Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) (7 page)

I got up early Sunday morning after a night of tossing and turning, the odd bits of sleep I did have filled with disjointed dreams. I ate a light breakfast of oatmeal and tea, then got my running gear on and headed out, winding my way around the side streets and occasionally getting turned around. It would take some time to figure out the neighborhood. Eventually I found the public school Royce had mentioned.

The distinctive brick made it easy to spot, as did the gigantic maple tree now in full bud. I stopped my GPS wristwatch and closed my eyes, trying to remember standing there.

Nothing.

I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but nothing wasn’t it. I plopped onto a wooden bench by a baseball diamond and surveyed my surroundings. Maybe if I sat here for a bit something would come to me.

It didn’t. I felt an errant tear trickle down my cheek, quickly followed by a torrent of them.

The tears took me by surprise. I’ve always been a bit of a loner, and after my St. Valentine’s Day massacre I’d made it a rule to eschew sentimentality. Yet here I was, sitting on a schoolyard bench, crying over a woman who had probably abandoned me and whom I could barely remember. I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt, restarted my watch, and ran back to Sixteen Snapdragon Circle, wondering if I’d ever think of it as home.

I got back, made and drank a pineapple banana protein smoothie, put together a macaroni and cheese casserole for later—comfort food at its finest—and spent the remainder of the day removing the carpet in both bedrooms. It was tedious work that took a lot of muscle, moving furniture around to get at it, and taking the rolls out to the carport until next week’s garbage day, but it felt good to know the job was finally done.

I wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or disappointed that there were no more hidden surprises. I checked my watch. Time to pop in the mac and cheese and toss a salad.

As tired as I was physically, I couldn’t seem to relax after dinner. I tried reading, watching TV, and cruising around Facebook and Pinterest. I thought about the lease agreements Leith had emailed to me.

I’d no sooner poured a glass of chardonnay, grabbed a notebook, and sat down at my desk to Google Jessica Tamarand, the tenant who’d broken her lease, when the doorbell chimed.

I checked the peephole. The woman on the stoop was in her late sixties or early seventies, with soft wrinkles, over-permed gray hair in an afro-style popular three decades back, and gold-rimmed bifocals, the lines heavily etched into the glass. No progressive lenses for this one. Her thin lips were smeared with candy apple red lipstick and a shade of liner that didn’t quite match. I opened the door and caught a whiff of face powder and rosewater. Both had been used more than was absolutely necessary.

“I’m sorry to be calling so late,” the woman said, though it was barely seven p.m. “It’s just that I just ran into Royce when I was coming back from my evening constitutional—I like to walk around the block every night after dinner—and he told me you’re not just another tenant. He told me you were Jim and Abigail’s daughter.” The woman smiled broadly, revealing a smear of red lipstick on her upper eyetooth. “Ella Cole. I live next door, on the left side of you. The brown brick bungalow with the hunter green shutters and the rose garden. Our house is on the Marketville Gorgeous Gardens Tour. Not that the roses are in bloom just yet. I’m an original.”

“An original?”

Ella nodded. “As in an original homeowner in the Wildflowers subdivision. Picked the house from plans way back in the seventies when Marketville was just a blip on Toronto’s horizon, can you imagine? All of twenty thousand residents back then, the mall had forty stores, versus the two-hundred-plus today. And there were none of those big box monstrosities that are sprouting up everywhere like a bad case of teenage acne.”

The last thing I needed to hear was a tangent on urban sprawl. I recalled something a builder friend had told me a few years back. “Sprawl is the house built next to yours.” I attempted to divert her. “An original resident? That must have been very exciting.”

Ella Cole practically preened. I could almost see the tightly permed curls spring into action as her chest puffed out.

“Of course I’ve made some improvements since. We all have…” She looked down at the linoleum and blushed. “I mean, most of us have. Those of us who haven’t rented out. Not that I blame your papa.”

I disregarded her blathering while I took full meaning of her words. Ella Cole might know something about my mother. Maybe even my father. “Won’t you come in? I was just having a glass of wine. I have red and white.”

Her mouth pursed into a tight grimace, the red lipstick making it look like shriveled poppy. “You like to drink alone.”

I should have been annoyed at the implication that I was some sort of fall down drunk. Instead, I found myself going into full defense mode. “Just a small glass of wine after Sunday dinner following a day of hard work. I’ve been stripping carpet all day.”

The mouth remained pursed. A large part of me wanted to tell her to sod off, but that wasn’t the way to get information, or to be neighborly. I made an effort to be conciliatory.

“I can make a nice pot of herbal tea, chamomile perhaps, always good at night, and I have some chocolate chip cookies. Store bought, I’m afraid, but quite good.”

“Store bought is fine,” Ella said, visibly thawing, “though as I remember, your mama loved to bake.”

“A passion I didn’t inherit, I’m afraid, but come on in and make yourself comfortable. Kitchen or living room?”

“I always find a kitchen so much more intimate.”

“Kitchen it is.” I plugged in the kettle and realized I’d neglected to tell Ella my name. “Excuse my bad manners. I’m afraid I haven’t properly introduced myself. Callie Barnstable.”

“Of course I know who you are, Callie, although as I recall, your mama always called you Calamity.”

Why didn’t I remember my mother calling me Calamity? Was that the reason I insisted that everyone, including my father, call me Callie?

“I go by Callie now, Mrs. Cole,” I said, forcing a smile.

“No need for formalities between neighbors. Ella will do just fine.”

“Thank you, Ella. Let me get the tea and cookies then we can chat. I’d love to hear more about my parents when they were young. That is, if you’ve got any stories to share.”

Ella gave a smile fit for a winner of the Lotto Max millions, and I knew I’d nailed it. This, then, was the neighborhood busybody. Probably avoided by everyone on Snapdragon Circle, if not the entire Wildflower subdivision.

In short, my new best friend.

“You mentioned stripping the carpet,” Ella said, dunking a cookie into her tea. “I noticed the rolls at the curb on garbage day. I thought I saw Royce giving you a hand with them on Thursday evening. Did he help you with the work?”

My assumption of a neighborhood busybody was confirmed. “No, I did all the work. Royce saw me taking the rolls of carpet out and offered to help.” As if she didn’t know. Probably had her window open, trying to listen in to our conversation.

“I have a bunch more in the carport, ready for next week’s pick up. I’m pleased, though, at how good the hardwood looks. The floors should refinish nicely.”

“They will indeed. It was all the rage to put wall-to-wall carpeting in back then. We did it, too, though we got rid of it about fifteen years ago. I’m delighted to see that you’re putting in some elbow grease. Does this mean you plan to stay?”

“For a while, anyway.” I wasn’t about to tell her about the conditions of the codicil. Ella would have it spread all over town by the next morning. It was time to steer the conversation into another direction.

“Maybe you can give me some advice on gardening, Ella, seeing as how you’ve done so well with yours. I’ve been told that nothing grows on this property but the lilac. I’d love my own vegetable patch. Nothing elaborate. Some tomatoes, cucumbers, maybe some zucchini.”

“Those are all easy to grow in this area. I’d be happy to go to the garden center with you, once you’ve dug up the plots. I won’t do any digging, but I can show you a perfectly good location. There’s plenty enough light now, if you’re interested in seeing it.”

“You’re on.”

We wandered outside where Ella proceeded to point out a rectangular weed-infested area near the back of the yard, behind a storage shed that had seen better days. The rest of the yard might have been patchy, but this section was downright depressing.

“Your mama planted a vegetable garden here the last summer she lived here,” Ella said. “Of course, it’s been left to go to seed, but there’s no reason you can’t pull out the weeds and turn the soil over. Gets good sun and it’s tucked out of the way, so when you’re sitting on your patio, you don’t have to look at zucchini and tomatoes. You’ll also want some flowers. I’d suggest that you start with a couple of whiskey barrels. I’ve got a diagram that tells you what plants to buy so you get season-long color and contrasting heights.”

“Whiskey barrels?”

Ella nodded. “Distilleries sell the whiskey barrels to garden centers, who in turn cut them in half. They make lovely rustic planters.”

“
Rustic. I like the idea.” I swatted away the fifth mosquito in as many seconds. “Let’s get back inside before we become bug food. They seem so much worse up here than in the city.”

“More trees and water, less concrete. It’s one reason why my late husband, Eddie, built us a screened gazebo,” Ella said as we headed back indoors.

“Your late husband? Did he die recently?”

“It will be five years this August. Hit by lightning on the golf course, if you can believe that. Apparently Eddie ignored the warning horn, wanted to putt out. Well, he did that, the stubborn old fool.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ella waved away the sentiment with a weathered hand, although I noticed she was still wearing her wedding band.

“Do you have any other questions, Callie? I’d be happy to answer them if I can.”

“I suppose you’ve been in this house a few times, over the years, living next door and all. Did you get to know any of the tenants?”

“A lot of people have come and gone through that front door over the years.” She pursed her lips again. “Some nicer than others.”

“I gather you didn’t approve of all of the tenants.”

“Wasn’t so much about approving or not approving, it was more like some people thinking they were too good to mingle with others.” Ella sniffed loudly. “Every tenant with the exception of one invited me over, not that she stayed long, good riddance. Claimed to be a tarot card reader. Last I heard she was doing readings at that new-agey place at the back of the organic whole foods store on King. I’ve never been in there, but I understand they sell dream catchers and crystals and beads with the evil eye, all under the guise of helping folks find peace. Parting fools with their money is more like it.”

“I assume you mean Misty Rivers, the last tenant?”

“Good heavens, no. Misty is the real deal. She gets visions from the spirit world that she shares to help others.”

I decided not to mention that Misty had already been to see me with an offer of ‘help,’ or that my father had started to fall for her story. Besides, in all likelihood Ella already knew that.

“Tell me a bit about the old days, Ella.”

“You mean, tell you a bit about your mama.” Ella leaned forward and patted my hand. “I know, dear, that you were left without a mama when you weren’t much bigger than a bud on a rose bush. Fair devastated your papa, and why not? If there was ever a man who loved his wife, it was Jimmy Barnstable. Why if your mama got so much as a cold, he’d start acting all crazy, as if she had one foot in the grave. He didn’t want you to see her sick, either. He did everything he could so you wouldn’t.”

A memory floated over me. Was that Ella’s lap I was sleeping in?

Once again, Ella seemed to read my mind. “Your folks hired Eddie and me to babysit you more than once, all because your mama had a touch of the flu. I understand as a young child your papa had seen both his grandparents succumb to cancer. The memories of them dying continued to haunt him as an adult.”

I nodded, finally getting it. My dad had been the same with me whenever I was sick, protective almost to the point of panic. Until now, I’d never understood why. He’d never told me about losing his grandparents, and I’d never questioned their existence or lack thereof. We simply didn’t talk about the Barnstables.

“My dad never talked much about my mother. I always wondered if he truly loved her, or if he only married her because she was pregnant.”

“Nonsense, dear. You get that thought right out of your head. The Jimmy Barnstable I knew would have married your mama, expecting or not. He worshipped the ground Abigail walked on.” Ella shook her head. “I never did believe all those nasty rumors.”

I decided to play dumb. “What sort of rumors?”

Ella blushed. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Except you did. You said there were rumors. I’d rather hear them from you, someone who knew and liked my parents, than some stranger on the street.” Never mind that Ella was pretty much a stranger to me.

She bought it. “I suppose if you went to the library and read reports from the
Marketville Post
way back when you’d find out anyway.”

I made a mental note to visit the library. I only hoped they maintained archives of the
Marketville Post
—and that my brain could remember all the mental notes I was filing into it.

“Go on.”

“The day your mama left, your papa called the police and reported her missing. He insisted she would never have left you behind. I have to agree with his logic. From what I could see, your mama doted on you, Callie. Besides, best as we could tell, she hadn’t taken anything with her. Who leaves without at least taking a suitcase full of clothes?”

I shook my head, but I was thinking: who leaves an envelope with five tarot cards and a locket under the carpet? Someone who thought they’d be gone for a while and didn’t want those things found? Or someone who didn’t expect to come back? What about the signed Calamity Jane poster she’d left behind for my sixth birthday, two and a half months in the future?

“What did the police do?”

“Nothing at first. Made your papa wait forty-eight hours. But eventually the officers in charge tracked her final days and hours and interviewed everyone in the neighborhood. Nobody had seen her since the morning of Valentine’s Day. I remember it was a Friday, and Eddie had made reservations for dinner at the Thatcher House. It’s closed down now, couldn’t compete when all the chain restaurants that started moving in during the nineties, but back then it was about as fine a dining spot as you’d find in Marketville. Anyway, your folks were supposed to dine with us, but given that it was a Friday and Valentine’s Day, they couldn’t get a sitter.”

“So you didn’t see her that day.”

“Oh no, I did, only it was in the morning. She was walking you to school—she walked you there and back every day, no matter the weather, none of the laziness you have today where everyone drives everywhere. No wonder so many kids are fat.” Ella stopped as if waiting for me to chime in. I didn’t. After a few moments of silence, she started up again.

“That day you were carrying a little red purse with Valentine’s Day cards in it. I know it had valentines in it, because the two of you stopped by my house and you gave me one.” Ella beamed. “Meant a lot to me, especially since Eddie and me were never blessed with kids of our own.”

I tried to remember walking back and forth to school. Nothing came to mind, but maybe if I walked there and back, slowly, using the same route we did all those years ago…

“Do you happen know the route we took, Ella? Because I’d like to remember that, and for some reason I don’t.”

“As a matter of fact, I do, because on a few occasions, when your mama was sick, she asked me to take you. The first time I did, I took a different turn. You were very quick to correct
me.” Ella giggled at the memory. “It was Snapdragon to Trillium to Coneflower. Follow Coneflower to Primrose and you’ll wind up at the school. Right hand turns all the way.”

I got a paper and pen and wrote that down. It was a different way than I’d run the day before. Another thought occurred to me.

“You said my mother walked me to school and back every day. Did she pick me up that day?”

Ella shook her head. “That was the first clue that something was wrong. When your mama didn’t come to pick you up, they tried calling her. Nobody answered. They called me next. I was listed as the secondary contact, seeing as your daddy worked construction and could have been anywhere. Remember, this was before cell phones. I went right over to the school and walked you home. I stayed with you until your papa got home from work.”

“What did he do when he found out my mother wasn’t there?”

“At first, he couldn’t believe it, even after I told him we’d searched the house and backyard. He just ignored me, ran around the entire house like a madman, opening closets and calling your mama’s name. Then he went outside and searched the yard. Not that there was anyplace to hide, though I suppose she could have hidden inside the shed.”

“I take it there was no sign of her.”

“Not a trace. It was as if she’d vanished into thin air. Your papa jumped into his pick-up truck and drove around the streets like a man possessed. He called the police the minute he got home, but, like I told you before, they told him he had to wait forty-eight hours before filing a missing persons report. Maybe they thought she was off somewhere with a lover, given it was Valentine’s Day.”

“But my father didn’t believe that?”

“I’m not sure what he believed, Callie. Only he could tell you for sure, and he isn’t with us any longer. All I know is that once the police got involved, they seemed to think your mama’s leaving might not have been her own idea. They must have come by the house a dozen times, asking your papa the same questions in a hundred different ways. I know, because he told my Eddie.”

The same questions a hundred different ways. Easy to slip up.

Ella seemed to read my mind. “Your papa never changed his story, not once. You’d have thought that would have cleared him, but instead it made the police even more suspicious. As if he’d memorized his story instead of telling the truth.”

“But why would the police think he had something to do with my mother’s disappearance? What did he do to make anyone think that?”

“There was a woman from the food bank, Maggie Lonergan—or should I say Magpie Lonergan. She insinuated that your mama was having an affair. As if I wouldn’t have known about it. Maybe I didn’t volunteer at the food bank, but I knew your mama.”

I stifled a grin. It sounded as if Maggie Lonergan and Ella Cole were rival gossips in the same small pond. I wondered if Maggie still lived in Marketville. I was about to ask when Ella continued.

“Maggie’s loose lips added fuel to the fire, and she wouldn’t let it go. She told anyone who would listen, and plenty of folks did. You and your papa moved to Toronto just before school started. He wanted you to have a fresh start in a new place, bless his heart.”

“What about the police? Do you know what they did with the case?”

“I suspect it’s what the police call a cold case. It’s doubtful that anyone has looked into it for years. No reason to without a body. As for your papa, I never heard from him after he moved, that is until three months ago, when he dropped by for a visit with me. He said he was thinking of moving back in. I’ll admit I was surprised, but it wasn’t my place to pry.”

I almost choked on my tea. It might not have been Ella’s place to pry, but you could be darned sure she would have, given half a chance. I decided to stretch the truth. “Maybe he thought if he came back to Marketville, my mother would finally come back, too.”