Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) (16 page)

I went back to my computer and pulled up my Maps app. According to the directions, 127 Moore Gate Manor, Lakeside, was fifty minutes northeast of my current location. I printed off the route.

I thought about ways to visit my mother’s parents—if they even still lived at 127 Moore Gate Manor. My attempts of finding a telephone listing for an Osgoode in Lakeside had come up blank, but that didn’t mean much. Folks with money almost always had unlisted phone numbers, and besides, lots of people had ditched their landlines for cell phones. I was still mulling things over when the doorbell chimed. I went to the door and looked out the peephole.

It was Chantelle, holding a gallon of paint in each hand. I opened the door.

“Chantelle, you didn’t have to buy my paint for me. C’mon in.”

She came in and set the paint down in the foyer. “It’s just primer. They had it on clearance at the hardware store, five dollars a can, so I figured I’d grab it for you. Some folks don’t use primer, but I’ve always found it makes a difference.”

“Thank you. What do I owe you?”

“A lasagna dinner? I ran into Royce. He told me how delicious your recipe is. I gather he was here the other night.”

What exactly did Royce say, and why? Was Chantelle being sincere, jealous, or merely curious? I didn’t know her well enough to make an accurate assessment.

“I’m always happy to make lasagna and making it for one means I’m eating it for a week, so it’s a deal. I’m away this weekend, but one night next week?” I knew I should have said I was going to be at Royce’s parents’ cottage. With Royce. But I didn’t. I wanted to see if she already knew.

If Chantelle knew, she didn’t say. Instead she agreed to one night next week and started to leave. I have no idea why, but I stopped her.

“Chantelle, maybe you could do me another favor?” I waved my hand in the direction of the living room, and the papers on top of the coffee table. “If you’ve got a minute.”

Her face lit up and my conscience took over. “Before we do that, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“What?”

“I’m going to the Ashfords’ cottage this weekend with Royce. To meet his parents.” I felt the heat rise in my face. “That came out wrong. It’s just his parents might have known my mother. Anyway, I didn’t want you to find out later on and think I was holding out on you.”

“Like you did with the lasagna dinner?” Chantelle grinned at my discomfort. “Lighten up, Callie. I’m just messing with you. Royce is a friend of Lance the loser. Even if we both wanted a relationship—which we do not—Royce is too much of good guy to cross that invisible line. I actually respect that. Of course, it doesn’t stop me from flirting.” She shrugged her shoulders as if to say
no big deal
.

“So what’s the favor?”

“You mentioned you were into genealogy.”

“Not just genealogy. I’m also trying to develop a related business as an information broker. They seemed to be interconnected.” She smiled. “Teaching yoga and spinning is great fun, and it was enough money when Lance was supporting me, but I need to find something more lucrative. Plus, I like the idea of helping people connect with their past.”

An information broker. The very thing Leith had recommended.

“Are you taking on clients?”

“Not officially, at least not until I can develop a website and get together with my accountant. All on my to-do list. I could use the practice, though, not to mention a client reference. Why? Are you looking for someone?”

Now was the time to trust her and accept her offer of friendship or shut her out completely. Maybe more time passed than I realized, or maybe, once again, Chantelle had some sort of sixth sense that let her read me. All I know was that she reached over and gave me a brief hug, the scent of her herbal shampoo calming as magic elixir.

“You can trust me,” she said, letting go. There was something in the way she said it, an undertone of pleading. I realized, for the first time, that for all her flirtation and seeming self-confidence, Chantelle was one very lonely lady. The offers to help me paint, to take me shopping, to get me a reduced gym membership, were all an effort to fill void left by Lance, a man who, based on her reaction in the Italian restaurant, she still very much loved and missed.

What can I say? I’m a sucker for a sob story.

“You’d better come on in, Chantelle. This might take a while.”

I put out a tray with homemade hummus, peppers, and naan wedges on the coffee table and poured us each a glass of wine, red for Chantelle, white for me. After a sip for courage, I got started with my story.

“I don’t know either set of my grandparents, not from my mother’s or my father’s side. Never even met them. My folks got married when I was on the radar. Apparently that didn’t go over so well.” I pointed to the photo album. “There are some photos of the wedding in there. Take a look for yourself.”

Chantelle picked up the album and flipped through it, pausing occasionally to study a photo at greater length.

“I see what you mean,” she said, putting it back on the table. “No photos of anyone outside of your parents on their wedding day. It’s unusual to say the least, but it backs up the theory that your grandparents hadn’t approved. Otherwise, there would have been at least one obligatory group photo, don’t you think?”

“What else do you notice?”

“Even after you were born, there are no photos with anyone else in them. Unless you consider Santa Claus.” She looked up at me, her eyebrows raised in a question. “That, and the photos stop when you’re six.”

“That’s the year my mother left. February 14, 1986.”

“Valentine’s Day.”

I nodded. “The jury’s still out on where and why she went. The police suspected foul play. I’ve been doing some research. Reading old newspaper accounts at the Reference Library.” I grinned. “I’ve also been talking to Ella Cole.”

Chantelle laughed. “Ella’s probably better than any library. What about your dad? What did he believe?”

“He never talked about her when I was growing up. We moved to Toronto a few months after my mother’s disappearance, not that I remember moving. My father put this album and a few of her personal belongings in the attic, padlocked it, and rented out the house. I didn’t even know about this place until after he died.”

“Not even a hint that it existed?”

I shook my head. “Furthermore, I have no idea why he never sold it. Why he just kept renting it out. Unless—”

“Unless he thought she’d come back here, but didn’t want to get your hopes up. Telling you about the house might have raised too many other questions.” Chantelle bit her bottom lip. “Which means, your father believed she might still be alive.”

“I think he might have kept hoping, despite any evidence to support it, at least. I don’t think he believed she was still alive at the time of his death.”

“The letter you mentioned. The one in the safety deposit box.”

“That, and some other things.” I wasn’t ready to talk about the will or the letter in any detail, at least not yet. I considered showing her my folder of printouts from the library but decided that, too, could wait. Baby steps.

Thankfully, Chantelle didn’t push it.

“So what about your grandparents? The ones on your father’s side?”

“All I know is that their names are Peter and Sandra Barnstable, that they used to live in Toronto, and that they moved decades ago, address unknown. To be honest, I haven’t done much to find them yet. I’ve been so busy with everything else.”

“Let me see what I can find out. What about your mother’s parents?”

“There, at least, I have an old address. At least I think it’s their address.” I took the marriage certificate out of the envelope and handed to Chantelle.

Her eyes scanned the document. “Your mother came from Lakeside. Should be easy enough to find them.” She grabbed my laptop, and before I could blink, her fingertips were flying across the keyboard. I dipped a red pepper slice into the hummus and nibbled on it, toyed with the stem of my wineglass, and stayed silent. Less than five minutes later she glanced up, a triumphant grin on her face.

“They do. Still live there. Corbin and Yvette Osgoode. It looks like they’re a bit of a high society couple, which would explain the nosebleed address.” Chantelle turned the screen towards me to show a
Toronto Star
newspaper photo of a distinguished couple at some sort of charity gala, him in a tux, her in a long gold lamé gown with rhinestones around the bodice.

I felt a catch rise in my throat. I’d always thought I’d inherited a mix of features from my parents, the black-rimmed hazel eyes and unruly hair from my father, the slightly too-wide nose and heart-shaped face from my mother. But with the exception of the eye color—hers were a molten chocolate brown—the aristocratic woman in this picture could have been me, forty years in the future. I wondered if Yvette fought with her hair, now short, curly, and iron gray, the same way I did.

Physical resemblance aside, the fact remained that they probably wouldn’t welcome me with open arms, no matter how much time had passed. I told Chantelle so.

“Maybe they will, and maybe they won’t, but there’s no law against taking a stroll around the neighborhood. Lots of people do it. I suggest we park at the public beach on Winding Lake Drive and go from there.”

Chantelle was right. No one would find it unusual to see a couple of women walking. The area attracted runners and walkers and cyclists in equal measure. I had dated a guy one summer, a triathlete with a fantastic body but not much else to offer. We’d spent more than a few days at that beach while he practiced open water swimming and I admired his form. Unfortunately, I discovered the only thing he was faithful to was training.

“You’d go with me?”

“Sure, why not? I love an adventure.” She picked up the photo album again. “We should probably take along a couple of the wedding pictures. Just in case.”

“Just in case?”

“In case we meet someone who remembers them or end up talking to your grandparents.”

It wasn’t much of a plan, but at least it was a plan.

“When do you want to go?”

“How’s tomorrow morning sound? Bright and early, say nine o’clock? I don’t teach classes at the gym until tomorrow afternoon. As long as I’m back by three I’m golden.”

I didn’t have anything specifically planned for Wednesday, with the exception of trying to reach Dwayne Shuter again and checking in with Shirley at the Reference Library. I nodded my agreement, finished my wine, and poured another glass.

Ready or not, it was time to face the past.

Chantelle was in my driveway promptly at nine a.m. Wednesday. Dressed in what I hoped would pass for acceptable walking clothes—shorts, a ‘Run for the Cure’ t-shirt, and running shoes—I climbed into her pickup truck, a zippered hoodie in my hand in case it was cold by the lake. Depending on which way the wind was blowing, it could feel up to ten degrees cooler. I saw a flicker of movement in the curtains at Ella’s front window and suppressed the urge to wave. Let her believe she’d been furtive.

The drive to Lakeside was enjoyable. Chantelle took the back roads, “the scenic tour,” she called it, versus the faster commuter route which tended to be more heavily traveled, albeit at this time of the day in the direction headed towards the city, not away from it. We chatted about everything but the mission at hand. I appreciated Chantelle’s attempts at diversion.

Parking for Winding Lake Beach was tucked behind a white clapboard convenience store. There was a hand painted sign in the near empty lot directing us to pay the five-dollar daily charge inside Ben’s Convenience. I knew from my days with the two-timing triathlete that come July the fee would be twice as much for half the time.

We made our way to the front of the store, pausing to look out at Lake Miakoda. It was still early in the season and only a handful of diehard swimmers in wetsuits and brightly colored caps were out in the choppy water. A cool breeze drifted onto the shore. I shivered just watching them, knowing the water temperature in late May wouldn’t be much over 58 degrees.

Inside, Ben’s Convenience had the usual selection of soda, chips, chocolate bars, and catering to the avid three-season cyclists that frequented Winding Lake Drive, an impressive variety of energy bars and sports drinks. There was a chest filled with plastic bags of ice and a freezer stocked with an assortment of ice cream bars. The owner stood behind a counter filled with scratch-and-win tickets safely stored behind Plexiglas. I remembered him from a decade ago, a grizzled man with bushy white hair, a permanent suntan, and a perpetual scowl. Come summer, he’d be out front grilling hot dogs, sausages, and burgers—beef or veggie—the price of each going up or down, depending on the temperature and the number of tourists and triathletes. I handed him the money for the parking and two overpriced bottles of water.

“You ladies heading out for a walk?” he asked, handing me my change.

“We are,” Chantelle said with a brilliant smile. “You must be Ben.”

“You read the sign.” The scowl remained firmly in place.

I wanted to throttle him. Chantelle wasn’t dissuaded.

“You owned this place long, Ben?”

“Coming up to forty years.”

“That’s a long time.”

“A lifetime. Where you planning to walk?”

“We thought we’d head over to Moore Gate Manor,” she said, “see how the other half live.”

“You mean the other one percent,” Ben said, but his scowl had lifted a little. I swear Chantelle could unfreeze an igloo in the Arctic.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right about that.” Chantelle paused, as if debating something with herself. After a few moments, she leaned forward onto the counter and stared up at the storekeeper with her intense charcoal gray eyes. She stopped just short of fluttering her eyelashes, possibly realizing that might be overkill. “Look, between us, my friend here thinks she might have a relative on Moore Gate Manor. Remembers visiting there when she was a kid.”

“So now she’s hoping to find a pot of gold?” Spoken as if I weren’t in the store.

“It’s not like that. She’s just looking for family.”

Was it my imagination or did the shopkeeper flush beneath his tan?

“I didn’t mean anything—”

Chantelle waved away his apology and pulled out one of the wedding photos from a pouch around her waist. “Maybe you recognize the woman?”

Ben barely glanced at the photo. “Can’t say as I do.”

“Let’s go, Chantelle,” I said, wishing I were anywhere but here. I flashed a look at the man. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

To my surprise, the ingrained scowl softened a little bit more. “The one thing I can tell you is that the residents of Moore Gate Manor don’t frequent the poor side of town. They even have their own private beach, completely gated, security cameras, the whole nine yards. No need to come here and spend time with the great unwashed.”

“Well, it was worth a shot,” Chantelle said, and flashed Ben another bright smile.

We were halfway out the door when he called out after us.

“Why don’t you leave the picture here and stop in on your way back? Maybe something will come to me.”

“Do you think he knows anything?” I asked Chantelle as we headed northeast along Winding Lake Drive. I was wearing my hoodie, glad that I’d had the foresight to bring it. The sun had yet to peek out of the clouds, and the wind was getting brisker by the minute. I hated to think what my hair looked like.

Chantelle shrugged. “It’s hard to say. He barely glanced at the photo. Maybe if he takes the time to really look at it.”

We walked the rest of the way in silence, pausing occasionally to look out at the water or a particularly nice home. No cookie cutter houses on Lake Miakoda. Everyone was different, from the tiny original clapboard cottages dating back to the fifties, to the mega-windowed mansions that were gradually replacing them.

The further east we got, the nicer the houses became, until about three miles along, when we finally arrived at a stone archway and elaborately painted sign that indicated we were now entering the community of Moore Gate. There wasn’t a locked gate, per se, but it felt as if there should be. You got the feeling you weren’t welcome here unless you belonged, preferably from birth, though I expected new money was welcomed with a jaundiced eye.

The main thoroughfare was Moore Gate Manor, which wound its way through a maze of homes that dwarfed anything on Winding Lake Drive. Despite what Chantelle had told the convenience store owner, I’d never been here, not now, and not as a child. Not even when I’d been dating the two-timing triathlete.

The homes on the north side of Moore Gate Manor sported a spectacular view of Lake Miakoda and a series of islands beyond. A half-dozen streets ran off of it. The homeowners there would have to walk a bit to get their view, but the homes were equally impressive, with immaculate gardens and copper weathervanes atop cupolas on cedar-shingled roofs.

We meandered along each side street first, as if in unspoken agreement that we leave my grandparents’ house for the last. The day was blustery enough to keep folks inside, though they might also have been hard at work earning more millions. Whatever the reason, the only people we saw were a couple of young guys doing yard work, and a cable repairman doing something with wiring at a small green box.

We arrived at 127 Moore Gate Manor about fifteen minutes later. Located at the end of a cul-de-sac, it was by far the largest on the block, with a generous lawn groomed to perfection, a plethora of spring flowers in full bloom, and an interlocking brick driveway. The house itself reminded me of a medieval fairy tale castle, with its fieldstone façade, turrets, and two-story towers. The only thing missing was a moat.

So this is where my mother had grown up. Opulence on steroids, it was a far cry from the humble two-bedroom bungalow in Marketville she’d shared with my father and me.

Had it all gotten to be too much? The penny pinching on a sheet metal apprentice’s salary, baking cookies instead of having them baked, the dreariness of a commuter town growing on the backs of those who wanted the dream of home ownership and couldn’t afford anything better? Had the man I knew only as Reid been her Prince Charming, ready to offer her a happier ending?

There was a Persian cat resting in the front bay window, its emerald eyes watching our every move. A white toy poodle wearing a pink collar studded with colorful jewels lay sprawled next to the cat. I wondered if the baubles were real, and suspected they just might be. The dog hopped away, making room for an elderly woman who came to the window. She stared at us long and hard before closing the blinds.

My grandmother.

“This was a stupid idea,” I said to Chantelle. I turned around and ran back to the convenience store, tears streaming down my face, my heart pounding, my breathing ragged. By the time I got there, I was dry-eyed and angry. I sat down at a bench in the park and looked northeast towards the community of Moore Gate.

“Damn you, Yvette Osgoode. You’re going to meet me. Like it or not.”