Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1)

by Judy Penz Sheluk

  Inside, Ben’s Convenience had the usual selection of soda, chips, chocolate bars, and catering to the avid three-season cyclists that frequented Winding Lake Drive, an impressive variety of energy bars and sports drinks. There was a chest filled with plastic bags of ice and a freezer stocked with an assortment of ice cream bars. The owner stood behind a counter filled with scratch-and-win tickets safely stored behind Plexiglas. I remembered him from a decade ago, a grizzled man with bushy white hair, a permanent suntan, and a perpetual scowl. Come summer, he’d be out front grilling hot dogs, sausages, and burgers—beef or veggie—the price of each going up or down, depending on the temperature and the number of tourists and triathletes. I handed him the money for the parking and two overpriced bottles of water.

  “You ladies heading out for a walk?” he asked, handing me my change.

  “We are,” Chantelle said with a brilliant smile. “You must be Ben.”

  “You read the sign.” The scowl remained firmly in place.

  I wanted to throttle him. Chantelle wasn’t dissuaded.

  “You owned this place long, Ben?”

  “Coming up to forty years.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  “A lifetime. Where you planning to walk?”

  “We thought we’d head over to Moore Gate Manor,” she said, “see how the other half live.”

  “You mean the other one percent,” Ben said, but his scowl had lifted a little. I swear Chantelle could unfreeze an igloo in the Arctic.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right about that.” Chantelle paused, as if debating something with herself. After a few moments, she leaned forward onto the counter and stared up at the storekeeper with her intense charcoal gray eyes. She stopped just short of fluttering her eyelashes, possibly realizing that might be overkill. “Look, between us, my friend here thinks she might have a relative on Moore Gate Manor. Remembers visiting there when she was a kid.”

  “So now she’s hoping to find a pot of gold?” Spoken as if I weren’t in the store.

  “It’s not like that. She’s just looking for family.”

  Was it my imagination or did the shopkeeper flush beneath his tan?

  “I didn’t mean anything—”

  Chantelle waved away his apology and pulled out one of the wedding photos from a pouch around her waist. “Maybe you recognize the woman?”

  Ben barely glanced at the photo. “Can’t say as I do.”

  “Let’s go, Chantelle,” I said, wishing I were anywhere but here. I flashed a look at the man. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

  To my surprise, the ingrained scowl softened a little bit more. “The one thing I can tell you is that the residents of Moore Gate Manor don’t frequent the poor side of town. They even have their own private beach, completely gated, security cameras, the whole nine yards. No need to come here and spend time with the great unwashed.”

  “Well, it was worth a shot,” Chantelle said, and flashed Ben another bright smile.

  We were halfway out the door when he called out after us.

  “Why don’t you leave the picture here and stop in on your way back? Maybe something will come to me.”

  “Do you think he knows anything?” I asked Chantelle as we headed northeast along Winding Lake Drive. I was wearing my hoodie, glad that I’d had the foresight to bring it. The sun had yet to peek out of the clouds, and the wind was getting brisker by the minute. I hated to think what my hair looked like.

  Chantelle shrugged. “It’s hard to say. He barely glanced at the photo. Maybe if he takes the time to really look at it.”

  We walked the rest of the way in silence, pausing occasionally to look out at the water or a particularly nice home. No cookie cutter houses on Lake Miakoda. Everyone was different, from the tiny original clapboard cottages dating back to the fifties, to the mega-windowed mansions that were gradually replacing them.

  The further east we got, the nicer the houses became, until about three miles along, when we finally arrived at a stone archway and elaborately painted sign that indicated we were now entering the community of Moore Gate. There wasn’t a locked gate, per se, but it felt as if there should be. You got the feeling you weren’t welcome here unless you belonged, preferably from birth, though I expected new money was welcomed with a jaundiced eye.

  The main thoroughfare was Moore Gate Manor, which wound its way through a maze of homes that dwarfed anything on Winding Lake Drive. Despite what Chantelle had told the convenience store owner, I’d never been here, not now, and not as a child. Not even when I’d been dating the two-timing triathlete.

  The homes on the north side of Moore Gate Manor sported a spectacular view of Lake Miakoda and a series of islands beyond. A half-dozen streets ran off of it. The homeowners there would have to walk a bit to get their view, but the homes were equally impressive, with immaculate gardens and copper weathervanes atop cupolas on cedar-shingled roofs.

  We meandered along each side street first, as if in unspoken agreement that we leave my grandparents’ house for the last. The day was blustery enough to keep folks inside, though they might also have been hard at work earning more millions. Whatever the reason, the only people we saw were a couple of young guys doing yard work, and a cable repairman doing something with wiring at a small green box.

  We arrived at 127 Moore Gate Manor about fifteen minutes later. Located at the end of a cul-de-sac, it was by far the largest on the block, with a generous lawn groomed to perfection, a plethora of spring flowers in full bloom, and an interlocking brick driveway. The house itself reminded me of a medieval fairy tale castle, with its fieldstone façade, turrets, and two-story towers. The only thing missing was a moat.

  So this is where my mother had grown up. Opulence on steroids, it was a far cry from the humble two-bedroom bungalow in Marketville she’d shared with my father and me.

  Had it all gotten to be too much? The penny pinching on a sheet metal apprentice’s salary, baking cookies instead of having them baked, the dreariness of a commuter town growing on the backs of those who wanted the dream of home ownership and couldn’t afford anything better? Had the man I knew only as Reid been her Prince Charming, ready to offer her a happier ending?

  There was a Persian cat resting in the front bay window, its emerald eyes watching our every move. A white toy poodle wearing a pink collar studded with colorful jewels lay sprawled next to the cat. I wondered if the baubles were real, and suspected they just might be. The dog hopped away, making room for an elderly woman who came to the window. She stared at us long and hard before closing the blinds.

  My grandmother.

  “This was a stupid idea,” I said to Chantelle. I turned around and ran back to the convenience store, tears streaming down my face, my heart pounding, my breathing ragged. By the time I got there, I was dry-eyed and angry. I sat down at a bench in the park and looked northeast towards the community of Moore Gate.

  “Damn you, Yvette Osgoode. You’re going to meet me. Like it or not.”

  Chapter 34

  Chantelle caught up with me a few minutes later. She plopped down on the bench and draped her arm around my shoulder.

  “If it’s any consolation, Callie, I doubt she recognized you. She probably just wanted to make a point. Uninvited visitors need not come by.”

  It would have been some consolation if I believed it, but I didn’t. There had been recognition in her look. Recognition and something else. Anger? Annoyance? Fear? I couldn’t be sure, but knew I had to find out. I summoned up a smile and nodded. “You could be right. Look, I’m going to go in, talk to the convenience store owner. See if his memory has improved any. I’d like to do it alone, if that’s okay.”

  “I’ll be here if you need me,” she said, and gently removed her arm from my shoulder.

  There were a couple of cyclists in the store, replenishing their supply of sports drinks and energy bars. The cleats of their shoes clicked across the linoleum-tiled floor as they made their selections. I waited until they
’d paid for their purchases and left.

  Ben slid the photograph over the counter in my general direction. “I do remember them,” he said. “It was a very long time ago. I can’t imagine what good the memory will do anyone, least of all you.”

  “It’s been thirty-five years,” I said. “As for whether it will do any good, why not let me be the judge.”

  He appeared to give that some thought then nodded.

  “Thirty-five years would be about right, though it doesn’t seem that long ago. I would have been in my early twenties, a few years older than these two. The guy in the photo used to come here every night, not that he ever bought anything outside of the occasional pack of gum. Wasn’t much more than a kid. He’d just wait outside on the bench until the girl came along. They’d hug and kiss then the two of them would get in his car and drive off. It was an old beater, lots of rust on the rocker panels. From the way she dressed and carried herself, I got the impression she came from Moore Gate Manor. Those folks walk different than the rest of us. I always figured they arranged to meet here on the sly.”

  “You’ve got a good memory, Ben.”

  “Not really. It’s unlikely I would have remembered either one of them, except one night a middle-aged man drove up in a white Mercedes. The girl hadn’t arrived yet. The man went ballistic, started shouting at the guy, shaking him by the collar, screaming obscenities. He told the kid to stay away from his daughter, that he was going to make sure he took care of things once and for all. The kid mouthed back, said they were in love and no one could stand in their way. That snapped any sense of restraint the man might have had. He put his hands around the guy’s throat and started choking him.”

  Ben shook his head at the memory. “That’s when I called the cops. First time I’d ever done that, though certainly not the last. I honestly thought the man in the Mercedes was going to kill that kid. I still think he would have, given half a chance.”

  “What happened when the police arrived?”

  “They seemed to know the man. They certainly treated him with deference. My guess is he was a Moore Gate Manorite who donated plenty to the police fund coffers. At any rate, after a while they managed to calm him down.”

  “What about the kid?”

  “One of the cops took him off to one side. The cop must have convinced him it was in his best interest not to press charges, because after a few minutes, the kid got in his beater of a car and drove off. I never saw the man in the Mercedes again. Or the kid and the girl. Based on this photograph, they got married.”

  “They did. They had me about five months later.”

  “What about the grandparents? The man with the Mercedes?”

  “Never had the pleasure of meeting them.”

  “I’m not surprised. It’s sad, the things snobbery and stubbornness can cost a person.”

  I didn’t say anything to that. What was there to say?

  “Where are they now? Your parents?”

  “My father’s dead.”

  “And your mother?”

  “The jury’s still out.”

  Chapter 35

  Chantelle and I didn’t talk on the way back to Marketville. I wasn’t ready, and she seemed to understand that. Once again, I appreciated her sense of decorum. She pulled into her driveway and I hopped out of the truck.

  “Thanks for coming along with me. Sorry I wasn’t better company on the ride back.”

  “Any time.” She paused for a moment, as if debating something, then forged ahead. “I probably won’t see you until you get back from the Ashfords’ cottage. Do me a favor, okay. Be careful of Royce.”

  “What? Where’s that coming from?”

  Chantelle blushed. “It’s just that Lance always said…no, forget it. You just have fun up there.”

  “Lance always said what?”

  She sighed and then spit it out. “He always said Royce was a player, but maybe that was just to keep me disinterested. There was a time when both of them showed an interest in me. I picked Lance, but he was always a little bit jealous of Royce and his family’s money.”

  So Royce was a player with family money. I couldn’t reconcile the image with the man who’d help me lug out bundles of carpet, or the man I’d had to my house for dinner, though I suppose anything was possible. It was also possible that Chantelle actually had a thing for Royce, as I’d first suspected.

  My head was too full of other stuff to process it. “I’ll be on guard,” I said, and walked across the street.

  A red light flashed on my landline, indicating a message. I was bone tired and wanted nothing more than a glass of white wine and a long soak in a hot lavender-scented bubble bath, but curiosity got the better of me. Maybe Dwayne Shuter had finally decided to return my call.

  The message was from Shirley the librarian.

  “Callie, it’s Shirley. I finally had a chance to go through the back issues of the Toronto Sun and Toronto Star for the month or so after your mother’s disappearance. I found a couple of articles that might be of interest. If you can, pop by tomorrow and I’ll show you.”

  That was the end of the message. I was impatient to find out what she’d discovered, but there wasn’t much I could do about it and another day wouldn’t kill me. In the meantime, I was starving.

  A tuna salad on rye hit the spot. I decided to prepare my email to Leith ahead of time to free up my morning. The sooner I could get to the library and meet with Shirley, the better.

  To: Leith Hampton

  From: Callie Barnstable

  Subject: Friday Report Number 3

  Went to the attic and found a trunk containing some clothes and jewelry—nothing of value—of my mother’s, including her wedding dress. There was also a photo album with a few wedding pictures. They were taken in a studio and there are no photos of guests. There are also pictures of me as a baby and young child. Nothing brought back any memories, or offered any clues.

  I stopped and thought about what to tell Leith. I decided not to mention finding the marriage certificate. Of course, not mentioning it meant I also couldn’t mention finding out where my grandparent’s lived, or that I knew Dwayne Shuter had once been more than my dad’s site supervisor at work, or enough of a friend to be a witness at my parents’ wedding. I remembered the hesitation when I told him about Misty knowing my mother, that slight intake of breath on the phone when I mentioned Dwayne. I wasn’t sure how much I could really trust him. I certainly wasn’t ready to tell Leith I’d gone and scoped out the Osgoode house with Chantelle. I damn sure didn’t feel like getting into the story Ben had told us.

  The decision made not to go into those details made, I continued.

  I also went to the Regional Reference Library and sifted through the archives for the Marketville Post from the time of my mother’s disappearance. I made copies of any story that referenced my mother or father to review in more detail at home, but so far, it looks like there isn’t much to go on.

  Another omission, insomuch as I’d gone far beyond just looking at the time of my mother’s disappearance, and I had Shirley scouring the Sun and Star. It was true, however, that I’d made copies. I was storing tidbits to share if I ran out of news, like squirrels hiding their nuts for winter.

  I read over my report. Satisfied I’d met the codicil condition without causing any suspicion, I saved the email as a draft, ready to send the next morning.

  Job done, I reviewed the printouts again, but couldn’t summon up the energy to do another online search, this time for G.G. Pietrangelo. Instead, I took another look through the photo album, hoping to remember something more.

  I didn’t.

  It was almost seven by the time I felt hungry enough to make myself a light dinner and was contemplating scrambled eggs and toast when the doorbell rang. I ran through the possibilities. Royce? Ella? Chantelle? Or maybe Misty Rivers had decided to pay me another visit. I sighed. As much as I needed to talk to her, after the day I had, I didn’t feel like having company.

&nb
sp; I got up and looked through the peephole to see a refined woman in her early sixties standing on the stoop.

  Mrs. Yvette Osgoode.

  My grandmother.

  Chapter 36

  I opened the door and took note of the black Cadillac parked in my driveway. A man with a cap sat in the driver’s seat. Her chauffeur I assumed.

  “Yes?”

  “Good evening, Calamity. My name is Yvette Osgoode, although I suspect you already know that. I’d like to come in. To talk.” She licked her lips, a quick flick with the tip of her tongue. “Corbin…my husband…your grandfather. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “What about him?” I pointed to the guy in the Caddy. That was sure to get Ella’s curiosity up.

  She shook her head. “He won’t say anything, and he’s used to waiting for me.”

  I’m sure he was. I stood away from the doorway and waved her into the living room. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, water, something stronger? I have red and white wine and some fairly decent double malt scotch. I’ve also got some chocolate chip cookies and some shortbread. Both store bought but quite good.” I realized I was babbling and shut up.

  “I’d love a scotch rocks. Thank you.”

  I went to the kitchen and put a few cookies—my dinner now—on a bone china plate and poured two fingers of scotch into a tumbler filled with ice. It was the best I could afford, but by no means the best you could buy. Hopefully it would pass muster. I poured myself a generous glass of chardonnay. I put everything on a tray, including some of my fancy napkins saved for guests, took it into the living room, and set it down on the coffee table.

  Yvette was sitting ramrod straight in the chair. The photo album and folder with newspaper printouts lay where I had left them. If she had been curious about either, she’d had the good manners to refrain from snooping. I picked them up, put them on the end table next to the sofa, and took a seat.