Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) (5 page)

I took the card and nodded politely. Then I escorted her out the door and into her car. I watched as she pulled out of my driveway, off Snapdragon Circle, and onto Trillium Way. When I was certain she wasn’t coming back, I went back to the front door and peered through the peephole. The image was blurred and distorted, but there was no question about it: you could
definitely see inside the house. Right into my brown and yellow kitchen.

So much for Misty Rivers’ psychic vision.

The locksmith arrived a few minutes after Misty had left. I asked him about replacing the peephole with something less invasive. Thankfully, he installed those as well. He assured me that a modern peephole would allow me to look out, but not allow anyone to look in. He set about to work, telling me it would take a couple of hours.

As much as I wanted to find out what was inside the envelope, I didn’t want to look at the contents with anyone around. Instead, I fired up my laptop and spent the time catching
up on my emails. As promised, Leith’s assistant had scanned and sent the rental applications for Jessica Tamarand and Misty Rivers. I printed them off and was just about to review them when the locksmith came to tell me he’d finished. I paid the man, watched him leave, then sat down in the kitchen, staring at the cupboard. It was time to find out what was in that envelope.

I’m not sure what I was expecting but it wasn’t five tarot cards carefully wrapped inside a sheet of pale pink paper, the sort of paper you’d find inside one of those fancy boxes of stationary at the greeting card store.

What I knew about tarot could fit in a thimble, but even I knew five cards was far from a full deck. I unfolded the paper, took note of the softly swirling backhand slant, the turquoise blue ink. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but to my eyes it looked feminine, which made sense given the color of the paper and ink. The cards were listed in order as follows:

1) III: The Empress

2) IV: The Emperor

3) VI: The Lovers

4) The Three of Swords

5)
XIII: Death

I laid the cards out on the coffee table and looked at them a while. I realized I had no idea what any of it meant, though the last card, Death, definitely freaked me out.

I could check for meanings online, but it was probably best to consult with an expert. I thought about Misty Rivers. As reluctant as I was to involve her in my life, she did have a five-thousand-dollar retainer and I might as well have her earn it. Whether she actually knew anything about tarot was another story.

There was one more thing inside the envelope, a small silk brocade pouch, the sort of thing you’d put jewelry in if you were traveling. I undid the snap and pulled out a rectangular locket with a silver chainlink necklace.

The front of the locket was some sort of opaque glass, delicately encased with filigree silver in a swirling floral pattern. A solitary clear stone was inset in the center. A diamond? Or a rhinestone? The back was solid silver.

There was something decidedly old-fashioned about the style, as if it had been made in another era. I would take some photos and email them to my old school friend, Arabella Carpenter, to see if she could tell me any more about it. Arabella had just opened the Glass Dolphin, an antiques shop in Lount’s Landing, a small town about thirty minutes north of Marketville.

I opened the locket using the tip of my fingernail to find a photograph of a man with fair hair, serious brown eyes, and a chiseled chin tilted ever so slightly upwards. Something about the man looked familiar, though I couldn’t place where I’d seen him before. Had he come to the house when I was a little girl? Or had my mother met him somewhere, with me in tow?

I removed the photograph out of the locket, careful not to bend or damage it, and turned it over to find a handwritten note, the writing small and cramped: “To Abby, with love always, Reid. Jan. 14, 1986.”

January 14, 1986. Exactly one month before my mother’s disappearance. Abby. Not Abigail. A lover’s nickname?

More importantly, who was Reid? And what, if anything, did he have to do with my mother?

I took about a dozen photographs of the locket from all angles—the picture of Reid removed—and emailed them off to Arabella with a note saying I’d just found the silver necklace in the Marketville house. I’d talked to Arabella at my dad’s funeral, and called her when I was getting ready to move from Toronto to Marketville, so she knew some of the story, although certainly not all of it. She was a good enough friend to know I was holding something back, but she didn’t press.

The tarot cards were another story. At the moment, the natural contact was Misty Rivers, but calling her so soon after her impromptu visit was bound to raise her curiosity. I decided to wait until I’d explored the attic properly. As much as I hated the thought of it, there might be other things to show her.

I rubbed my temples and tried to ward off the migraine I knew was coming. What had started off as a bit of an adventure and a legal obligation—not to mention a year off work—was rapidly turning into a complicated commitment with some skeletal twists.

Tomorrow was garbage day. Manual labor might help me think. I’d face the attic tomorrow.

I managed to finish removing the carpet from the living room, dining room, and hallway, stopping only long enough to eat. No other hidden treasures or surprises, although I was pleased to find the floors were in decent shape. They’d need to be refinished, but it would be a lot less expensive than replacing them. I hoped the bedroom floors would be as promising.

For the moment, I was left with about a dozen rolls of carpet, two green garbage bags, and one very sore back. I suspected my arms and legs would stiffen up overnight, and late as it was, I really wanted to sleep in without worrying about an alarm clock for the sake of an early garbage day pickup. I dragged out the vacuum, managed to get most of the remaining fluffy bits, then began schlepping the rolls out to the curb. I was on the third one when Royce Ashford came outside.

“Someone’s been busy,” he called out from his front porch. “Do you have any more to put out?”

“Only about another ten.” I felt my back spasm and tried not to grimace. “All offers of assistance gratefully accepted.”

Royce was ready, willing, and more than able, carrying two rolls at a time without a trace of discomfort. I started imagining six-pack abs under his Toronto Blue Jays t-shirt and mentally smacked myself upside the head. It would not do to get romantically involved with the next-door neighbor. Especially with my track record when it came to men.

“That’s that then,” he said, carefully arranging the last rolls of carpet into a neat pile. He handed me a newspaper rolled inside a yellow plastic sleeve. “Your
Marketville Post
, delivered every Thursday whether you want it or not. Filled with a week’s worth of local news, which basically serves as wrapping paper for store flyers. Not too thick at this time of year, but you need a crane to lift it during the Back to School blitz and at Christmas time.”

“I actually love going through store flyers, and I have a ton of things I need to buy. In fact, I’d offer you a drink after all your hard work, but I’m afraid all I have to offer is tea or coffee, without milk. I also plan to hit the liquor store tomorrow.” I looked down at my now filthy clothes. “Plus I’m probably badly in need of a shower.”

Royce laughed. “Yeah, you kind of are, though I will say I admire your work ethic. I could use ten of you at my company.”

“If that’s a job offer, I’ll pass. I have the bedrooms to de-carpet and a host of other renovations I haven’t even started to consider. I need to make a list. At least I got the locks changed today.”

“It’s a good idea to have new locks installed when you move into a place. You never know who might have a key.”

“That’s true. Leith Hampton thought you might have one.”

“Really? Well, no, can’t say I do. As for that renovation list, I’m happy to help you prioritize. No obligation to use my company. Just some neighborly advice to steer you in the right direction.”

“Thank you, Royce. I’d love to take you up on your offer. How about coming over for dinner one night and we can talk it over? I make a mean lasagna and Caesar salad. And I pour an excellent glass of Australian Cabernet Sauvignon.”

“A home-cooked meal and a glass of wine in exchange for some renovation advice? How’s Saturday sound? Or am I being too eager?”

I laughed. “You sound like a guy who could use a home-cooked meal without doing the cooking. Saturday works for me. How does six o’clock sound?”

“It sounds perfect. Right now, though, I’d suggest a good, long soak in a hot bath, preferably one loaded with Epsom salts.” He stepped closer to me and for a brief moment I thought he might be leaning down to kiss me. Instead he pulled a strand of wooly carpet from my hair. “Good night, Callie. I’ll see you on Saturday.”

“Saturday,” I said, when I could finally find my voice. But he was already gone.

I checked my emails first thing Friday morning and was pleased to find a reply from Arabella Carpenter.

Subject: Locket

Hi, Callie. Thanks for sending me the pix of your lovely locket. I have seen similar lockets over the years and as such, in addition to the photos you’ve sent, my email appraisal is based upon those examples. Here goes:

Based on the quality of materials and workmanship, along with its Art Deco style, your locket was almost certainly made in the 1920s. The opaque glass is camphor glass—clear glass treated with hydrofluoric acid vapors to give it a frosted whitish appearance, made to imitate carved rock crystal quartz. From the mid-nineteenth century to the 1930s, camphor glass was used for many things, from lampshades to bottles.
In jewelry, it was often cast with a star pattern on the reverse to give it a radiant appearance. This is indeed the case with this piece, as you can see from the inside left of the locket when opened. There is one further mark on the back, a 14 with a semi-circle around it, which indicates this is not silver, as you thought, but 14 Karat white gold. The stone in the center of the locket is almost certainly a diamond, although I’d have to see it in person to be sure. Why not pop by the shop one day and bring it along? It’s high time we caught up over lunch or dinner.

Best,

Arabella

A locket from the 1920s. Was it a family heirloom? Purchased secondhand from a jeweler? Found at an estate sale? Arabella’s reply raised as many questions as it answered. I sent her back an email thanking her for her quick response. I promised to set up a firm date as soon as I had a
chance to go through the rest of my mother’s things in the attic. I finished up with, “There may be a few more things for you to look at! Dinner’s on me! Callie.”

With that taken care of, I made myself a mug of vanilla rooibos tea accompanied by a couple of chocolate chip cookies. Not that I made a habit of eating cookies for breakfast, but my cupboards were pretty much bare, and without milk the bran flakes were even more unappetizing than usual.

I remembered the
Marketville Post
and fetched it from the front hallway. Before long I was immersed in flyers and making a store-by-store list. I was almost starting to feel like a proper homeowner, instead of a daughter looking for clues into her mother’s disappearance.

I headed out the door at nine, wandered up and down the aisles of four different grocery stores, and stocked up on essentials, non-essentials—note to self: never shop for food on a two-cookie stomach—and everything required for Saturday night’s dinner. I even found a nice six-bottle wine rack, perfect for the kitchen counter.

My next stop was the Liquor Control Board of Ontario, known to everyone as the LCBO, and Ontario’s only option if you wanted hard liquor. Started in 1927 after prohibition ended to control the sale and distribution of alcohol, it amused me that almost ninety years later the government still didn’t trust the concept of privatization. Well, they were softening some on beer and wine, but the rules for selling either were arduous at best.

The city snob in me was surprised at how swanky this particular LCBO was, as nice or nicer than any of the Toronto area stores I’d frequented in the past. Carefully laid out, there were aisles and aisles of liquor, liqueurs, imported and domestic beer, assorted fruity coolers, as well as wine separated both by country and color. There was even a huge Vintages section at the back of the store, though most choices were well outside of my rather modest budget. I made my selection of more affordable reds and whites from the Australia and Chile aisles. The man at the checkout counter was nice enough to put my purchases in a couple of boxes and carry them to my car. Civilized.

My final stop for the day was at an office supply store, which, according to its flyer, just so happened to have some paper shredders on sale. If I was going to go through the papers in my father’s filing cabinet, I was going to need one.

A serious young associate was more than happy to discuss the pros and cons of cross-cut versus strip-cut shredders. Apparently cross-cut paper shredders sliced paper into small squares or diamond shapes, whereas a strip-cut shredder cut paper into long strips.

“The cross-cut is more expensive, but it’s also more secure,” the associate said, his expression grave. “The long strips created by the strip-cut shredder can be reassembled by someone with enough time and patience for the task.”

I imagined Misty Rivers riffling through my garbage—anything to bolster her so-called “psychic” abilities—and opted for the cross-cut shredder. You couldn’t put a price tag on privacy.

I got back to Snapdragon Circle just past noon, made myself a tuna salad sandwich, and prepared my first report to Leith. I’d already decided not to mention the envelope until I could find out more about the contents. Besides, it was week one. He wouldn’t be expecting much.

To: Leith Hampton

From: Calamity Barnstable

Subject: Friday Report Number 1

Discovered a PVC skeleton in a papier-mâché coffin in the attic. Police believe it might be a prank. Have not been back in the attic since. On the to-do list. Had locks and front door peephole changed. Met Royce Ashford, next door neighbor. Misty Rivers came by the house and offered her assistance. I declined for the moment. Began stripping old carpet. Revealed hardwood underneath.

I reread the email. It was a recap of what he already knew, but it would suffice. I hit “send” and pondered my next steps. I knew I should finish stripping out the carpeting, but I was too sore and tired to think about it. That left going through my father’s papers, researching the best resource for figuring out the meaning behind the five tarot cards, or rummaging through the attic.

I opted for my father’s papers. I carried the shredder into the living room. I remembered seeing a blue recycling bin in the carport, retrieved it, and put it next to the shredder. What didn’t need shredding could be recycled. I went to the small bedroom and push-pull-dragged my father’s filing cabinet down the hall and into the living room.

The first task would be weeding out the meaningless. The idea being, if it wasn’t meaningless, it
might
have a meaning.

The first few file folders were devoted to household expenses: hydro, natural gas, telephone, Internet, and cable. By the looks of it, he’d been saving them for the last decade. Since he hadn’t owned a business where he could write expenses off, there had been no need to keep them. I shredded the bills.

The second batch of paperwork covered my father’s income tax returns for the past six years. I went through them line by line, but the only thing of real interest was an annual deduction for a safety deposit box at a bank in Marketville. I went to the kitchen cupboard where I’d tossed the brass key ring. Sure enough, there was a key that looked like it could have belonged to a safety deposit box. I made a note to contact Leith to find out how I could access it as the beneficiary of my father’s estate. People didn’t keep safety deposit boxes without good reason.

Next up were a bunch of manuals which covered everything from tools and appliances to lawn mowers and a home gym. I vaguely remembered the home gym, a contraption that had all sorts of weights and pulleys, but it had been a few years since I’d seen it at my father’s house. So far, the filing cabinet was proving to be a bust.

I went through the manuals one by one, tossing them into the blue bin after a cursory glance. Mixed amongst them was a travel brochure for Newfoundland and Labrador. I fought back tears, remembering my dad’s bucket list wish of whale watching.

I was just about finished when I came upon a small sales catalog selling anatomical models of all shapes and sizes. I flipped through it and found a skeleton named “Morton” who looked suspiciously like the one currently residing in my attic. The fact that someone had circled that particular model in blue ink pretty much confirmed that they were one and the same. The final nail in the coffin—pun fully intended—was a receipt, tucked inside the back cover, for “1 papier-mâché casket” from a Toronto store called Macabre Crafts & Ghoulish Creations. The receipt was dated less than two weeks before my dad’s death. According to their letterhead, the firm specialized in props for the film and theater industry.

Someone is playing a prank on you, Constable Arbutus had said. The coffin is nothing more than a stage prop, the skeleton a PVC medical model. Surely my late father couldn’t be the perpetrator of that prank. Or could he? Was the codicil in the will nothing more than an elaborate ruse? If so, why? I placed the catalog and receipt on top of my folder containing the rental agreements for Misty Rivers and Jessica Tamarand.

A search of the remaining files offered a few more useless manuals, but no answers. Maybe the safety deposit box would hold a clue, but it was late Friday and Leith wouldn’t be back in the office until Monday. For the moment, that was a dead end.

I looked around the room and spoke out loud, as if someone might actually be listening. “Damn it, Daddy, you’re really starting to piss me off.”

I slammed the filing cabinet drawer shut and stomped my way back to the attic, pushing back the tears that started to threaten. When I was finally ready to cry for my father, I didn’t want to be angry.