Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1)

by Judy Penz Sheluk

  “Please, help yourself,” I said, taking a shortbread and nibbling on it. “Forgive me, but I was just about to make a light supper.”

  “I’m sorry, I should have called first. Perhaps I should come another time.”

  “Not to worry. You’ve given me an excuse to have cookies for dinner.”

  She smiled at that, and I recognized my smile in hers.

  “I wouldn’t mind a cookie myself,” she said, and took one of the chocolate chip ones. We sat in semi-companionable silence and munched and sipped. Three cookies and half her scotch later, Yvette spoke again.

  “I saw you this morning. Outside of my house on Moore Gate Manor. You were with your friend.”

  There was no point in denying it. “I was.”

  “Why now? After all these years?”

  It seemed like an odd question, given that my grandparents were the ones who rejected my parents, and by extension me, but I opted for the truth. Or at least a version of it. “My father died recently and left me this house. I haven’t seen my mother since I was six. I’m an only child. I suppose I just felt the need to find out if I had any other family.”

  The explanation seemed to satisfy her, because she nodded.

  “How did you know it was me?” I asked.

  That really seemed to amuse her. “I’d say there was rather a strong family resemblance between us, wouldn’t you? I have to admit that it was a bit of a shock to see myself, forty years younger. Of course, you have your father’s eyes, or at least his eye color. Otherwise, the resemblance is uncanny.” She licked her lips again. “I told Corbin that Abigail would never forgive us for turning her out when she told us about the pregnancy. I told him she’d never agree to adoption, and most certainly not abortion. But he was…is a stubborn, prideful man, too concerned about appearances, about what the neighbors might think.”

  She let out a harsh laugh. “As if a young girl in the family way is somehow worse than tax evasion, insider trading, or embezzlement. All crimes committed by some of our upstanding neighbors over the years. Not that everyone who lives in the neighborhood is a criminal. There are plenty of hardworking folks who earned their way into the Manor, and plenty more who inherited their way there. I’m sure that even those families have their fair share of skeletons. I tried to reason with Corbin, but he wouldn’t listen. Maybe because before your father came into Abigail’s life, she had always been daddy’s little girl. Suddenly, she’d fallen madly in love with one of his construction workers. Even worse, she was carrying that man’s child.”

  I remembered what Ben, the Lakeside convenience store owner had said. “It’s sad, the things snobbery and stubbornness can cost a person.”

  “I always believed Corbin would come around, given time,” Yvette continued. “Then one day, the police came to see us. I knew then that we’d lost Abigail forever.”

  Yvette—I couldn’t quite bring myself to think of her as my grandmother—leaned back in her chair, as if exhausted from her epilogue. Her face was pale, and there was a faint bead of perspiration on her brow. She reached into her pink Birkin handbag and pulled out a small pot of lip balm. If I hadn’t been so freaked out by everything she’d told me, I might have laughed out loud.

  “When did the police come to see you?”

  “It was a few days after Abigail disappeared. Of course, we’d read about it. It was in all the papers.” Yvette took another sip of her scotch before continuing. “Corbin was sure she’d finally come to her senses and left your father. I didn’t know what to think. The police seemed to think she might find her way back to us. The officer in charge implied there may have been difficulties in the marriage.” Another sip of scotch. “I have no way of knowing if that was true.”

  I knew I had to ask, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

  “Did she? Come back to you?”

  Yvette shook her head. “No. I wish she had. The police interviewed us on a couple of occasions. Actually grilled is more like it. Corbin…let’s just say Corbin had a temper when it came to your father and there was an incident once, at the convenience store on the lake. He tended to be overprotective. Abigail was our only child.”

  Ben’s ‘man in the Mercedes.’ Corbin Osgoode might have skated on that particular altercation, but six years later, when his daughter had disappeared without a trace, the police must have dug up an old report.

  “Can I ask you another question, Yvette?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why, after my mother’s disappearance, knowing you’d missed your chance to reconnect with her, why didn’t you try to connect with me? I was an innocent child, your flesh and blood.” I heard the catch in my voice and cursed myself for it.

  Yvette’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  “I did try, Calamity. It was harder back then to find someone, to get in touch. There was no Internet, no email, no texting. I hired a private investigator to find out what day you were born, and where you’d moved to after leaving Marketville. All without Corbin’s knowledge, of course. I sent letters by mail, birthday and Christmas cards, left messages on your father’s answering machine. I finally gave up when you were about thirteen. It was just easier to pretend I’d never had a granddaughter.”

  All these years, I’d been led to believe that my grandparents didn’t want me, and now Yvette was saying it wasn’t true. At least from her side. My grandfather appeared to be another story.

  “Are you telling me that my father didn’t return the calls, cards, or letters?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Calamity.” She gave a very sad smile and drained the rest of her scotch. “I can’t really blame him, especially since the letters and phone calls only came from me. Corbin and I both reacted rather badly to the news of your mother’s pregnancy. I think your mother might have forgiven us, with time, but your father was a very stubborn man.”

  That much I knew to be true.

  Yvette continued. “Perhaps if I’d managed to get Corbin on board things might have been different. I blame myself for not pushing harder. But we’ve found each other now. Perhaps we can start over. Maybe in time, Corbin will come around.”

  I was bone tired and more than a little bit hungry, with a wine and cookie headache threatening to crack open my temples. I leaned forward and leveled her with my best black-rimmed hazel-eyed stare, the one my father used to bestow on me when he was good and angry.

  “Perhaps it would be best if we didn’t meet again. I don’t want to put you in any difficulty with Corbin. After all, I’ve managed for thirty-six years without you. I’m sure I can manage another thirty-six.”

  I don’t know what I expected. Maybe that Yvette would beg for a second chance, or at the very least ask me to reconsider, but instead she stood up, smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her immaculately pressed and pleated pants, thanked me for the scotch and cookies, and walked out the front door without so much as a backward glance.

  I watched from the window as the Cadillac pulled out of the driveway. Then I sat back down, put my head in my hands, and cried, the kind of hard sobbing that leaves you splotchy-faced, mascara-streaked, and out of breath.

  I was still crying when the doorbell rang. I looked out the window and saw that the Cadillac was back. Went to the door and opened it. Yvette stood there, her face pinched and pale.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “I’m going to have a long talk to Corbin,” Yvette said. “Force him to listen.” She gave me a weary smile. “He has to, doesn’t he? If he wants us both back.”

  With that, she left.

  Chapter 37

  I got up Friday morning feeling groggy and out of sorts after a virtually sleepless night. I don’t often drink coffee, but I needed the caffeine. I made a pot, extra strong, and felt almost human by the end of the second cup. I even managed to choke down a slice of toast with peanut butter.

  I pulled up my report to Leith and briefly considered sharing the news of my grandmother’s visit wit
h him. In the end I decided there was more than enough information to satisfy him for another week. I hit send and shut down my computer. It was time to head over to the library.

  True to her word, Shirley had reviewed the microfiche records from both the Toronto Sun and Toronto Star from February 14 through to the end of March 1986. She handed me a file folder with a handful of printouts, patted me on the arm, and left me to review them on my own.

  The first mention of my mother’s disappearance was on February 16 in the Sun, and February 17 in the Star. Both had clearly cribbed from the Marketville Post with nothing new to add. Thereafter there was the odd mention in both papers under a ‘Woman still missing’ type of headline, but you couldn’t help but get the impression it was considered a bit of a non-event, at least in a city the size of Toronto.

  It wasn’t until the March 2nd issue of the Sunday Sun that things got interesting.

  The headline read: Missing Women’s Parents Attend Political Fundraiser. There was a photograph of Corbin and Yvette Osgoode, both smiling widely for the camera, he in black tie and tails, her in a heavily beaded midnight blue gown. Even without the headline, I would have been riveted to the picture. With the exception of the color of her eyes—a dark molten chocolate—looking at Yvette Osgoode was like looking at a photo of myself. Well, myself if I took the time to dress up in fancy clothes and have my hair professionally styled in an elaborate up-do.

  It was only on closer inspection that you could see the tautness in Yvette’s chin, the way Corbin’s arm was wrapped around her waist, the knuckles white, as if his fingers were gripping a little too tightly.

  The story went on to say that Abigail Barnstable, the only child of Corbin Osgoode, president of the Osgoode Construction Company, and his wife, Yvette, had been missing since Valentine’s Day. There were a few rehashed details culled from previous reports. Corbin asked that the public respect their privacy during ‘this difficult time.’

  They had disowned her when she got pregnant with me, rebuffed any attempt at reconciliation, but were more than willing to go to a three-hundred dollar a plate political party fundraiser and have their photo taken by a reporter during their supposed ‘difficult time.’ I felt like flinging the printout across the room. I despise hypocrites.

  Then again, maybe they’d regretted it, once she went missing. I thought about Yvette, how the police had suggested Abigail might come home to them. Maybe they had tired of answering questions from the police and nosey neighbors. Based upon this photo, there were definitely signs of visible tension in both of them. I turned the page over and went onto the final printout in the pile.

  The article was in the March 14th issue of the Toronto Sun, exactly one month after my mother’s disappearance. It took less than an eighth of a page, relegated to the back end of the paper. Filler on a slow news day. A photograph of a young woman holding a reward poster was aligned to the left of a brief recap of the circumstances surrounding my mother’s disappearance.

  I wondered what Shirley had recognized first—the photograph of Misty Rivers, or the reward poster. Not that it mattered.

  Because it wasn’t so much Misty and the poster that made me feel as though I’d just been punched in the gut.

  It was the man standing next to her.

  He was thirty years younger, and there was no trace of a paunch, but the eyes were every bit as electric blue as they were today.

  My father’s lawyer.

  Leith Hampton.

  Chapter 38

  “I’m afraid I have to cite attorney-client privilege,” Leith had said when asked why he hadn’t told me Misty had known my mother. At the time, I’d assumed he was talking about betraying my father’s confidence. Now it appeared as though the client he was protecting was Misty Rivers. I wondered whether representing my father and Misty at the same time could be considered a conflict of interest.

  It also made me wonder about his connection to Dwayne Shuter. I closed my eyes and remembered the way Leith had flipped through some pages. “Dwayne Shuter?” he had said, and then, “His name was on the official accident report as site supervisor, though according to Shuter’s statement he was off the premises at the time of the accident.”

  Not, “No, I don’t know him,” or “Yes, I know him,” but, “His name was on the official accident report,” and later, “Why do you ask?” I was getting a very bad feeling about Leith Hampton.

  “It’s the reward poster I was telling you about,” Shirley said, interrupting my thoughts. “I recognize the woman in the photo as well. She was definitely the one who came by the library and asked if we could post it. I can’t think of her name, though, and I’ve never met the man. I’d remember those eyes.”

  “The woman was in a couple of the Post photos,” I said. “I’ve since identified her as Misty Rivers. She still lives in Marketville. She used to volunteer at the food bank with my mother. They must have been friends. I don’t think the man is from around here.” I felt badly about not telling Shirley the whole truth, but it was just too complicated. Fortunately, she seemed satisfied with my explanation. Or at least she didn’t push for more information. Either way, I was grateful.

  I thanked Shirley for her hard work, promised to keep her posted on any progress, and headed home with printouts in hand, determined not to let my concerns over Leith ruin my upcoming weekend in the Muskokas. True, I was going to the Ashford cottage to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Ashford and hopefully find out more about my mother, but I was also in dire need of a bit of rest and relaxation. The opportunity to get to know Royce a little better was a bonus.

  Royce and I left for his parents’ place on Lake Rousseau about ten o’clock Saturday morning with the idea of arriving about noon. We spent the drive discussing our favorite authors, and debating which was the stronger series, Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch or John Sandford’s Lucas Davenport Prey novels.

  Despite the northbound cottage country traffic, we made good time on the 400 to the Highway 69 cutoff towards Muskoka. Thirty minutes and a few cutoffs later we came to a meandering chip-tarred road, which in turn led to a dirt-packed single laneway that would surely not be navigable during mud season or winter. If you happened to meet an oncoming car, there was—occasionally—a narrow shoulder that barely allowed the other vehicle to pass. Fortunately, it didn’t look like there was any traffic to worry about. The only life we’d seen so far was a flock of wild turkeys in no hurry to get out of our way. I was wondering if a GPS could even read a location when Royce seemed to read my mind.

  “A GPS will only pick up as far at the paved road. Once you turn onto Ashford Road, you pretty much lose the signal. It’s good and bad. Good, because it’s mercifully private in an increasingly public world. Unless one of us invited you, you’re not about to find the place.” Royce chuckled. “That said, it’s bad if you want pizza delivery.”

  We arrived at the cottage to find a fine-boned ponytailed woman, about my age, waiting in a slant-backed Muskoka chair outside a large log cabin. She got up to greet us, flicking a stray strawberry blonde hair away from her face. There was enough family resemblance for me to peg her as Royce’s sister.

  “It’s about time you got your arse up here, Royce. Mom’s been driving me crazy since I got here last night. If I’d have known, I’d have waited to come until later today.”

  “I told mom about noon,” Royce said.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She turned to me, her dark eyes twinkling, and stuck out a ringless left hand. “Allow me to introduce myself, since Royce seems to have forgotten his manners. Porsche Ashford, kid sister extraordinaire.”

  I shook her hand somewhat awkwardly, as I was used to shaking with my right. “Pleased to meet you, Portia.”

  “Not Portia, as in de Rossi. Porsche, as in the luxury automobile.”

  Of course. Royce as in Rolls. The connection had never occurred to me before. Before I could say anything else, Porsche grabbed me by the arm and proceeded to steer me in the direction of the cottage.

/>   “Royce can schlepp in whatever luggage you brought,” Porsche said. “C’mon and let me introduce you to our mom and Auntie Maggs.”

  “Where’s Dad?” Royce asked. “I thought mom told me he wouldn’t be traveling this week.”

  Porsche rolled her eyes. “He wasn’t supposed to be, but apparently he had some sort of last minute business trip. The usual story. He got back late last night. The first thing he did was arrange a golf game. Mom is none too pleased, let me tell you, but he promised to be back in time for cocktail hour. Now enough of your dilly-dallying. Go fetch the luggage. I’ll show Callie around and introduce her.”

  I followed Porsche inside and barely suppressed a gasp. The interior of the cottage could best be described as rich rustic. The room was filled with leather chairs, sofas, and love seats in earth tones ranging from pumpkin and puce to brown and ochre, with coordinating throw pillows, woven from what appeared to be strips of fabric, tossed casually here and there. Solid oak coffee and side tables were scattered throughout the space. It shouldn’t have worked, it should have looked cluttered, but instead it looked cozy and cottagey and inviting. There was a faint smell of pine lingering in the air, emanating from artful arrangements of freshly cut evergreens mixed with daisies and sunflowers.

  With the exception of a massive stone floor-to-ceiling wood-burning fireplace, the walls were covered with wildlife art. I’d studied art for two semesters in college and switched majors when I realized I would never be good enough to make a living at it, but I could still recognize an oil painting of a loon family by Robert Bateman, frequently reproduced, as well as an impressive collection of chipmunks, squirrels, and barnyard birds by Carl Brenders, all original oils from the looks of it. There were other paintings as well, by artists I couldn’t instantly identify, along with several hand-woven tapestries. The overall effect was striking.

  But nothing could compete with the million-dollar view. A full bank of windows with double clear glass garden doors overlooked Lake Rousseau and the forests and rocky shores that surrounded it. Two women lay on recliners on an immense wooden dock that took up most of the frontage. I estimated it at about three hundred feet, possibly more. The taxes on this place were probably close to what I earned in a year. There were still a few original old cabins, but those were gradually being bought up and transformed into places like this one. Muskoka was money country with a capital ‘M,’ especially Lakes Rousseau, Joseph, and Muskoka. This is where professional athletes, celebrities, and CEOs went to get away from it all.