentioned earlier, your obligation ceases one year from the date you move in. After that, you’re free to do what you wish. Sell the house, continue to live there, put it back on the rental market. The fifty thousand dollars for renovations would be available from the moment you move in. Any dollars not used for renovations will come to you free and clear.”
“And what becomes of Misty Rivers?
“She’s on a five-thousand-dollar retainer, should you decide to consult with her.”
I couldn’t imagine doing any such a thing.
But it looked as if I was moving to Marketville.
Chapter 3
Snapdragon Circle was a cul-de-sac within an enclave of 1970s bungalows, split-levels, and semis. The occasional two-story home dotted an otherwise predictable suburban landscape, although closer inspection revealed upper level additions to the original structures.
Every road within the subdivision had been named after a provincial wildflower, starting with the central artery of Trillium Way and branching out to symmetrical side streets with names like Day Lily Drive, Lady’s Slipper Lane, and Coneflower Crescent.
Most of the homes appeared to be well cared for, the lawns lush and green, the windows gleaming. Sixteen Snapdragon Circle, a yellow brick bungalow with a badly sagging carport, was the one notable exception. The roof had been patched in a half dozen places with little attention paid to attemptin
g a match in the color of the shingles. The windows were caked with years of dirt and grit, and quite possibly, a few eggs from Halloweens past.
To say the house needed a little bit of TLC was putting a gloss on things. What this house needed was a good coat of fire.
It took me a minute to realize that a man had wandered over to the bare scratch of front lawn to join me. I pegged him to be about forty, good looking in a rugged handyman sort of way, the kind of guy you’d see on one of those TV home improvement shows. Well-defined biceps, sandy brown hair cropped close to his scalp, warm brown eyes. He wore denim jeans, work boots, and a black golf shirt with a gold logo advertising Royce Contracting & Property Maintenance. I imagined a six-pack under that shirt and tried hard not to blush.
“Royce Ashford,” he said, extending his right hand. “I live next door.” He gestured to an immaculate back-split, gray brick with white vinyl siding. The siding looked new.
So this was Royce Ashford, the contractor Leith Hampton had mentioned. The contractor my dad had hired.
“Callie Barnstable.”
“Are you the new tenant?” There was something in the way he said it, a hint of “here we go again” and “poor you” implicit in the words.
“Even worse. I own this place.” Quit my job to move here.
For a brief moment, Royce raised his eyebrows in surprise, but he recovered quickly. “I heard about his accident. I’m sorry. He seemed like a good man.”
“Thank you. I understood from Leith Hampton—my father’s lawyer—that you knew my father.”
“I wouldn’t say I knew him, exactly. I met him for the first time a few weeks ago. I gather he hadn’t been here in a few years, had all the rentals handled through Hampton & Associates. He seemed quite shocked at the state of disrepair.” Royce smiled. “I’m afraid tenants don’t always respect a property the way they might if it was their own.”
“I noticed.”
“Your dad was planning to renovate. I’d given him a few ideas and an estimate. I got the impression he was planning to move back in.”
So Leith had been right, my father had planned to come back to Marketville. I wondered if he had planned to sell the townhouse. I thought about the postcards from realtors addressed to “The Estate of James David Barnstable” that I’d tossed in the trash. I was definitely going to sell the townhouse once probate cleared, but I wasn’t about to list it with someone so tactless. Now I wondered if any one of those realtors had talked to my father. I heard Royce clear his throat and realized he’d been talking to me.
“I’m sorry, I was off in my own world.”
“I expect it’s all a bit overwhelming for you. I was saying that you’re free to find another contractor. Whatever you decide, I’d suggest getting the roof re-shingled before you get leaks inside the house. Your father had already gotten quotes and selected a company. I could set that up for you, if you’d like.”
“Thank you, that would be great. The sooner the better, from the looks of things. I’d also like to discuss the rest of the renovations once I get settled in.” I just hoped it wouldn’t take up the entire fifty thousand dollars. Leith had mentioned that whatever was left over would come to me. It could buy me a little more time to figure out what I was going to do once my year was up. I couldn’t imagine going back to the call center.
“I’ll see how soon I can get the roofers in. As for the other renos, there’s no rush. You can let me know when you’re ready. In the meantime, if you’re up for a drink or dinner—no obligation to discuss business—let me know. It can’t be easy coming to a town where you don’t know anyone.”
“Thank you.” I pulled out my cocoa lip balm, dabbed a bit on my lips, and wondered about the best way to approach Royce. I decided to go full at it. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Not at all. Ask away.”
“Did you happen to know the last tenant?”
A slow grin spread across Royce’s face. “I assume you mean Misty Rivers, psychic extraordinaire. She was convinced the house was haunted, tried to convince your father of the same.”
Just as I had suspected. It wasn’t just an I think it’s haunted. The woman had done her best to mess with my father’s head, and it seemed to have worked, although why he had believed her was another matter entirely.
“Do you believe in such things?” I studied Royce through narrowed eyes.
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told your dad,” Royce said, shrugging his shoulders. “I was born and raised in Marketville, and in the late 1970s, the population would have been roughly 20,000, less than a quarter of what it has today. These houses were built to entice first time homeowners with young families. Folks who couldn’t afford to buy in the city. Back then the building code wasn’t as stringent as it is today, and to be fair, a lot of the technology and energy efficiencies that we now take for granted hadn’t even been developed. Add to the mix that the house has been tenanted for thirty years, with minimal attention paid to upkeep, and there’s bound to be some squeaks and squawks.”
“So the short answer is no.”
That slow grin appeared once again.
“I suppose, Callie, that you’re about to find out.”
Chapter 4
The inside of Sixteen Snapdragon Circle wasn’t much better than the outside. I went around the house, opening the windows to get rid of a musty smell that seemed to infuse every room. Then I went back to the entrance and took stock of my inheritance.
Avocado green and gold linoleum flooring in the hallway carried through to a small eat-in kitchen, the cupboards painted a gloss chocolate brown, the walls sunshine yellow. Harvest gold appliances. A laminate countertop, gold speckles on off-white, a pot ring burned into its scarred surface. A window over the sink overlooked the sagging carport. Welcome back, 1980.
An old memory came to mind. Me, as a little girl, four, maybe five years old, curly brown hair in a messy bob, standing on a footstool and staring out of that very same window. I was wearing a red and white striped apron with tiny heart-shaped pockets. I used to hide tiny pieces of beef liver in those pockets so I could flush the bits down the toilet after dinner. My parents had a strict “eat your dinner or there’s no dessert” policy, and no amount of gravy or fried onions made the liver tolerable to my taste buds.
I closed my eyes, hoping to remember more.
Popped them wide open when I heard a creak in the attic.
A shiver ran through me. I found the furnace control and turned up the heat. To the left of the hallway was a combination living room-dining room. I wondered if there was hardwood underneath the threadbare gold carpet that covered the floor. I kneeled down, lifted up a heat vent, and pulled back a corner to reveal a strip of pale blonde hardwood. Small mercies. That rug’s days were seriously numbered, and stripping carpet was something I could do myself. It would save a bit of renovation money for another project. From the looks of this place, fifty thousand dollars wasn’t going to go far. If I wanted to sell in a year and get a decent amount for the place, I’d have to put in a lot of elbow grease.
Another hallway led out of the kitchen and dining room and into a main bathroom in shades of 1970s pink, and two bedrooms painted builder’s beige. The smaller room was barely larger than a walk-in closet. The master bedroom was just large enough to fit a queen-sized bed if you were the kind of person who didn’t care about night tables. The eyesore of a rug continued throughout. I lifted up another heat vent and found evidence of more pale blonde hardwood.
Both bedrooms had decent-sized windows, with the master affording a view of the backyard. I noticed the sprawling lilac, not yet in bud. It was early May after an unseasonably harsh winter. It could be at least another month before it would be in full bloom.
I opened the master bedroom closet and made note of a small footstool and attic entry. According to Leith, my mother’s things would be stored there. I wasn’t looking forward to rummaging around an attic—thoughts of mice poop and spider webs sprang t
o mind, and I really hated closed-in spaces—but it would have to be done, and sooner rather than later. If I could solve this supposed “mystery” or prove there was no mystery to solve, I could go back to my life in downtown Toronto. It might not have been exciting, but it was cloaked in anonymity, something the recluse in me relished. Five years in my condo rental, I had yet to get to know any of my neighbors. One hour in Marketville and I already had the neighbor inviting me over for a drink or dinner.
I continued with my investigation of the house. A narrow stairway led to the basement. I’m not a huge fan of basements. They always feel vaguely creepy to me, and the low ceilings and dark wood paneling did nothing to warm me to this one. There was a separate room with an ancient washer and dryer not long for this world. It wasn’t a ringer washer, but it wasn’t far off. A second room housed the furnace, original to the house from the looks of it. It would probably need to be replaced before next winter. I mentally tallied up the renovation expenses I’d made note of so far and tried to shake off a feeling of gloom. It looked like I had inherited a money pit, and maybe a haunted one at that.
As if on cue, the furnace made a strange, belching noise before shuddering into submission.
“I hear you,” I said, and scampered up the stairs, taking them two steps at a time.
Chapter 5
The movers weren’t expected to arrive for about an hour, which gave me time to hang up the clothes I’d brought, along with some basic kitchen essentials—kettle, tea, mug, and a package of chocolate chip cookies. I also managed to find a spot for three tubes of cocoa butter lip balm, one in a kitchen drawer, one in the bathroom, and another in the bedroom, temporarily on the window ledge until my bedside table was in place. The fourth tube I kept in my purse. Maybe it was a little neurotic, but there are worse addictions.
Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) Page 2