My mother wore the off-white empire-waist dress I had found in the trunk, along with the white strappy sandals with tiny rhinestones. Her blonde hair had been fashioned into an elaborate updo, highlighting her long, slender neck, the pearl necklace, and the matching pearl stud earrings. There was no sign of the beaded purse. She held a lace-wrapped bouquet of baby’s breath and lavender in front of her stomach, presumably to hide her baby bump.
If my father looked young, my mother looked positively like a high school senior, but her smile was radiant. There were about a dozen photos in all, and based on the backdrop they’d been shot in a studio. There wasn’t a single picture with anyone else. I pulled one photograph out of its plastic sleeve to find YOUR TIME TO SHINE PHOTOGRAPHY stamped in gold on the back. No photographer’s name. I could do a Google search of the company, but the odds that they were still in business were remote. The digital age had destroyed the careers of many.
After the wedding pictures, the next photos were of me as a baby in a variety of poses. Inside a playpen wearing nothing more than a diaper, splashing in a green plastic wading pool in the shape of a turtle, hugging a gigantic stuffed panda bear with bright black button eyes. I felt a twinge deep in my belly. I could remember dragging that panda everywhere me. I must have had it for years, though when and where the panda went was now a mystery. I suppose at some point I just lost interest and my father donated it to charity or tossed it in the trash. The thought of either made me more than a little bit sad.
There was a photo of me and my mother baking in the yellow and brown kitchen, or rather, she was cutting out cookies into star-shapes, while I was licking a wooden spoon, a dab of flour on my left cheek. I was wearing the red and white apron, the one with the tiny heart-shaped pockets.
The next page held a couple more photos of me, this time with my father building a sand castle on the beach, another with him standing next to me on my tricycle. I wished I could remember those events.
Instead of being placed in chronological order in the album, there was an entire section devoted to my birthday photos, each one showing me all dressed up in a frilly dress with ribbons or another sort of ‘tamer’ in my curl-crazed hair, while I attempted to blow out the pink and white number candle on a cake frosted with chocolate icing. The birthday photos stopped at six. My father had never been much on taking pictures, but even if he had this album had been stored inside this attic for years.
There was another section of photos taken with department store Santas. In year one, I was nearing eight months old, and my mom held me tight while standing next to Santa. In years two and three, I sat perched on Santa’s knee, with a terrified look on my face as though I was desperately trying not to cry. The next three years I looked decidedly happier, with a wide smile and a confident jut of the chin. Perhaps I’d figured out by then that a visit with Santa meant presents.
One thing stood out above all. Despite the care taken with the album, the sections carefully laid out, there wasn’t one photograph of the three of us as a family. Was that why my mother had asked Ella to take the four season series? Was she worried I’d look back at these photos and think we weren’t happy? That we weren’t a family? I closed the album, knowing it was just another question that I couldn’t answer.
The final find was a white envelope stamped in red: CERTIFICATE OF MARRIAGE/CERTIFICAT DE MARIAGE. I opened it up and unfolded the paper.
At the top left, PROVINCE OF ONTARIO. Ontario’s official seal in the center. PROVINCE DE L’ONTARIO at the top right. I skipped the rest of the French, since only the English side had been completed.
“I do hereby authorize and grant this license for the authorization of marriage between:
James David Barnstable
of 16 Snapdragon Circle, Marketville
and Abigail Alison Osgoode
of 127 Moore Gate Manor, Lakeside”
The license was signed and dated December 1, 1978 by the issuer of marriage licenses in Marketville. The Certificate of Marriage followed, signed and dated December 8, 1978, with the ceremony at Marketville Town Hall. There were two witness signatures. The first was from a Dwayne Shuter of Toronto. The second was from the Justice of the Peace who performed the ceremony.
Dwayne Shuter. I couldn’t recall my dad ever mentioning him, yet he must have meant enough to my parents to witness their civil service ceremony. Maybe he had been a friend of my mother’s. I would do my best to find him and see what he remembered.
The marriage certificate also revealed other information. If my math was correct, my mother had been about four months pregnant when she married my dad, and he had already owned the house on Snapdragon Circle.
I closed the trunk, taking the album and marriage certificate. I now had a lead in Dwayne Shuter. I also knew my mother’s maiden name was Osgoode, that she had lived at 127 Moore Gate Manor in Lakeside. For the first time, I felt the faintest flush of optimism. Maybe, with a bit more time and effort, I could actually solve this mystery.
Chapter 29
A quick Google search brought up a LinkedIn account for Dwayne Shuter. I swallowed the bile coming up in my throat. It wasn’t just that Dwayne’s occupation was listed as Site Supervisor, Southern Ontario Construction, the company my father had worked for when he died. It wasn’t that he seemed to have moved from city to city, going west then east, before finally settling back in Toronto a year before. It wasn’t even because his very first employer was listed as Osgoode Construction in Lakeside. Osgoode, as in my mother’s maiden name. Lakeside, where she grew up.
No, none of that is what made me want to throw up.
It was his picture. The beard was gone, and he was older now, with a few more lines and a lot grayer in a lot less hair. But he was undeniably the unidentified man in the food bank photo. The man with the scar over his left eye. The man with my mother and Reid.
What the hell did it mean?
My first call was to Leith Hampton. He was in court, the receptionist informed me, but she’d ask him to call me when he returned to the office. I called the Southern Ontario Construction Company next, hoping to get connected to Dwayne Shuter. After a long and tedious series of prompts, I finally got the option to leave a message. I did so, leaving my name and telephone number, but no reason for the call. Then I called the Cedar County Police and asked for Detective Rutger Ramsay. I was told there was no such officer on active duty. Determined to find out where he might be now, I called the number on Constable Arbutus’ business card. I hung up when I got her recorded message.
Frustrated, I started to pace.
A cup of tea and two chocolate chip cookies later, I recalled something Royce had said about the reason for getting four newspapers. That it was interesting to read the same story from different points of view. That’s exactly what I had to do now. Somewhere in between it all might be the truth. It was time to get organized, starting with making a bullet point list of everyone mentioned or photographed in the newspaper reports. I grabbed a pen and paper and started writing.
Detective Rutger Ramsay
Maggie Lonergan
Ella Cole
Misty Rivers
Dwayne Shuter
Reid, last name unknown
My elementary school principal and teacher, neither one named
G.G. Pietrangelo, writer and photographer, gender unknown
Terry Thatcher, owner of the Thatcher House
I looked over the list. It wasn’t a lot, but it was something.
I was starting to feel a bit more confident in my amateur sleuthing abilities. Maybe I’d missed my calling. I looked back over my list. Ella Cole lived next door, and she loved to talk. I’d start with her.
I left my cell phone at home—if I wanted to talk to Ella, I didn’t need the distraction, and she struck me as the sort of person who wouldn’t take kindly to the interruption—took my folder of printouts from the library, and headed next door. Ella answered the doorbell in less than a minute.
“Why Callie, what
a nice surprise.” Ella glanced down at the folder in my hand. “You’ve brought something to show me?”
I nodded.
“Come on in.”
I followed her into a spotlessly contemporary kitchen that opened into an equally spotless living area. White cupboards with ebony beading. Gold-flecked black granite countertops. Harvest wheat walls with sparkling white trim. Stainless steel appliances. It struck me that her kitchen was more modern than she was. Ella gestured to a kidney-shaped island and invited me to take a seat. I hopped up onto a chrome and black leather barstool and attempted to make myself comfortable.
“Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee? I just made a nice streusel cake with almonds.”
“Tea would be great. Black, no sugar.”
“No cake?”
I don’t really care for streusel cakes. They always seem dry as dust to me, but Ella looked so disappointed I agreed to a small slice. While she bustled about getting everything ready, I filled her in on my trips to the Regional Reference Library. I left Shirley out of it. I didn’t want to get her into any sort of trouble.
“Maybe it’s crazy to want to read about it,” I said, “but ever since you told me what you knew, it’s been festering inside of me. I needed to know more.”
Ella set the tea and cake plates on the table and sat down across from me. “Did you find out more?”
“Not really, at least, not from a ‘what happened’ standpoint. You probably told me as much or more about the events, before and after, than the news stories did. But I printed them off, and I wonder if you’d look at them with me.”
“I know I answered your questions on Sunday evening, Callie, but I have to tell you that I’m wondering if I said more than I should have. Eddie used to say I talked too much, and I’m afraid he might have been right. It’s not always a good idea to dredge up the past.” Ella leaned over and covered my hand with her own. “What if you find out something you don’t want to know? Stir up past troubles that might be best left buried.”
I removed my hand from hers. “You’re implying that I might find out my father was guilty. I don’t believe he was, but I’m willing to run that risk.”
“It’s more than that, Callie. Eddie used to say that people poking into a hornet’s nest usually get stung.”
“I appreciate your concern, Ella, but I can’t let this go. I have to find out what happened to my mother. Or at least try to.” That much was true, and by now it went way beyond just fulfilling a codicil.
Ella nodded. “Very well, if you’re sure, then I’ll do what I can to help you. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise,” I said, and opened the folder. I took out the printout showing the group shot of the Canada Day tree-planting volunteers.
“There are ten people in this photograph. I can pick out my mother and father, but I don’t know any of the other people.” A slight detour on the truth, since I recognized Reid as the man from the locket. Though technically, it wasn’t a lie, since I didn’t actually know him. “Can you put a name to any of these faces?”
Ella slid her glasses down her nose and peered over them. She traced her finger from one face to the next, first on the top row then the bottom. She pointed out a man who appeared to be in his early fifties. He was tall and thin, with angular features, a generous nose, and a bushy brown Magnum PI-Tom Selleck mustache. He wore a Toronto Blue Jays baseball cap, the red and white Canada Day tree planting t-shirt, khaki shorts, and work boots.
“The man next to your father is Eddie. He and your father volunteered at the tree planting to support your mother. I looked after you that afternoon.”
I made a note that the third man in the bottom row was Eddie Cole. “Anyone else look familiar?”
Ella studied the photo a while longer, but finally shook her head. “No, sorry.”
I was disappointed. I’d hoped she would be able to identify the man I knew to be Reid, but if she could, she didn’t say. “Do you recognize the name of the person doing the reporting? G.G. Pietrangelo.”
Ella glanced down at the names and shook her head again. “I remember being interviewed by a young woman from the Post, but I don’t remember her name. It could have been Gigi, I suppose. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”
“That’s okay. It was a long shot.” I put the printout back inside the folder and removed the Christmas Drive at the food bank article. The photo that showed my mother, a young Misty Rivers, the man I knew as Reid, the man I now knew was Dwayne Shuter, and the woman I suspected was Maggie Lonergan.
“What about in this picture? It was taken in December during a holiday drive for the food bank.”
Once again Ella studied the photograph, this time with better results. She looked up, a perplexed look on her face. “Lord love a duck, the woman with the curly hair is Misty Rivers. I almost didn’t recognize her.”
“I thought it might be her, but it’s good to have confirmation. It does make me wonder, though, why she didn’t tell me that she knew my mother. It also makes me wonder why she rented the house in the first place.”
“I have to admit, I wondered about that myself. When she lived there, she claimed the house was haunted, that a woman who lived there had died an unnatural death. At the time I assumed she was a psychic, but now it looks as if she was well aware of the circumstances. I wish I could help you more, but I never really got to know her, beyond what she told me, and that seems suspect at this point, doesn’t it?”
“It does, but there may be a perfectly plausible explanation.” I didn’t believe for a moment that there was a plausible explanation, but I didn’t want Ella gossiping about it. “It’s probably best if you don’t mention this to anyone, just in case.”
“Of course. My lips are sealed.”
It was the best I could hope for. “Do you recognize anyone else in the photograph?”
“The red-haired woman is the busybody I told you about. Maggie Lonergan.”
“So that’s Maggie Lonergan. Do you know if she still lives in Marketville?”
Ella shook her head. “She moved up north, good riddance to bad rubbish. Somewhere in the Muskokas. I’m thinking Gravenhurst or Bala, but I could be wrong. That had to be at least twenty-five years ago. I haven’t seen or heard from her since. No reason I would have. I didn’t care for her and I’m sure the feeling was mutual.”
It wasn’t much of a lead, but it was more than I knew before I came here. “What about the man with the fair hair? I noticed him in the Canada Day photo.” I pulled it out and showed Ella.
Ella squinted over her glasses and nodded. “Yes, that’s definitely the same man, but I don’t know who he is. Eddie might have known him, since he was at the Canada Day tree planting, but if he did, he never mentioned it to me.”
“It’s okay, you’re doing great. What about the guy with the beard?” I asked, pointing to the man I now knew was Dwayne Shuter.
“Sorry, no. I think I would have remembered that scar. When you talk to Misty, you might ask her since she was in the picture with him.”
“I plan to do just that. I have one more group shot. A volunteer appreciation night hosted by Terrance Thatcher at the Thatcher House. I remember you told me it was fine dining when it was open. Can you tell me which one of these people was Terrance Thatcher?”
Ella glanced at the photo and pointed to a short, rotund man. He was balding in that ‘horseshoe’ bald haircut men used to wear before shaving their entire head became the norm.
“That’s Terry. He died about a year after the restaurant closed. Drowned in a boating accident in Lakeside. There were strong suggestions of suicide. The failure of the Thatcher House haunted him something fierce, but nothing was ever proven, and he had no real family to speak of.”
Which meant Terrance Terry Thatcher was quite literally a dead end. “Is there anyone else in the photo that you recognize? Besides my mother and Maggie Lonergan?”
“I wish there was, Callie, but no. No one else looks familia
r to me.”
“Okay, thanks. That’s it for photos.” I closed my folder. “May I ask you something else?”
“Of course.”
“The newspaper mentioned that when my mother didn’t pick me up on Valentine’s Day, the school telephoned the emergency contact. They didn’t mention any names, but I know from what you’ve told me that person was you. Do you know the names of the principal or my teacher? They aren’t named, but I thought maybe—”
“That maybe they had some information that never came out?” Ella shook her head. “I don’t think I ever knew their names, not having any kids of my own. The school board might be able to help you with that, if you can get by all the privacy rules they have these days.”
“I suspect both the teacher and the principal are probably long retired, but it’s a good suggestion nonetheless.” I got up, thanked Ella for the almond streusel cake—even drier than expected—tea, and her time. Then I headed back to Sixteen Snapdragon Circle, hoping that Leith or the Construction Company had returned my call.
Chapter 30
There were three messages on my phone. One from Leith, one from Southern Ontario Construction, and one from Constable Arbutus, noting that she’d picked up my number as a hang up and hoped everything was okay. “Call me back, Callie, or I’ll feel the need to stop by and check on you.”
As nice as it was to know Arbutus was in my corner, I cursed myself for calling her in the first place. How could I explain my investigation to her? I called her first and apologized for the hang up. “Nothing is wrong, Officer. I’ve just been working on something and thought you might be able to help me find someone. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
“Now that you have, you might as well fill me in.”
“It’s not a big deal. Mostly I was hoping you could tell me where Detective Rutger Ramsay might be now. I understand he’s no longer with the force.”
Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) Page 14