Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) (23 page)

After Chantelle purchased her camera from the same associate—at an even deeper discount than the one she’d negotiated for me—we headed back to Snapdragon Circle, where we spent the next couple of hours at my kitchen table, going over the printouts from the
Post
.

Well, most of the printouts. I held back the ones from the
Toronto Sun
and
Toronto
Star
. With the exception of the photo of Misty Rivers and Leith Hampton, they were nothing more than a rehash of what was in the Marketville paper. I wanted to confront Leith and Misty before I showed Chantelle that one.

For her part, Chantelle studied each printout, listening to my explanation of who was who with an intensity I hadn’t expected. She also asked a lot of questions, especially when it came to Reid Ashford and Maggie Lonergan. Maybe that’s what information brokers did, but her unabashed curiosity about Royce’s father and aunt put me on my guard. I decided not to share Melanie Ashford’s confidence about her affair with Dwayne Shuter, partly because I didn’t think it was my secret to tell, and partly because I didn’t want it to get back to Royce. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Chantelle, necessarily, so much as I hadn’t quite figured out their relationship.

“There’s absolutely no way G.G. Pietrangelo won’t remember your mother,” Chantelle said when we’d gone through the lot of them. “You need to make that appointment.”

I filled out the online form with preferred dates and times, working around Chantelle’s fitness class schedule. “Now we wait,” I said, hitting send.

“Now we wait,” Chantelle agreed, checking her watch. “I should go, unless there’s something else you want me to help you with.”

There was, though it surprised me to realize it.

“Can you help me find my father’s parents?”

“I can certainly try, but from what little you’ve told me, they may not welcome hearing from you. Are you sure you’re ready for that sort of rejection after all you’ve been through?”

I thought about Yvette’s claim that she’d tried to reconnect with my father. Possibly his parents had as well. Even if they hadn’t, I needed to find out for myself.

“I’m ready.”

No sooner had Chantelle left, promising to get
started on the search for Sandra and Peter Barnstable, when my phone rang. The call display said
Private Caller
, and the number was from area code 705. Not local, and not Toronto.
Probably a telemarketer.
I answered it anyway.

“Hello.”

“Calamity Barnstable, please.”

“Speaking.”

“This is Gloria Grace Pietrangelo. You filled out my online form for semi-private nature photography lessons.”

“I did.” The hair on my arms prickled. I’d filled out the form as Callie. I was sure of it.

“There’s no need for the pretense of lessons, Calamity. I recognized your last name. You’re Abigail and Jim’s daughter. I’m just wondering what brings you to me after all these years.”

I’d been going over my cover story since the camera store. Knowing I could simply tell the truth was both terrifying and liberating.

“I’m trying to find out what happened to my mother.”

“Why now?”

It was a fair question. I opted for transparency, with some boundaries. “My dad died recently. An occupational accident. I inherited the house in Marketville.”

“He kept the house? I’m confused. I was under the impression you’d moved to Toronto.”

“We did. He’d been renting the house since 1986. I didn’t know about it until the reading of the will. It’s raised a lot of questions about the past.”

“I appreciate your candor. What can I do for you?”

I told Gloria Grace about going through the
Marketville Post
articles and photos, finding her name as writer and photographer. I stopped short of telling her about my dad’s letter, the tarot cards, Reid, and the locket. “I suppose I hoped you’d remember the case,” I finished, and heard the hint of desperation in my voice.

“Remember it? It’s haunted me every day since the first day I wrote about it. A loving mother and wife who simply vanishes into thin air? I did a lot of research. Most of it never ended up in the paper. My job was to report the facts, not get into conjecture. But there were a few things that just didn’t make sense.”

I took a deep breath. “Would you be willing to share your research, what you remember?”

“I’m not sure how much help it will be to you after all these years, but, yes. I still have all my notes and photographs. For some reason, I could never bring myself to throw them out. I suppose part of me always thought you’d call one day.”

“When can I come and see you?”

“I’m free tomorrow morning, but you’ll have to come bright and early. Say eight a.m.?”

“Eight a.m. would be great.”

Gloria Grace gave me directions to her studio in Barrie. “It should take you about forty minutes if you take the 400.”

“I’ll factor that in so I’m not late. And Gloria?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Calamity. Digging into the past might sound cathartic, but in my experience, it seldom is.”

I put the tarot cards, locket, and letter from my father in my purse. I wasn’t sure if I would show them to Gloria Grace, but it made sense to bring them along.

Just in case.

Gloria Grace’s studio was tucked in the middle unit of a small strip plaza that also included a pizza place, sub shop, chiropractic clinic, combination Laundromat/dry cleaner, and convenience store. It didn’t strike me as the ideal location for a nature photographer, but what did I know?

Inside the studio was entirely different matter. Every wall was plastered with stunning photographs, each one more vibrant and detailed than the other. My breath caught at a picture of a blue jay fighting off a hawk, claws against talons, the abject fear in the jay’s eyes as palpable as the merciless will to kill in the eyes of the hawk. How long did Gloria have to sit in waiting to capture that image?

“
Birds of Prey
. That’s one of my favorites. I’m Gloria Grace Pietrangelo.” A woman of generous proportions, mid- to late-fifties, sauntered out from behind a screened off area. Unlike many of her size, she wasn’t wearing a flowing caftan or leggings with a long sweater. Instead, she was dressed in olive green cargo pants, matching vest, and black turtleneck. From the various lumps and bumps, it appeared that every pocket in the pants and vest held something. Her hair was shoulder length, rust-colored, and heavily streaked with gray. Pale brown eyes that might have been amber in another light. Not a scrap of make-up on a face that, based on the ruddy complexion and deeply etched lines, had experienced decades of the great outdoors. An unapologetic face. An unapologetic woman.

“You’re very talented,” I said.

“It’s a passion.”

“It must have been challenging, working for the
Marketville Post
all those years. Kids on toboggans and ribbon cutting ceremonies.” I felt my face heat up. What right did I have to speak to her like that?

Gloria Grace laughed, a soft throaty sound that seemed to echo in the small room. “What can I say? The checks cleared. I saved every dime I could. Spent every free moment outside, studying that world. It made living life as G.G. Pietrangelo a little easier. Had to go by G.G. back when I started. A woman working in a man’s world. Things have changed. It’s easier for women, now. For photographers, what with digital, though I do miss film and the darkroom.” She offered up a sad smile. “Of course, every nincompoop with a smartphone thinks they’re a photographer these days, but you’re not here to listen to me rant. C’mon. There’s a kitchenette at the back. We can talk over tea and scones.”

I followed Gloria Grace behind the screen, passing a closed door marked ‘Office,’ one marked ‘Washroom,’ and a stark white room with a basket of dog and cat toys. “Pet sittings,” she said, waving her hand in the general direction. “I don’t do a ton of it, but I love animals and it helps pay the bills.”

I remembered seeing some photos of dogs and cats on her website. Even here, her talent had shone through, the dogs looking proud and pampered, the cats sleek and smug.

Unlike the front of the studio, the kitchenette’s soft green walls were devoid of any photographs or other ornamentation. A small, rectangular wooden table, painted white, was tucked against one wall. Gloria Grace gestured for me to sit at one of the two chairs, plugged in the kettle, then pointed to a plastic-covered plate with four scones.

“Lemon cranberry or blueberry? I bought both kinds since I didn’t know your preference.”

“Blueberry.”

She nodded, took out one blueberry and one lemon cranberry scone, wrapped each in a paper towel, and popped them in a microwave for ten seconds. “Heated. Makes all the difference. Butter? Preserves?”

“No, thanks.”

“Earl Grey okay?”

“Earl Grey sounds great.”

“Anything in it?”

“Just the tea. No milk or sugar.”

She nodded again, got everything ready and placed it on the table in front of me.

“First we eat. Then we talk.”

“You said you expected my call.” We’d finished our scones and Gloria Grace had topped up our tea.

“Will you allow me to tell the unvarnished truth? I believe you deserve to know that much, but only you can tell me if you’re ready for it. I think you are, otherwise you wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of contacting me under the guise of photography lessons, but I need to be sure. Not everything I tell you about your mother or your father will paint a pretty picture. Either I tell it to you the way I’d tell someone with no ties to the story, or I won’t tell it at all. It’s your choice, and it’s not too late to walk away.”

I took a sip of my tea, wishing it were something stronger. “I’m not walking away.”

Gloria Grace studied me for a few moments. Apparently satisfied, she got up, opened a deep kitchen drawer, and pulled out a thick black binder. She turned to the first page and began reading, flipping through notes and newspaper clippings. I waited while she stood there and read the first few pages, trying hard not to signal my growing impatience. By the time she sat down, I was positively wired.

“It was early on Saturday, February fifteenth when I got the call from my assigning editor at the
Post
,” Gloria Grace began. “Word was that an Abigail Rivers had gone missing the day before, with possible suspicious circumstances. I knew Abby from her volunteer efforts. Some folks, they do these volunteer things because they have community service hours to serve, or because they want the photo op, but your mom seemed like the real deal, and she always treated me with respect whenever I’d come to cover one of her events. Believe me, in the newspaper business, you meet all kinds, and there are plenty of folks who are complete assholes the minute the camera is turned off.”

Gloria Grace took a deep breath. “Anyhow, just up and leaving without a word, that didn’t sit with me as the sort of thing a woman like Abby would do. Not in a million years. Besides, I knew she doted on you, although in the vein of full disclosure, and not wanting to speak ill of the dead, I think your parents’ marriage had its share of challenges. Nothing I knew for fact, at least in the beginning, but I’m good at reading people. I couldn’t reconcile her leaving you behind of her own volition. I want you to know that, to believe that, before I go on.”

I pulled my cocoa butter lip balm out of my purse and dabbed some on, nodding but unable to speak. Gloria Grace forged ahead with her story.

“As I was saying, I got the call on the Saturday from the editor-in-chief at the paper, a pompous ass I’d been putting up with for more than a decade, but I digress. He told me that the police suspected foul play and that the husband might have been involved. I didn’t know Jim Barnstable well. I’d met him at the Canada Day tree planting the year before and he was what best could be described as reticent. At the time I put it down to him wanting to let the limelight shine on his wife.” Gloria Grace flushed and fidgeted as if looking for the right words.

“I found out about her affair with Reid Ashford recently,” I said, and watched her eyebrows rise in surprise. “Was that what you were worried about telling me?”

Gloria Grace admitted it was. “It makes it easier for me, knowing that you know.”

“How did you find out?” I asked, before she could ask me the same thing.

“I interviewed a lot of people. Marketville was even sleepier then than it is now, and your mother’s disappearance was big news. It wasn’t long before the innuendo of an affair surfaced, thanks to a couple of women who volunteered at the food bank with your mom.”

“Let me guess. Misty Rivers and Maggie Lonergan.”

“That’s right.” Gloria Grace gave me an appraising look. “You’re remarkably well informed. I’m not sure what I can tell you that you don’t already know.”

“You can tell me if you believe my father knew about the affair.”

“I’m sure he did, Callie. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but I’m certain that Maggie Lonergan would have told him.”

“Because she was Reid’s sister-in-law.”

“Hell no. Because she was a woman scorned.”