“It’s spectacular,” I said.
“Daddy was a stockbroker. He did quite well in the market,” Porsche said. “Fortunately he got out of the business before the big crash.” She gave an impish grin. “Unfortunately neither Royce nor I inherited his financial acumen or his love for the cutthroat world of buying and selling on margin, much to daddy’s deep disappointment. Of course, at least Royce has his contracting business. I’m the starving artist in the family.”
“Dad has never considered my work dignified enough for an Ashford,” Royce said, coming into the room, a small suitcase in each hand. “Porsche is being modest. She wove all the pillows and tapestries in this room, and she has very successful shops in both Yorkville and Muskoka.”
Toronto was sometimes referred to as Hollywood North by the movie industry. Yorkville was the place they shopped when filming in Toronto. If Porsche could make the rent there with her tapestries, they sold very well indeed, and for a high price. I went over to one and admired the intricacy of her work. “You’re very talented,” I said, and meant it.
Porsche laughed. “You can stay.” To Royce she said, “Why not show Callie to her room so she can unpack. I’ll try to get mom and Auntie Maggs up from the dock”
The plan in place, Royce led me to a spacious bedroom with a double bed, pine dresser, and a four-piece ensuite bath. The white eyelet lace bedspread and curtains were brightened up by a colorful array of hand-woven pillows. More of Porsche’s handiwork, I assumed.
I put away the few things I’d brought to wear, freshened up, and sat on the bed, trying to calm the butterflies that had taken up residence in my stomach. Along with the Four Seasons photographs, I’d brought my folder with the printouts from the library. I wasn’t sure whether to show them or not. I was still assessing the pros and cons when there was a soft rap on the door. I opened it to find Royce on the other side.
“Ready?” he asked.
I nodded, trying to show a confidence I didn’t feel.
He took my hand and gently led me back into the living room. I left the folder behind.
An older version of Porsche was comfortably ensconced in one of the leather recliners. She had the same delicate features, the same almond-shaped brown eyes. Her strawberry blonde hair had been subtly colored and highlighted to hide any gray. This, then, would be Mrs. Ashford. There was no sign of the woman Porsche had referred to as Aunt Maggs.
“Callie,” Royce said, “I’d like you to meet my mother.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Ashford. Thank you for inviting me.”
“Melanie. Mrs. Ashford is my mother-in-law.” She waved a French-manicured hand. “It’s our pleasure. My sister, Maggie, went back to her own cottage across the bay for a little nap, but she’ll be joining us for dinner. Porsche went off to her shop in town. She’s got retail help, of course, but it’s always good to have the artist present. Folks like that. I also thought you might want to reminisce without them, at least initially.”
“That’s very considerate of you.”
“Nonsense.” Another wave of the hand. “Royce tells me you’re trying to learn more about your mother. I’ll tell you what I can, not that it’s much.”
“Actually, Melanie, it’s more than that. You see, my mother was last seen walking me to school on Valentine’s Day, 1986. I’m hoping to find out what happened to her. If she’s dead or alive.” I surprised myself by the open admission. I could tell by the quick arching of his eyebrows that I’d surprised Royce as well.
Melanie, however, didn’t appear the least bit surprised. She merely nodded. “It must have been difficult, growing up and not knowing why she left or what happened to her.”
“I suppose it should have been, but the reality is, it wasn’t. Not really. My father was a good parent. He made sure I was fed and clothed, and put me in the obligatory skating and swimming lessons. We never talked about my mother. After a while I just stopped thinking of her. I was six when she left. Almost seven. Old enough to remember at least some things. And yet…” I glance over at Royce. “Maybe I’ve suppressed the memories to protect myself. To protect myself from what, I have no idea.”
“So you don’t remember anything?”
I didn’t want to tell her that the memories were starting to come back, bit by bit, like disjointed movie scenes. At least not until I could put enough scenes together to create a story.
“Not really.”
“There were no pictures of her when you were growing up?”
I shook my head. “Not a one. I’m not sure if my dad didn’t want the reminder, or if he couldn’t bear the reminder. Regardless, the first time I saw a picture of my mother was when I found some in the house. I showed them to Royce when he was over for dinner. He thought he recognized her as the cookie lady who’d come to your house a couple of times. Hence my imposition on your hospitality.”
Melanie smiled. “It’s no imposition. Royce doesn’t visit nearly enough, and his friends are welcome anytime. As for remembering the ‘cookie lady,’ Royce always did have a sweet tooth.”
“What about Porsche?”
“It’s unlikely she would remember. Porsche would have been about three at the time. But, yes, the woman Royce thinks might have been your mom came by a couple of times to drop off baked goods for the school library fundraiser. We were trying to buy a full set of Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys books. Those stuffed shirts on the board were only interested in purchasing textbooks and encyclopedias. They couldn’t understand that getting a child to read is the most important thing. Who cares if it’s a mystery story or the back of hockey cards?”
I smiled at her candor. Melanie Ashford might have money but she wasn’t a snob. “I brought the photographs. May I show you them to you?”
“I’d love to see them.”
I went back to the bedroom and pulled out the four seasons photos from my folder. I left the printouts behind. One thing at a time.
Melanie studied the photographs carefully, first one by one, then by laying them out in a row. “It’s interesting that she chose the same place for four pictures in four different seasons. Royce told me he thought they were taken at the elementary school. I’m sure he’s right, not that I would have made the connection. I wonder what motivated her to do that?”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing. More importantly, is this the woman you remember as Abby?”
“Almost certainly.” Melanie looked up. “I wish I could help you more, but I never really got to know her.”
I was no further ahead. I collected the photographs, placed them back in their envelope and summoned up a smile, trying to hide my disappointment. After all, the weather outside was glorious, and I still had a weekend away at Lake Rousseau. Getting to know Royce a little better was an added bonus.
Melanie, however, seemed to sense my disappointment. “Perhaps my husband or my sister will remember more about your mom. Marketville’s still a small town, but in 1986 it was positively incestuous.”
“In the meantime, Callie,” Royce said, speaking up for the first time, “we can go for a tour of the lake. The boat’s all ready to go. I’m sure mom won’t mind being left to her book.”
“Not only won’t I mind, I insist,” Melanie said.
I had to admit a tour of the lake sounded like fun. Especially with Royce. Despite my best intentions, I found myself falling for him with each passing minute. I just hoped my loser radar had gone on hiatus.
“Far be it for me to argue with my hosts,” I said, and followed Royce out to the dock.
Chapter 39
It had been years since I’d visited the Muskokas, but it felt as though time had stood still. Royce was an accomplished boater, navigating around the numerous inlets and islands with ease as I took in the craggy granite bluffs dotted with pines, the cottages ranging from small cabins to magnificent summer homes, their docks sporting canoes, kayaks, jet skis, yachts, and boats of every size and color. Even the cell towers had been disguised to look like trees.
I could imagine myself spending a summer here, and felt an unexpected twinge of envy for those who did.
We arrived back to the cottage about four p.m., giving us plenty of time to get ready for what Royce called Happy Hour.
“A long standing Ashford family tradition,” he said. “We all meet for drinks at five in the sunroom. Casual attire only. Shorts and t-shits or jeans and sweatshirts, depending on the temperature. Right about now, everyone will be napping or getting cleaned up.”
“Getting cleaned up sounds good to me,” I said, knowing my hair would have gotten that wild windblown look that sounds sexy on paper but in reality looks like a bird’s nest. “So does Happy Hour.”
I took extra care with my appearance, making sure my hair was tamed into a tidy French braid, adding a light touch of mascara to my lashes. I donned white capris, a multi-colored t-shirt in shades of pink, plum, and purple, and amethyst stud earrings. I’d just slipped on a pair of white sandals when Royce knocked on the door.
“You clean up nice,” he said, his eyes scanning me from top to bottom and back again.
I felt the color rise on my cheeks. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at me that way, let alone paid me a compliment.
“Thank you. I’ll admit I’m feeling a bit nervous about meeting your father and Aunt Maggie. I want to make a good impression.”
He put an arm around my waist and led me into the hallway towards the sunroom. “They’re both going to love you. Especially my father, though I have to warn you. He can be an outrageous flirt when it comes to beautiful women. My mother pretends to ignore it. Sometimes I think she finds it vaguely amusing, as if it’s a game the two of them play with each other. Sort of like cat and mouse, except with humans.”
“I’ll consider myself forewarned. I just hope one of them remembers something about my mother. As great as this day has been, that’s the main reason I’m here.”
“The main reason, Callie? I’m shattered.” Royce gave an exaggerated frown, then smiled warmly. “All joking aside, I’m sure they will. What was it my mom said? About Marketville being a small town?”
“She said back then, Marketville wasn’t just small, it was incestuous.”
“Then you’re in luck. When it comes to incestuous, Aunt Maggs is a bit of an expert.”
The sunroom was actually a screened-in porch that took up the entire west side of the cottage. Once again, the view was nothing short of magnificent, taking in forest, granite rock formations, and a large swathe of Lake Rousseau. The sunsets would be spectacular.
White wicker dominated the space, although once again Porsche’s handiwork was in evidence throughout in the colorful pillows and casual throws. I wondered how much of her commercial success had to do with purchases by her parents and their friends. A lot, I expected, although there was no doubt she had talent.
Porsche and Melanie Ashford were curled up in matching wicker rockers, each with a martini in hand. Melanie gestured to a stainless steel bar, complete with built-in refrigerator. “Welcome to Happy Hour, Callie. My sister and husband should be here shortly. In the meantime, there’s a pitcher of vodka martinis already made. There’s also a decent selection of spirits, soft drinks, sparkling water, wine, and beer. Royce, pour the lady a drink.”
I settled on an Australian chardonnay, took a seat in a comfy looking settee, absurdly pleased when Royce sat next to me.
I had just taken my first sip of wine when a heavily bejeweled woman in her mid-fifties strolled in. She’d gained a few pounds, and her red hair was no longer entirely dependent on nature, but there was no question about it.
Aunt Maggs was Maggie Lonergan. The woman Ella Cole called Magpie.
The woman who accused my father of murdering my mother.
Chapter 40
“Aunt Maggs, I’d like you to meet my friend and neighbor, Callie Barnstable,” Royce said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Callie, this is Maggie Lonergan, my mother’s sister. Also affectionately known as Aunt Maggs.”
“Royce, darling, you know how much I hate Maggs,” the woman said, but there was indulgence in her tone. To me she said, “Please, call me Maggie. It’s lovely to meet you, Callie. Any friend of Royce’s and all that.”
I made an effort to be polite. I was, after all, a guest, and I only had Ella Cole’s version of Maggie’s accusations.
“It’s nice to meet you, too, Maggie. Melanie says you might have known my mother. Abigail Barnstable.”
Maggie poured herself a martini, added six olives, one at a time, then slid into a lounge chair. She reminded me a bit of a lizard slithering into the sunlight.
“I knew her as Abby. We volunteered together at the food bank. Or should I say, I volunteered and your mother ran the place. Her rules and all that.” Maggie smiled, but I detected a trace of irritation, as if something still bothered her after all these years. I could almost feel her trying to shake it off. She took out one olive with a toothpick, picked the pimento into a napkin, popped the olive in her mouth, munched on it slowly, and then gave another cold smile. “I’m afraid that sounded rather unkind. Without your mother, Marketville wouldn’t even have a food bank, at least not at that time. She was relentless in her efforts to get it off the ground. It’s just that people with that kind of drive or vision, they sometimes forget that other people have feelings.”
Had my mother truly been like that? A person who didn’t care about other people’s feelings? Ella Cole hadn’t suggested as much, but she may have been trying to spare me. Then again, Maggie struck me as the kind of person who needed to be center stage. The way she came in to Happy Hour, fashionably late and dripping with jewelry, as if trying to make a grand entrance. Maybe my mother didn’t kowtow to her. I was debating on how to respond when Melanie chimed in.
“I’d forgotten you volunteered at the food bank,” Melanie said, chuckling at the memory.
“I have no idea what you find so amusing,” Maggie said with a disdainful sniff. “The food bank is a very worthy cause.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Maggie, it’s been thirty years. Why not admit you were a reluctant volunteer at best?” Melanie folded her arms in front of her and glared at her sister. I got the impression there was more than a little sibling rivalry between them.
Maggie rolled her eyes dramatically and fished another olive from her martini, repeating her earlier pimento-removing ritual. “I wouldn’t say I was reluctant, Mellie. True, I was there because I’d been assigned a hundred hours of community service, but I did get to pick the charitable organization.”
“Aunt Maggs. Community service. I had no idea.” Royce grinned. “Whatever did you do?”
“Yes, do tell, Auntie Maggs,” Porsche said, leaning forward.
“What did our father do, is more like it,” Melanie said. “Without his involvement in the auxiliary police department, and the Lonergan name, your Aunt Maggs could have wound up with a lot more than one hundred hours of community service.”
“Your mother is exaggerating, as is her custom. It was a minor shoplifting incident, a couple of baubles from the jewelry store.” Maggie waved a ring-laden hand. “What can I say, I’ve always liked shiny things.”
“You actually got arrested?” From the tone of his voice, the thought of it seemed to amuse Royce more than offend him. I gathered Aunt Maggs was the black sheep of the family and worked hard to maintain her reputation.
“Of course not. The store called the cops and they detained me, but your grandfather was able to convince everyone that the entire mishap was just an unfortunate misunderstanding. I returned the jewelry and agreed to do the community service. Willingly.”
“Did you do all one hundred hours at the food bank?” I asked, hoping to drive the conversation back to my mother.
Maggie nodded. “Roughly eight hours a week for three months. Unpacked boxes, sorted the donations, stocked shelves. Whatever Abby asked, the volunteers did.”
“Did you get to know her very well?”
This time
Maggie shook her head. “Can’t say as I did. She tended to keep her private life private, at least when it came to me, although I got the impression she wasn’t particularly happy at home.” She pressed her lips together. “I’m sorry, that was insensitive.”
“Not if it’s what you believed. I’m looking for the truth, not some candy-coated version of the past. Did anyone else who worked there feel the same way you did?”
“I can’t speak for anyone else.”
I knew that Misty Rivers, Dwayne Shuter, and the man only known to me as Reid had also worked at the food bank, but I didn’t want to tip my hand. There were likely more volunteers who hadn’t been photographed. “At this point I’m just trying to find out who else might have worked there. Do you recall the names of any of the others?”
“Hmmm…I’d have to give it some thought. As Mellie was so quick to point out, it has been thirty years, and my memory’s not what it once was. But there is one person who definitely should remember your mother.” She shot a malicious grin in Melanie’s direction. “As I recall, he and Abby were quite friendly.”
“And who was that?”
“Why Melanie’s husband, also known as my brother-in-law, and Royce and Porsche’s father. He should be here any minute, fresh off a hard day on the golf course. Why not ask him yourself?”
As if on cue, the screen door opened and an athletic-looking man in his early fifties sauntered into the sunroom. He leaned over, kissed Melanie on the cheek, and murmured something in the ear. She blushed slightly and gave him a playful tap on the shoulder.
Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) Page 18