Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) (13 page)

The man from the locket—Reid, according to its inscription—was in the back row, and he was positioned directly behind my mother. Once again I was struck by a feeling of familiarity. Had I met this man, and if so, when?

Whether I had or not, it was obvious that my father also knew him. Could they have been friends? Was the affair going on by Canada Day, 1984? Was Reid one of the ‘downs’ in the ‘ups and downs’ father mentioned in his letter to me?

Perhaps it was, and my mother had tried to end it. That could explain the photos taken in 1985 in front of the maple tree she had planted in 1984. My parents had been happy that day, I was sure of it.

The locket was dated January 14, 1986. Ella Cole had said my mother had been visibly upset on her birthday in December 1985. Maybe the affair had started back up. Or maybe Reid wouldn’t let it go. I thought about the tarot cards. Randi believed they were meant to send a literal message. Could Reid have sent them? If not him, then who?

I massaged my temples. There were so many questions left unanswered, so many possibilities. I picked up my printed copies and put them in the file folder Shirley had provided. I removed the microfiche and put it in the bin. I knew I should go through the rest of 1984, all of 1985, and then onto 1986. The thought of doing it alone was daunting, not to mention time consuming. I sighed and went back to the file cabinet.

The rest of the 1984 issues of
Marketville Post
turned out to be a bust. I leaned back in my chair and attempted to unkink my neck and back. I’d been hunched over the microfiche viewer for the better part of the morning, and I was stiff, sore, and hungry. I needed a break before I could tackle 1985. I’d already decided that 1986 would wait until after I returned from the Ashfords’ cottage. Reading about my father as a murder suspect needed fresh eyes and a strong stomach. I told Shirley I’d be back in an hour, paid for my copies and the file folder, and headed back down the winding staircase.

There was a small café on the main floor of the library that served muffins, cookies, bagels, and some pre-made tuna and egg salad sandwiches, as well as an assortment of teas and coffees. I ordered a large peppermint tea and a toasted sesame bagel with plain light cream cheese—I never trust those pre-made sandwiches—and took a seat at a small round tables. I pulled out my cocoa butter lip balm and took comfort in the ritual.

I studied the newspaper article and photos while I ate my bagel and sipped on my tea. No one else looked remotely familiar. I contemplated asking Royce if he recognized anyone, but in 1984 he would have been eight years old. It was a long shot at best, and I’d have to admit to him that I’d been digging around old records. Wanting to find out more about my mother and doing serious research were two different things. I didn’t want him to think I was obsessed with it, and I wasn’t ready to tell him about the codicil.

I could also ask Ella Cole if she knew who any of the people were, though I hated to think what sort of gossip she’d spread if I did so. Maybe if I approached it as a quest to find out more about my past, versus trying to solve a mystery. I decided to give it some thought.

Bagel done, I went back upstairs to the third floor, ready to tackle 1985.

For a while 1985 wasn’t looking any more promising than the latter half of 1984. It wasn’t until I reached May 15 that I found another photograph of my mother. Once again, she’d made the front page, this time surrounded by tins of tomatoes. The article lauded her volunteering efforts, this time for spearheading the first local food bank. “Hunger isn’t limited to big cities like Toronto. In Marketville there are many families barely scraping by,” she was quoted as saying. “Everyone can help by bringing a non-perishable food item to the town’s Canada Day celebration on July 1st. Peanut butter, tinned fish, canned beans, vegetables and soup, baby formula, cereal, and juice in Tetra Paks are especially needed. Let’s fill up our food bank shelves!”

I found myself tearing up. My mother might have had an affair. Truth be told, probably had, but she was a good person. She cared.

I went through the rest of the paper. Nothing else stood out.

A few more weeks without anything of interest, until, finally the July fourth issue. This time the front page had a photograph of the Canada Day fireworks. The caption read,
Canada Day celebrations ended with fireworks at the Town Hall. The all-day event included face painting for kids, a food drive for the new Marketville Food Bank, and an artisan fair with farmer’s market. More photos on pages 15 and 16.

I flipped through the next fourteen pages—nothing—and stopped at page 15/16, the paper’s center spread. My mother was in one of the photos, surrounded by stacks of nonperishable food, my father by her side. There were no photos of Reid. Which didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t there. I printed off the page, took out the microfiche, and went back to the files.

By the time I reached the December 12th issue, I was pretty much bleary-eyed, and my neck and back were begging for relief, but the reward was seeing my mother back on the front page, this time promoting a holiday food drive. Maybe it was my imagination, but she looked thinner in this shot, the smile strained.

I scanned the article.
“I know there are many charities and good causes reaching into our pocketbooks at this time of year, not to mention our own families, but we’re hoping that those who can afford it will drop off a non-perishable food item at the fire hall or at the food bank,” said Abigail Barnstable. “We’re heading into winter, a time when people tend to hunker down indoors. Let’s try and stock our shelves!”

Although my mother was in the foreground, there were four other volunteers in the photograph. A man with a close-cropped beard, a small crescent-shaped scar above his left eyebrow, and two women, one mousy brown and curvy, one red-haired and lean. The curvy one looked vaguely familiar. Then there was Reid. Definitely Reid.

I tried to place the curvy woman. There was something in the way she held herself, but it was more than that. It was the eyes, jet black and shrewd.

Then I had it. She was thirty-plus years younger, and at least that many pounds lighter. Her mousy brown hair was in a permed eighties Afro instead of a fluffy platinum blonde. But without a doubt, the woman was Misty Rivers.

The realization that Misty knew my mother, but hadn’t shared that information with my father, brought about more questions than answers. What did Misty Rivers really know? Why had she rented the house on Snapdragon Circle—and was Leith aware of her past connection? Was she hoping to find out the truth? Or was she trying to stop it from ever seeing the light of day?

Randi had warned me to be careful. I had a feeling that went double when it came to Misty Rivers.

I decided to finish all of my microfiche research before contacting Misty. It was possible that I might discover some additional information to prepare me for that inevitability. It meant going over the records from March 1979—the month and year my parents moved into town—until December 1986. My father had moved to Toronto in September, but it wouldn’t hurt to check an extra couple of months.

The tediousness of the task ahead was overwhelming. The
Post
was published fifty-two times a year, which meant that I had four hundred-plus issues to go through.

I was about to backtrack to 1979—a delay tactic, I admit, since I wasn’t quite ready to read about my mother’s disappearance—when it occurred to me that the bearded man in the food bank photo might have also been in the 1984 Canada Day tree planting photo. I pulled the printout out of the folder and scanned the collage of photos for his image.

There he was, standing in the back row. Definitely the same man—the scar was a dead giveaway. Who he was remained a mystery.

I put the microfiche in the bin, got up, stretched, and knew I didn’t have another microfiche review in me. Tomorrow was another day.

Shirley, the head archives librarian, was on duty again. She smiled when she saw me and gave me a little wave. I smiled back, wondering if I might enlist her help. I meandered over.

“Shirley, I’m not sure if it’s against the rules, but I wondered if you could assist me with my research? I need to go back to 1979 through to the end of 1986. I’ve tackled 1984 and 1985, but at the pace I’m going, I’ll need to take up residence here. I could use some company.”

Shirley pressed her lips together and looked around the library. There were a handful of people on computers, but everyone seemed settled in. After a couple of minutes of reflection, she said, “I’m going on break in ten minutes. Meet me in the café, and you can tell me what you’re looking for. Then I’ll decide.”

The café was busier today than Friday, but we managed to find a table for two. I bought Shirley a decaf coffee, double sugar, and myself an Earl Grey tea. When I told her I was looking for any reference to my mother, Abigail or Abby Barnstable, or my father, James or Jim Barnstable, the emotion in my voice surprised me.

“Why are you looking for them?”

A simple question and one that deserved a truthful answer, especially if I was asking for help.

“My mother disappeared when I was six years old. On Valentine’s Day, 1986. I believe there was some suspicion pointed at my father, although nothing was ever proven and he maintained his innocence. He passed away a couple of months ago in an occupational accident. I inherited his house in Marketville and moved here last week. Maybe it’s pointless, but I’d like to find out why, or at the very least, find out more about my mother. Not just her disappearance, but also anything else I can find. I’m afraid my memories of her are vague at best.”

“You poor lamb,” Shirley said. “I actually remember something about the case, although I’m foggy on the details. It was big news at the time.” She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m sure we had a Missing - Reward Offered poster on our wall downstairs. Probably long gone, but who knows? Maybe someone put it in our basement archives. Stranger things have found their way into storage.”

I wasn’t sure what a Missing - Reward Offered poster would do to help me, but I was willing to explore every avenue.

“Do you think I could check the basement archives?”

“Hmmm? Oh no, that would be staff only, but I’d be happy to look for you.” Shirley looked down at her light gray pants and white blouse. “Well, maybe not today, dressed like this, but I promise to do so one day next week.”

“Thank you.” I didn’t want to push my luck but… “Do you think you’d be able to help me with the research?”

“That’s a gray area. Technically, I’m only supposed to guide you to the archives.”

“I understand,” I said, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

“I’m not saying I won’t help you, Calamity. I’m saying I’m not supposed to.” Shirley smiled. “I’m retiring at the end of the month after thirty years. What are they going to do, fire me?”

I didn’t correct her on the Calamity.

“So you’ll help me?”

“I will.” Shirley glanced at her watch. “My break’s just about done, better head on back.”

Just the thought of getting some help was enough to invigorate me. I thanked Shirley and sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Shirley was true to her word. She found a student volunteer to man the desk then positioned herself at the microfiche reader next to me.

“These are the people I’d like to find out more about,” I said, showing her my print copies and pointing out a young Misty Rivers, my mother, father, Reid, and the unknown man with a beard and a scar. “If you see them in any other photographs, let me know.”

Shirley agreed to tackle the early years—1979 through 1983—while I’d start with 1986, which would have more on my mother’s disappearance.

We worked side by side, each of us focused on the task at hand. I glanced over at her every so often, only to get a shake of her head. She was working on 1979 and had yet to find a thing. Since my mother would have been pregnant with me at the time, I wasn’t surprised. Moving to a new place, newly married, expecting a child. Volunteering would be way down the list of priorities.

Except I wasn’t having any more luck in 1986. January was bereft of even a mere mention of my mother, as were the first couple of weeks of February. It wasn’t until Thursday, February twentieth that I saw the first story in the
Marketville Post
. Which made sense, since Valentine’s Day would have been the Friday before and the paper only printed once a week.

The story made page one, though the details were sketchy at best. The Canada Day tree-planting photograph of my mother had been cropped and enlarged to show more of her face, but I could see it was the same picture.

The headline read,
Popular Marketville Volunteer Goes Missing
, and the story went on to read,
Abigail Barnstable, well known in Marketville for her work with the food bank and other volunteer initiatives, was last seen on Friday, February 14. Her husband, James (Jim) Barnstable is offering a reward for any information that might lead to finding her whereabouts. Abigail and Jim have one child, a daughter, Callie, aged six.

“Abigail would never have voluntarily left our daughter,” said Jim Barnstable. “I’m worried that she may have been a victim of foul play, possibly kidnapping.”

According to the Marketville Police, no ransom note has been delivered. Any information should be directed to the Detective Rutger Ramsay at 555-853-5763, ext. 241.

I printed off the page and highlighted Detective Ramsay’s name and number. Then I slid the printout over to Shirley and pointed to his name. She scanned it quickly, scrunched her face up in concentration, and then shook her head, mouthing the words, “Sorry.”

I wasn’t discouraged. There was no reason a librarian would know a police officer. He was probably retired by now, but it was still a clue. I would call Constable Arbutus and see if she knew him.

The following Thursday’s paper offered more coverage under the headline,
Marketville Mother Remains Missing
. This time the paper ran another photo, likely supplied by my father. Her blonde hair hung around her face in loose waves, brushing the tops of her shoulders. A faint smile played at the corners of her mouth. I was struck by how much she resembled the woman on the tarot card of The Empress.

In addition to my father, there were interviews with Detective Ramsay, Ella Cole and her husband, Eddie, and Maggie Lonergan, the woman Ella accused of being a busybody that fueled the flames of suspicion against my father. I printed a copy and reread the story, highlighting and making notes along the way.

Two weeks after her disappearance on Valentine’s Day, popular Marketville food bank organizer and volunteer Abigail Barnstable remains missing. Despite concentrated efforts by the Marketville Police, led by Detective Rutger Ramsay, there are no leads, and no evidence of foul play. However, Abigail’s husband, James (Jim) Barnstable, insists the couple’s marriage was solid, and that his wife would never willingly leave their daughter.

“Abigail and I have a good marriage,” said Barnstable. “Sure we’ve had our ups and downs. What married couple doesn’t? But we love each other, and we love our daughter. Abigail would never walk away and leave the two of us without so much as a note. I implore anyone with any information, however slight, to contact the police. Please. I’m offering a $3,000 reward. I’d offer more, but it’s all I have to give.”

I wondered how much three thousand dollars could buy in 1986 and made a note to find out. I also noticed my father had used the present tense. “We love each other,” not “We loved each other.” I kept reading.

Abigail Barnstable was last seen walking her six-year-old daughter, Callie, to school. Both Callie’s teacher and principal have confirmed that Callie was in school that day, but that her mother did not come to pick her up, as was her daily custom.

“They had to call her emergency contact, a neighbor,” said a spokesman for the school. The school declined further comment, citing parent-teacher confidentiality.

The Marketville Post
has since learned that the neighbor in question was Ella Cole. In an exclusive interview to the
Post
, Mrs. Cole said that Abigail and her daughter had stopped by her house earlier that morning to give her a Valentine handmade by Callie. It was the last time she saw Abigail Barnstable.

“Naturally I left the minute I got the call from the school,” said Cole. “I immediately went and picked the poor child up. Then I stayed with her until Jimmy [James Barnstable] got home from work. He was frantic with worry. We both searched the house and the yard then Jimmy
drove around the neighborhood. Maybe he thought she’d gotten lost on a walk or something. But he never found her. It was as if Abigail Barnstable had vanished into thin air.”

Maggie Lonergan isn’t so sure. “I got to know Abby quite well from volunteering at the food bank. I had the distinct impression she wasn’t happy with her marriage. That she was thinking of leaving her husband.” When asked to elaborate, Lonergan said she had told the police what she knew, and would trust them to find out the truth. “I don’t want to be considered a gossip,” said Lonergan.

Of course not, I thought. Easy not to be labeled ‘a gossip’ after the damage was done. I wondered if the unidentified woman in the food bank photograph was Maggie Lonergan. The odds were in her favor, and it would eliminate one more loose end, but either way I needed to find Maggie and talk to her. I went back to the article.

Detective Ramsay noted that all of Abigail’s personal belongings appeared to be intact. “We have no way of knowing one hundred percent,” said Ramsay, “but Mr. Barnstable tells us that he has done a thorough inventory. To best of his knowledge, nothing is missing.”

There it was. The first hint of suspicion. “
We have no way of knowing one hundred percent,” said Ramsay, “but Mr. Barnstable tells us…”

The article went on to sum up more of the same, including some references to past articles on my mother’s volunteer efforts. I placed the print copy inside the file folder and leaned back in my chair, trying to ease the tightness in my back and neck. I looked over at the growing pile of microfiche in Shirley’s bin. She caught my look and shook her head.

Nothing.

I got up to fetch the microfiche for March’s
Marketville Post
.

The next month’s coverage proved to be a rehash of the previous reports, with the story relegated to page three and then to page six, and finally disappearing altogether until mid-August.

Husband of Missing Marketville Woman Leaving Town
by G.G. Pietrangelo. No photo this time.

Despite the scurrilous headline, the story itself was pretty bland.

James Barnstable and his six-year-old daughter, Callie, are leaving Marketville to start a new life.

“It isn’t the same here, now that Abigail is gone, and I don’t want Callie to be the subject of pity or gossip at her school,” an emotional Barnstable told the
Post
in an exclusive interview. “As much as we have loved this town, it’s time to move someplace where nobody knows us.”

Barnstable’s wife, Abigail, a popular food bank volunteer, disappeared last February. Police say the investigation is still active. There are no leads at this time.

I was printing off the story when Shirley nudged me.

“I’m pretty much done,” she whispered, “and this is all I found.” She handed me a microfiche from December 15, 1983.

Marketville Volunteers Recognized at Awards Dinner.
Once again the byline and photo credit went to G.G. Pietrangelo. The photograph showed several men and women of varying ages, lined up in four neat rows. My mother was in the second row. The man I now recognized as Reid was in the back row. I didn’t see Misty Rivers or the bearded man, although I did see the woman I suspected was Maggie Lonergan. The caption read,
Terrance Thatcher Plays Host to Local Volunteers.
No names, which meant I had no idea which of the men in the photo was Terrance Thatcher.

The story was brief, basically a recap of various volunteer initiatives in town, everything from a Friends of the Library to the food bank to cleaning up the neighborhood parks. It was summed up with a thank you to the local restaurant, the Thatcher House, and its owner, Terrance “Terry” Thatcher, who had graciously hosted the awards dinner.

“As a local business, I appreciate all the volunteers do to make this town great,”
said Thatcher. I remembered Ella Cole telling me about the restaurant, that it had since closed down because of the influx of chains, but Terrance “Terry” Thatcher might still be around.

I printed the story and tucked it in the file. It had grown a bit thicker since the morning, but I couldn’t say it provided me with much more information than I’d had in the beginning. Still it was better than nothing.

I uncurled my stiff back and neck from my seat and thanked Shirley for her time and help. She followed me out to the hallway and promised to look for the reward poster in the basement archives as soon as she got a chance.

“I’ll try to do the
Sun
and
Star
as well,” she said. “At least for February and March 1986. It’s doubtful they have anything more than the
Marketville Post
has, but you never know.”

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“Nonsense. For the first time in years, I actually felt like I was doing what I’ve been paid to do.”