Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) (6 page)

I pulled myself through the attic entry, determined not to give in to my aversion to confined spaces. Unless I could enlist Royce to help me, it was unlikely I’d be able to move the trunks to the main level of the house, and I didn’t think our friendship—if we could even define it as such—was at the point where I could show him I had a coffin in the attic. I was going to have to go through everything up here on my own.

But not right this minute. Today my only purpose was to see if there was a message from my dad tucked inside the coffin, or something—anything—that might offer a clue as to what the hell he’d been thinking.

Even though I knew that the coffin came from a theater supply company, and that Morton, as I’d come to think of the skeleton, was nothing more than a PVC replica, it still took me a few deep breaths before I could bring myself to open it. When I did, I was once again struck by how light the lid was.

Morton stared back at me with his cavernous eye sockets. I gently lifted him into a seated position—now that I knew his name I felt an odd connection—then checked underneath the satin headrest. Sure enough there was a letter-sized white envelope.

I opened it and took out four photographs, each one of a woman, man, and young girl. They were standing in front of a small maple tree, holding hands and smiling broadly for the camera. I recognized a mid-twenties version of my father, a decade or so younger than I was today. I felt my throat constrict at the image of him smiling back at me, so vibrant and full of life.

I’d never seen a photograph of my mother until that day, but I knew without any doubt that she was the blue-eyed woman in the photos. I’d inherited her heart-shaped face, her slightly too-wide nose. I felt a touch of envy at her hair, glossy blonde and poker straight.

It stood to reason that I was the girl in the photos. There was certainly no denying the mass of chestnut brown curls untamed by hairbands or hats, or the serious black-rimmed hazel eyes. I looked to be about five, which meant these would have been taken the year before my mother had left us. I closed my eyes, tried to conjure up a memory, something, anything.

Nothing came to me.

What was interesting about the photographs—beyond the fact they’d all been taken in the same spot—was that each one had been taken in a different season. In one, the maple tree was leafless and covered in snow. In another, it was in full bud, a call to spring. In the third, it was covered in shiny green leaves, summer at its finest. In the fourth and final picture, the leaves had turned a deep crimson. Our clothing also depicted the seasonality, from coats, boots, and scarves, to light jackets, jeans, and running shoes, to t-shirts, shorts, and sandals.

I turned the photographs over, one by one, and noted the same backhand slant, in the same turquoise ink, that had been on the listing of tarot cards.
Spring 1985
.
Summer 1985
.
Fall 1985
.
Winter 1985
.

I was right. The pictures
had
been taken the year before my mother left. February 14, 1986, the date forever etched in my mind. Years later, when a boyfriend dumped me on Valentine’s Day, my father lamented that I’d fallen victim to the Barnstable curse. What I’d fallen victim to, I’d told him, was another classic example of my loser radar, a combination of poor judgment and lack of insight. I didn’t tell him that I’d actually been expecting a ring, or that I’d spent hours picking out just the right Valentine’s Day card, an adorable image of two
porcupines kissing, with the message,
I love you so much it hurts
. It had hurt all right, just not in the way I’d expected.

I wondered who had taken the pictures, where they’d been taken, and why that particular spot had been selected. The maple tree, only slightly larger than a sapling in 1985, would be considerably bigger now, if it still existed. There was no evidence of it on this property, but then again Leith Hampton had said the only thing that grew was the lilac. So it was possible the tree had been here at the time. I placed the four photos back in their envelope, but I didn’t put them back in the coffin. Instead I continued my search to see if anything else had been hidden. Only when I was convinced there was nothing else hidden did I stop to wonder just why my father would have put these pictures inside a coffin with a PVC skeleton. My best guess was that Misty Rivers had talked him into some sort of bizarre ritual. I knew I’d have to talk to her, about this as well as the tarot cards, but I also knew I’d have to think through my approach. Something told me Misty was one very clever operator.

I looked around the attic, at the two trunks, and what looked to be a large, colorful poster wrapped in bubble plastic. It was getting late and I’d had enough of this attic’s skeletons, real and imagined, for one day. I couldn’t begin to imagine riffling through the trunks for another couple of hours in this dusty, claustrophobic space, and a quick try confirmed my guess that they would be too heavy for me to lift and carry out of the attic. The poster, though somewhat awkward, was light enough. Even if I couldn’t face it today, I could take that back down with me and check it out in the morning. I picked it up and carefully made my way back to the main floor of the house. I wasn’t a psychic, but I did see a large glass of chardonnay in my immediate future.

I meant to ignore the poster until the morning, I really did, but as I sat sipping chardonnay and dipping veggie slices into hummus, it kept calling out to me. I finally relented and got a pair of scissors to cut away the bubble wrap.

It turned out to be a framed movie poster—the kind you’d find in a theater—for the movie musical
Calamity Jane
. The poster depicted a hand-drawn Doris Day wearing a bright yellow shirt, pristine rawhide vest and tight-fitting pants, gold cowboy boots, and a wide brim hat. She was standing on top of a saddle with the words
Calamity Jane TECHNICOLOR
, flicking a whip, while Wild Bill Hickok, played by Howard Keel, stood behind her. The words
Yippeeeee! It’s the Big Bonanza in Musical Extravaganza
were directly above the whip, with
WARNER BROS SKY-HIGHEST, SMILE-WIDEST WILD’N WOOLIEST MUSICAL OF ’EM ALL!
at the bottom left.

One of the few facts I knew about my mom was that she loved fifties-era movie musicals, and this poster seemed to fit the bill. A quick Google query confirmed it. The film had been released in 1953 and included the hit song
Secret Love
. I thought about the locket from Reid. Was there a connection, or was it merely a coincidence?

Another Google search took me to a YouTube clip from the movie. I couldn’t help but chuckle as I watched Doris scamper along with her horse, stop at a tree, and start singing, arms spread wide before stooping down to pick up a daffodil. It got even cornier when she hopped back on her horse, and riding sidesaddle, continued to sing as she made her way back to town. The bottom line was that her secret love was not a secret any longer.

I knew the Hollywood version of Calamity Jane had been considerably softened, although it had been a couple of decades since I’d done any research, and I’d forgotten most of what I’d learned. I promised myself I’d read up on the real Calamity Jane. I could also bring the poster along with me when I visited Arabella Carpenter. It wasn’t an antique, exactly, but I knew Arabella had an interest in vintage posters. She’d told me about a group of railway and ocean liner posters she’d purchased from a collector in Niagara Falls. True, this didn’t fall into the travel poster category, but it wouldn’t hurt to show her and see what she thought. For all I knew, this could be a reprint. In the meantime, I could send her a few photos of it, back and front, the same way I had with the locket.

I turned the poster over and saw what I now believed to be my mother’s backhand slanted handwriting, albeit slightly more spidery than the examples found on the back of the photos. Had she been worried when she wrote the inscription?

For my very own Calamity Doris on her 6th birthday. Love always, mom.

Not love always mom and dad. Just love mom. Except that my birthday wasn’t until May 1st, and my mother had left on Valentine’s Day. Did that mean she knew she was leaving and wanted to be sure I had a birthday gift? Or was she the sort of person who bought things when she saw them and saved them for the occasion? And why had my dad hidden it in the attic all these years, wrapped in bubble plastic? Was it because my mother hadn’t signed it from him as well? Was there some sort of hidden meaning? I realized I didn’t know the answer to any of those questions, and probably never would.

I looked at the vibrant colors, the vivid fifties imagery. I could imagine this poster hanging in my bedroom as a little girl. It would have made adorable wall art. It still might, come to that. I decided to give it a try. It wasn’t like I had anything on the bedroom wall now, and it
was
unique.

Besides, it was a gift from my mother. The only one I had. That had to count for something.

I could have done a lot of productive, potentially case-solving things on Saturday—‘could have’ being the operative words. Instead, I gave myself permission to take the day off from sleuthing and carpet removal to explore the twelve-mile paved trail system that ran through the center of Marketville. According to the Town’s website, the trail followed the Dutch River and passed through parks and green spaces, past wetlands and historic cultural sites, and had links to trails in two surrounding towns. It sounded like a runner’s paradise.

The great thing about running—besides the fact that it allows you to eat more than kale and cabbage soup—is that it clears the clutter from your mind. By the time I arrived home, I had made the decision to show the photographs I’d found to Royce.

With that decision made, I felt as if I would at least accomplish something investigative. I went to work getting the lasagna—and myself—ready for Royce. I knew it wasn’t a date, but it didn’t hurt to put my best face forward.

Dinner went better than I could have hoped for. Not only did Royce have a healthy appetite, he was beyond complimentary, insisting the lasagna and Caesar salad was the best he’d ever had, and showering great praise on a store-bought baguette I’d turned into bruschetta. He also showed no reluctance to sitting cross-legged on the floor while we ate, our plates and wine glasses on the coffee table.

“It’s either here or at the bistro table in the kitchen, and that isn’t really meant for a dinner,” I said. “Besides, the smell of garlic might be a bit overwhelming in there. I know I need to find a dining room table, but I’m not sure yet how I’m going to use this space. I’ve been thinking of knocking down the wall between the kitchen and living room. Even if I don’t do that, the kitchen is long past its best before date.”

“Why don’t you buy an inexpensive patio set? At least that way you’d have a table and chairs, and you’d have something to use outside as well.”

“That’s a great idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“You would have eventually.”

“I’m not so sure. What about the wall?”

“You could definitely knock down the wall here, and it would make a huge difference in opening up the room. Mind you, the wall between your kitchen and this room happens to be load bearing, but there are inventive ways of using an island with pillars to get around that, which is what I did in my house. Your father had been thinking along the same lines, so I already have the measurements, plans, digital renderings, and an estimate based on the quality of finishes he wanted. I can also give you the name of a couple of other reputable contractors who can do the same thing.”

“I don’t need to call anyone else. I trust that my father would have done his due diligence.”

“If you’re sure—”

“I’m positive. When can I see the plans?”

“How about I come by Monday morning? Say nine o’clock? But fair warning, renovations are messy, they take time, and they can get expensive, depending on what sort of fixtures and finishes you select.”

“Messy I can deal with and I’ve got time. As for the budget, my dad did leave me some money for renovations. Hopefully it’s enough.”

“We’re used to working with budget restraints. As long as you understand that unless the sky’s the limit, there are going to be compromises.”

“Understood.”

“Then it’s settled. Now, enough shop talk for this evening. Let me help you clear the dishes so we can both enjoy a glass of wine.”

Hunky, handy, and willing to do dishes. Now that was a winning combination. Still, I couldn’t in good conscience ask a dinner guest to help me clean up.

“You relax on the couch. It’ll only take me a few minutes.” Another thought struck me. The photographs.

“You mentioned that you grew up in Marketville. Would you mind looking at some pictures in the meantime?”

“Pictures? Like on your phone?” Royce’s eyebrows knit together in a worried expression, as if I might be one of those annoying people who took hundreds of photos on their phone and expected you scroll through them one by one.

“Not on my phone. These are real photographs. There are only four of them. They were taken with my mother and father. I was hoping that you might recognize the setting. I have to warn you, though. There’s a slight catch.”

“There’s always a catch,” Royce said, but he said it with a smile. “What’s this one?”

“The pictures were taken about thirty years ago.”

“You don’t make things easy, do you?” Still smiling, maybe even a little bit flirtatious.

“Sorry.” Smiling back.

“No apology necessary. I’m more than willing to give it a whirl. But wouldn’t it be easier just to ask your mom?”

“I assumed you knew. My mother left us on Valentine’s Day, 1986. She never even left a note. We never saw or heard from her again.”

“I had no idea. It must have been horrible for you and your father.”

“We managed.”

“Do you think your father rented the house out all these years in the hopes she’d come back for him?”

I wanted Royce’s help but I wasn’t prepared to play twenty questions. “I don’t know. He didn’t really talk about her much.”

“I’m sorry. Clearly I’m overstepping. Let me take a look at the photographs, see if I can recognize the setting.”

I whipped into the kitchen and grabbed them from the drawer before he could change his mind.

“Thanks, Royce,” I said, handing the envelope to him. “I’ll leave you to it while I do the cleanup. Oh, and I made a tiramisu for dessert, if you’re interested.”

“Tiramisu. You’re a goddess. When we have coffee, a bit later though, okay? Another glass of wine first?”

“I can live with that.”

I knew the minute I walked back in the living room that something had changed. There was a tension in Royce’s shoulders that hadn’t been there before.

“Where did you find the photos?” he asked.

“In the attic.” I decided not to mention
where
in the attic. “Why? Do you recognize the spot?”

Royce nodded. “I’m fairly certain these were taken in the park next to the public school on Primrose Street a couple blocks north of here. The tree is a lot bigger now, but if you look closely at the winter photograph, in the left hand corner you can see a tiny bit of brown and yellow speckled brick in the background. That would be the school. It’s an unusual brick color.”

I looked at the photo closely. The snippet of brown and gold mottled brick was barely visible, but it was there. “I’ll make a point of running by there tomorrow and scoping it out. Maybe it’ll bring back other memories. Thanks.”

“There’s something else, Callie.”

“What is it?”

“I think I recognize your mother.”

I stared at him. “How is that even possible? You didn’t live next door until ten years ago.”

“True, but I grew up in Marketville. The reason I recognized the public school is that I went there as a kid, kindergarten to grade eight. Now my folks spend six months a year in Arizona, and six months at a cottage in Muskoka, but we used to live a few blocks from here.”

“Were your parents friends with mine?”

Royce shook his head. “I don’t think so. When I met your dad a few weeks ago, nothing about him seemed familiar and he didn’t mention knowing my family. I think he would have, don’t you?”

“Probably,” I said, though in truth I wasn’t sure. He’d managed to keep more than that a secret from me. Then again, I couldn’t imagine why he wouldn’t have told Royce he knew his parents. “You said you recognized my mother. When did you meet her?”

“My mom has always been into fundraising. She still is. When I was a kid, bake sales were popular, especially when it came to supporting school initiatives. The woman in the photos you showed me—your mother—dropped off a huge platter of peanut butter cookies to our
house for one of those sales. I would have been about nine or ten at the time. This was before all the peanut allergies you hear about now.”

“You can remember a woman you met once, back from when you were nine or ten? I’m impressed.”

Royce grinned. “I remember because your mom brought me my own special homemade cookie. It was roughly three times the size of the other cookies, and she put a smiley face on it using chocolate chips. To a kid, merging peanut butter with chocolate to make a giant cookie was on par with getting a day off school without being sick.”

“My mom used to make me a cookie like that for special occasions. I haven’t thought about that for years.” I frowned. “But why is it that I have no recollection of these photos being taken? Even after studying them, nothing rings a bell.”

“Sometimes we suppress memories to protect ourselves. Perhaps when you’re ready to remember, you will.”

“Why would I need to protect myself?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you remember the woman’s name?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“Would you mind calling your mom? I’d like to know if she remembers anything about my mother. Her name was Abigail, but I’m pretty sure that she also went by Abby.”

“Consider it done.”

I tried to make conversation after that, but suddenly my head was filled with a kaleidoscope of old memories. My mother baking a cake and letting me lick the bowl. The two of us building sandcastles at Musselman’s Lake. Me playing jumpsies in the driveway, my mother’s face lighting up as I called out M-I-SS-I-SS-I-PP-I, my feet and legs navigating the carefully connected elastic bands, without thought to the fact that Mississippi was an actual place, many miles to the south, in another country. It occurred to me that my father wasn’t in these particular memories, but I wasn’t ready to go there.

Royce seemed to understand, passing on my halfhearted offer of coffee, although he did accept a small serving of tiramisu, probably because he’d made a bit of a big deal about it earlier. When he finally got up to leave, promising to return Monday morning with the renovation plans, we were both more than ready to be alone with our own company.

“I’m sorry to be such a poor hostess,” I said. “Being in this house, the photographs, hearing that you might have met my mother. It’s starting to bring back memories long buried.”

“I can only begin to imagine. Look, if you’d like, we could both pay my folks a visit, take the photographs with us. My dad travels a fair bit, but I’m pretty sure he’s around next weekend.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. My folks love company, especially my mom. Besides, you’d be getting anything they knew firsthand instead of filtered through me. Even if it isn’t much, or my memory is faulty, there are worse ways to spend time than a weekend at Lake Rousseau.”

“I’d like that,” I said, although I wasn’t entirely sure. What if the Ashfords didn’t remember anything? Even worse, what if they told me things I didn’t want to know?

“Let me set something up,” Royce said, leaning over to kiss me gently on the forehead, the soft scent of Irish Spring soap lingering. “Sweet dreams, Callie.”

“Sweet dreams, Royce.” I closed the door and gently touched the spot where his lips had been.