Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) (11 page)

I arrived home to find an email reply from Leith saying that he’d sent me the safety deposit authorization by courier. It arrived late in the day, allowing me to get everything organized for the next morning. I found myself almost too excited to sleep. What would I find in that safety deposit box?

But sleep I did, a dream-filled night of tarot cards and sweet sage twigs. When the alarm rang at seven a.m., I was more than ready to get up and get back to reality. I glanced outside to see a hard, driving rain, the kind an old friend from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, had called ‘a Canadian car wash’ because of its intensity, not the sort of fine, misty rains I imagined you’d get in Seattle or San Francisco. When we got rain, we got rain. Unrepentant torrents of it.

I sighed. Any taming of my already unruly curly brown hair would be futile. Even safely secured in a ponytail or braid was no guarantee of compliance. I don’t care how much people with straight hair complain about not being able to hold a curl. They had no idea how lucky they were. Straight and flat always beat fuzzy and frizzy.

I was just about to head out to the bank when the doorbell chimed its sing-songy tune. I glanced out my new peephole to see Chantelle standing there underneath a black and white polka dot umbrella. I opened the door, curious to find out what impulse could have brought her here.

“Chantelle, this is a surprise. Come on in before you drown.”

She ventured into the hallway, careful to shake out her umbrella before doing so. I noticed she’d swapped the stilettos for a pair of sneakers, and the tight-fitting sweater and jeans for black yoga pants and a matching hoodie. She pulled the hood off her head and shook out cascade of carefully highlighted blonde hair, combing it with her fingers. I was forced to admit
that even in yoga wear, and without a scrap of makeup, she was stunning. She also had straight hair. I tried not to hate her.

“I came over to apologize for being such a pill at the store.” She gave a rueful smile and an apologetic shrug. “I’m afraid I haven’t been doing newly divorced very well. It seems to have brought out the bitch in me. I also admit to having a sophomoric crush on Royce. Not that he’s shown the slightest bit of interest in me, despite my rather clumsy attempts to get his attention. So when I saw him with you, his hand on your shoulder, looking all chummy, well, something in me just snapped. Not my finest moment.”

I had to admire her honesty, and heaven knows it would be nice to have a female friend that was closer to my own age than Ella Cole. Besides, you never knew what she might or might not know that could potentially help me. Maybe Chantelle was also a local.

“It wasn’t my finest moment either. I say we accept one another’s apologies and start over.”

“I’d like that.” She extended her hand. “Chantelle Marchand, your across the street neighbor.”

I took her hand and shook it lightly. “Callie Barnstable. New homeowner. I was just on my way to the bank, but that can wait. Come on in. I can make you something hot to drink.” I didn’t bother offering cookies. By the looks of her figure, Chantelle didn’t eat them. If she did eat them and still managed to keep that figure, I didn’t want to know about it.

“Are you sure? Do you have an appointment? Because I can take a rain check.” She chuckled. “No pun intended.”

“No appointment. I was just going to check out my dad’s safety deposit box.”

Chantelle followed me into the kitchen and pulled up a seat while I put on the kettle. “A safety deposit box. Do you have any idea what’s in there?” She blushed. “I’m sorry, that was incredibly nosey of me. Forget I asked.”

“Really, it’s fine. In answer to your question, I have no idea. I guess I’ll find out.”

“You must be dying of curiosity. I know I would be.”

I laughed. “Yeah, I kind of am, but I still have time for a cup of tea or coffee with a neighbor.”

“I’d love a cup of tea.”

“Earl Grey, Black, Green, or Vanilla Rooibos?”

“Green.”

I nodded and set about making the tea.

“I gather you’re planning on doing some renovations,” Chantelle said as I poured the tea into oversized mugs.

“I’ve hired Royce’s company to do the kitchen renovation. He’s going to take down this wall and open up the space. It will be messy, but I think it will pay dividends if I decide to sell in a year’s time. Heaven knows I couldn’t have sold it for a decent price the way it was. I’ve already managed to strip out the ugly carpet.”

Chantelle raised her eyebrows. “You’re thinking of selling?”

“I might. I’m not sure yet. That’s why I’m giving it a year.” Not technically true, but true enough. “There’s just so much to do. I was planning to buy paint for the bedrooms after the bank. If I break it down into chewable chunks, it’s not quite so overwhelming.”

“Do you want help?”

“Help buying paint?”

“Sure, if you want, but I meant help painting. Since Lance moved out I find myself with too much time on my hands and nothing to fill it with. I’m a pretty good painter, if I do say so myself.” She grinned. “I’m also very good at spending other people’s money if you want help buying furniture or anything else, come to that. Lance can attest to my shopping prowess.” The grin turned to a frown. “Seriously, I know Royce thinks I’m high maintenance, but I’m not. Not really. I grew up as the fifth kid in a six-kid family. My clothes were a mix of stuff from my older brother and three older sisters, which was good news for my younger sister. By the time I was through with the clothes, they had pretty much reached their life expectancy. So she got all new stuff, from toys to tank tops.”

“I’m an only child, so I can’t begin to imagine living in a house with eight people, let alone wearing hand-me-downs. Not that my father was up-to-the-minute on the latest fashions, and shopping for clothes was way down the list of his priorities. I’m afraid he transferred that lack of enthusiasm to me. I can understand, though, how you’d want your own things.”

“Oh yeah. My main goal growing up was to own clothes that nobody else had ever worn, read books that nobody else had ever read, and sleep on a mattress that nobody else had ever slept in. I don’t think that makes me high maintenance. Besides, I’m a phenomenal bargain shopper. I have to be, especially since divorcing Lance. I wanted to stay in the house, and that meant buying him out.” Chantelle laughed. “Listen to me, telling you my life story, when all I wanted to do is offer to help you paint.”

I wondered if Chantelle worked. I also wondered if there was a catch, and chided myself on being a cynic. Why not embrace her kindness instead of assuming she had an ulterior motive?
I remembered what Randi had said
.
Sometimes people we initially don’t like become our best allies. Sometimes our best allies turn out to be enemies. Maybe Chantelle would become an ally.

“I’ve only ever rented, and the painting was done by the landlord. I could use someone to show me the way. If you’re absolutely sure you don’t mind, I’m not about to turn you down.”

“Are you kidding? You’d be doing me a favor. My genealogy work is flexible. We’ll just have to work around my schedule at the gym.” She must have caught my look, because she tilted her head back and giggled like a schoolgirl. “No, I’m not a gym rat. I teach classes—yoga, Pilates, weight pump, and spinning—but the hours are scattered, depending on the day. I usually have some mornings, some afternoons, even the occasional weekend shift if someone needs a sub.”

That would explain her killer body. “I’ve been thinking of joining a gym. I belonged to one in Toronto, and I’m already missing it. It would also be a way to meet new people.”

“I’ll arrange for you to get a free monthly pass. If you decide to join, I can also get you a bit of a discount. Also, if you’re planning on buying any furniture, I can drive. I got Lance’s pickup truck as part of our separation agreement.” Chantelle gave a sad smile. “It was harder for him to part with the damn truck than it was to walk out on our ten-year marriage.”

It wasn’t until after Chantelle left that I realized she’d said something about genealogy work. Perhaps she could help me trace my grandparents. I still hadn’t done anything about contacting an information broker. Maybe now I wouldn’t have to. I’d have to trust Chantelle, of course, but then I’d have to trust anyone I hired. I also found myself ridiculously pleased at the possibility of making a female friend. It had been a long time since I’d been close with anyone—a few co-workers to go to the theater or movies with, but no one I felt the desire to confide in. When it came to true confessions, I was more about getting them than giving them.

I made my way to the bank, thankful it had finally stopped raining, and grateful for the GPS in my car. I was the kind of person who could get lost after three spins in their backyard, and so far, I hadn’t completely gotten a handle on Marketville. Small as it was in comparison to Toronto, at least Toronto bordered on Lake Ontario to the south. Then there was the CN Tower, also to the south, and which, at 1,815 feet, was visible from a fair distance if you were in most parts of the city proper. The landmark wasn’t a guarantee I’d find my way around, but it did act as a bit of a compass.

Not that a compass would do me much good. Don’t tell me north and south. Tell me left at the mall, right at the convenience store just past the bridge, and left into the strip mall with the Chinese take-out. Which, as it turned out, was pretty much the way to the bank.

The lineup at the bank was about ten deep, despite the presence of four ATMs outside of the main lobby. I took my place in line behind a rain-sogged construction worker staring down at his mud-encrusted work boots and looked around. It was pretty much like any other bank in any other town or city. A row of teller’s cages, an information desk, some visitor chairs, a few glass-walled offices for managers, loan officers, and the like.

An annoying plus-sized woman in gold leggings and a leopard print tunic was having a loud and animated conversation with someone on the other end of her phone. She didn’t hang up, even when a teller became available. I wondered if the woman knew how rude she was being, and realized that even if she did, she probably wouldn’t care. She was still chattering away when she left, something about a backyard barbecue and an inconsiderate sister-in-law. I grinned at the irony of it and sidled up to take her spot at the teller’s cue.

The teller, a twenty-something guy with dark wavy hair, dimples, and thick-rimmed glasses, reviewed my paperwork carefully then said he’d have to check with a manager. I could feel the stares of the people in line, wondering how long it would take. I empathized. I read
once that we spend one-third of our lives sleeping. I was starting to think the same thing held true of line-ups. I turned around to give them an apologetic smile and couldn’t believe it when I saw Misty Rivers at the end of the line. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe she followed me. But for what purpose? I nodded in her general direction. She nodded back, but didn’t say anything. I was probably being paranoid.

After what seemed like forever but was probably all of a couple of minutes, the teller came back and escorted me to a secure area behind a steel door, where I was faced with several rows of safety deposit boxes. The teller used his key then told me my key would open the box.

“Ring the bell when you’re done and I’ll come and get you,” he said.

I nodded and opened the box with trembling hands.

If I thought the contents of the safety deposit box would answer all of my questions, I was sadly mistaken. There were a few old coins, possibly of some value, and a couple hundred dollars in U.S. cash, a mix of fives, tens, and twenties.

There was also an envelope. I recognized my father’s spidery handwriting scrawled in black ink across the front. “To be opened by Calamity Doris Barnstable in the event of my death.” Seeing those words felt like a punch to the gut, because it meant my dad knew he might die. The man I knew—or thought I knew—hadn’t given me the slightest indication he was worried.

I thought about taking the letter back to Sixteen Snapdragon Circle, but I’d waited so long already. Waiting another thirty minutes just didn’t seem like an option. I tore the envelope open.

The letter was dated a month before my father’s death. I stared for a minute at the familiar scrawl and forced back the tears that were threatening to fall. Then I started reading.

Dear Calamity,

Yes, I know you hate being called Calamity, but I figure if I’m dead, you’ll give me a pass. If you’re reading this, then I suppose I am. I’m also hoping that you’ll forgive me for the Marketville codicil in the will.

Of course, I knew there was a chance you’d just wait out the year and let Misty Rivers take over the investigation, and maybe that’s what I should have insisted on, especially if I wanted to protect you from any possible hurt or harm. The thing is, I’ve been trying to protect you from knowing the truth for so many years. I was wrong. You had a right to know. Maybe not when you were six, but certainly when you were old enough to
understand. Instead, I allowed the years to go by, never talking about your mother. That was as unfair to her memory as it was to you.

Here’s what I know:

Your mother loved you. She also loved me, although I admit we had our share of ups and downs. What marriage doesn’t? Especially with two people who were nothing more than children themselves when they brought you into the world. I do not believe, however, and never have, that your mother left us voluntarily. Something, or someone, forced her to go. For many years, I thought she’d come back.
It’s the reason I kept the house at 16 Snapdragon Circle. How else would she find us, if not for that house? This was a time well before social media and Internet accessibility.

The years ticked by, and after a while even I started to give up hope. Leith Hampton, old, dear friend that he is for all his pompous ways and multiple marriages, begged me to give up the search years before, after a private investigator, someone I paid a great deal of money to, found out nothing. For a long time, I heeded that advice. After all, the investigator had come highly recommended by an old friend, a man I trusted implicitly.

Things changed when Misty Rivers rented the house. She told me the house was not haunted, but possessed by your mother’s spirit. I know it sounds farfetched, but another renter had insinuated much the same thing.

Misty was convinced your mother had been murdered, and she wanted to help me seek out the truth. I’ll admit I was skeptical at first. I’m not a believer in spirits or psychics, but I’ve never been able to reconcile your mother’s disappearance. I decided to put my trust in her.

We had barely scratched the surface when I was almost killed on my lunch break. The job was a new condo development with more than a few complications, and construction was well behind schedule. In an effort to save time, each day one of the workers would take everyone’s order and phone it in to a local restaurant and then pick up the food. That day happened to be my day.

I was crossing Yonge Street to get to the sub shop when one of our construction company’s vans ran the red light. If it hadn’t been for another pedestrian, an elderly man who managed to pull me back with his cane at the last possible second, I would never have had the opportunity to write this letter. About a week later, another incident occurred, this time as I was leaving the job site. I’d already taken off my hard hat and was just outside the building when a rivet gun fell from thirty floors up, missing my head by less than an inch. If that rivet gun had connected, death would have been instantaneous.

I stopped reading at that point and closed my eyes. Two near misses close to his work. Followed by an unfortunate occupational accident. Was it merely coincidence, evidence of a job site with substandard safety procedures, or was it deliberate? I was just about to start reading again when the teller came back in to make sure everything was fine. I assured him it was and told him I was ready to leave. I closed the safety deposit box, leaving the coins and cash, folded the letter back into its envelope, and tucked it inside my purse. It was time to go home. And by home I meant Snapdragon Circle.

I made a cup of Earl Grey and sat down at the bistro table ready to read on. After a quick scan, I picked up where I left off.

I wish I had more information to share with you. What I can tell you is that the two incidents happened after I’d made the decision to move back to Marketville and look into your mother’s disappearance. Misty came up with a plan to hold a séance. I was reluctant at first, but she can be very persuasive. At any rate, I bought a papier-mâché coffin at a theater supply store and ordered a skeleton from a medical supply catalogue. Misty suggested including some photographs of our family so I took four, which were taken the
previous year, and placed them under the pillow. Writing it down makes me realize just how ridiculous it sounds, but I was at the point where I was willing to try just about anything. I even imagined inviting suspects over to the house during the séance and watching their faces. Of course, first I needed to find the suspects.

That explained the skeleton in the attic. I wondered when he was planning to tell me. The next sentence answered my question.

I was planning to tell you once I’d moved. I wasn’t entirely sure of how you’d react, and to be honest, I didn’t know how to tell you my reasons for doing so. I only hope you haven’t been to the attic yet. I can’t imagine what you’d think if you found the coffin up there without this explanation.

I told very few people about my plans for moving back to Marketville. Leith knew, of course, and Misty Rivers. The next-door neighbors Ella Cole and Royce Ashford. I can’t imagine any of them attempting to harm me.

I did find the time to visit the Marketville Library to view the newspaper clippings from the time of your mother’s disappearance. Their records are patchy at best, but they did refer me to the Regional Reference Library, which apparently has a far more extensive archive. At the time of this writing, I have not made it there. Should you decide to do so, I’m going to warn you that you’re going to read things about me that you won’t want to know. While I was never held in custody, everyone in town, the officer in charge included, seemed to suspect me of wrongdoing, believing that I killed your mother and hid the body. I cooperated with the police, but I also made the decision to move us to Toronto for a fresh start. I didn’t want you to have to spend your childhood dodging rumors.

For all I know, I’m still a suspect. Certainly the case has never been solved. But believe me, Calamity, when I say that I did not do anything to harm your mother. I only ever wanted to find out where she went, and why. It is my belief that if you find out who wanted me dead, you will also find out what happened to my beloved Abigail. I know it’s a risk, and I beg you to be careful, but I also hope you find out the truth. Perhaps then, your mother’s spirit will be set free.

With all my love,

Dad

I reread the letter twice more. Then I poured myself a large glass of white wine and ordered a cheese pizza with hot peppers and extra tomato sauce. It was time for comfort food and a plan.