Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) (17 page)

Chantelle caught up with me a few minutes later. She plopped down on the bench and draped her arm around my shoulder.

“If it’s any consolation, Callie, I doubt she recognized you. She probably just wanted to make a point. Uninvited visitors need not come by.”

It would have been some consolation if I believed it, but I didn’t. There had been recognition in her look. Recognition and something else. Anger? Annoyance? Fear? I couldn’t be sure, but knew I had to find out. I summoned up a smile and nodded. “You could be right. Look, I’m going to go in, talk to the convenience store owner. See if his memory has improved any. I’d like to do it alone, if that’s okay.”

“I’ll be here if you need me,” she said, and gently removed her arm from my shoulder.

There were a couple of cyclists in the store, replenishing their supply of sports drinks and energy bars. The cleats of their shoes clicked across the linoleum-tiled floor as they made their selections. I waited until they’d paid for their purchases and left.

Ben slid the photograph over the counter in my general direction. “I do remember them,” he said. “It was a very long time ago. I can’t imagine what good the memory will do anyone, least of all you.”

“It’s been thirty-five years,” I said. “As for whether it will do any good, why not let me be the judge.”

He appeared to give that some thought then nodded.

“Thirty-five years would be about right, though it doesn’t seem that long ago. I would have been in my early twenties, a few years older than these two. The guy in the photo used to come here every night, not that he ever bought anything outside of the occasional pack of gum. Wasn’t much more than a kid. He’d just wait outside on the bench until the girl came along. They’d hug and kiss then the two of them would get in his car and drive off. It was an old beater, lots of rust on the rocker panels. From the way she dressed and carried herself, I got the impression she came from Moore Gate Manor. Those folks walk different than the rest of us. I always figured they arranged to meet here on the sly.”

“You’ve got a good memory, Ben.”

“Not really. It’s unlikely I would have remembered either one of them, except one night a middle-aged man drove up in a white Mercedes. The girl hadn’t arrived yet. The man went ballistic, started shouting at the guy, shaking him by the collar, screaming obscenities. He told the kid to stay away from his daughter, that he was going to make sure he took care of things once and for all. The kid mouthed back, said they were in love and no one could stand in their way. That snapped any sense of restraint the man might have had. He put his hands around the guy’s throat and started choking him.”

Ben shook his head at the memory. “That’s when I called the cops. First time I’d ever done that, though certainly not the last. I honestly thought the man in the Mercedes was going to kill that kid. I still think he would have, given half a chance.”

“What happened when the police arrived?”

“They seemed to know the man. They certainly treated him with deference. My guess is he was a Moore Gate Manorite who donated plenty to the police fund coffers. At any rate, after a while they managed to calm him down.”

“What about the kid?”

“One of the cops took him off to one side. The cop must have convinced him it was in his best interest not to press charges, because after a few minutes, the kid got in his beater of a car and drove off. I never saw the man in the Mercedes again. Or the kid and the girl. Based on this photograph, they got married.”

“They did. They had me about five months later.”

“What about the grandparents? The man with the Mercedes?”

“Never had the pleasure of meeting them.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s sad, the things snobbery and stubbornness can cost a person.”

I didn’t say anything to that. What was there to say?

“Where are they now? Your parents?”

“My father’s dead.”

“And your mother?”

“The jury’s still out.”

Chantelle and I didn’t talk on the way back to Marketville. I wasn’t ready, and she seemed to understand that. Once again, I appreciated her sense of decorum. She pulled into her driveway and I hopped out of the truck.

“Thanks for coming along with me. Sorry I wasn’t better company on the ride back.”

“Any time.” She paused for a moment, as if debating something, then forged ahead. “I probably won’t see you until you get back from the Ashfords’ cottage. Do me a favor, okay. Be careful of Royce.”

“What? Where’s that coming from?”

Chantelle blushed. “It’s just that Lance always said…no, forget it. You just have fun up there.”

“Lance always said what?”

She sighed and then spit it out. “He always said Royce was a player, but maybe that was just to keep me disinterested. There was a time when both of them showed an interest in me. I picked Lance, but he was always a little bit jealous of Royce and his family’s money.”

So Royce was a player with family money. I couldn’t reconcile the image with the man who’d help me lug out bundles of carpet, or the man I’d had to my house for dinner, though I suppose anything was possible. It was also possible that Chantelle actually had a thing for Royce, as I’d first suspected.

My head was too full of other stuff to process it. “I’ll be on guard,” I said, and walked across the street.

A red light flashed on my landline, indicating a message. I was bone tired and wanted nothing more than a glass of white wine and a long soak in a hot lavender-scented bubble bath, but curiosity got the better of me. Maybe Dwayne Shuter had finally decided to return my call.

The message was from Shirley the librarian.

“Callie, it’s Shirley. I finally had a chance to go through the back issues of the
Toronto Sun
and
Toronto Star
for the month or so after your mother’s disappearance. I found a couple of articles that might be of interest. If you can, pop by tomorrow and I’ll show you.”

That was the end of the message. I was impatient to find out what she’d discovered, but there wasn’t much I could do about it and another day wouldn’t kill me. In the meantime, I was starving.

A tuna salad on rye hit the spot. I decided to prepare my email to Leith ahead of time to free up my morning. The sooner I could get to the library and meet with Shirley, the better.

To: Leith Hampton

From: Callie Barnstable

Subject: Friday Report Number 3

Went to the attic and found a trunk containing some clothes and jewelry—nothing of value—of my mother’s, including her wedding dress. There was also a photo album with a few wedding pictures. They were taken in a studio and there are no photos of guests. There are also pictures of me as a baby and young child. Nothing brought back any memories, or offered any clues.

I stopped and thought about what to tell Leith. I decided not to mention finding the marriage certificate. Of course, not mentioning it meant I also couldn’t mention finding out where my grandparent’s lived, or that I knew Dwayne Shuter had once been more than my dad’s site supervisor at work, or enough of a friend to be a witness at my parents’ wedding. I remembered the hesitation when I told him about Misty knowing my mother, that slight intake of breath on the phone when I mentioned Dwayne. I wasn’t sure how much I could really trust him. I certainly wasn’t ready to tell Leith I’d gone and scoped out the Osgoode house with Chantelle. I damn sure didn’t feel like getting into the story Ben had told us.

The decision made not to go into those details made, I continued.

I also went to the Regional Reference Library and sifted through the archives for the
Marketville Post
from the time of my mother’s disappearance. I made copies of any story that referenced my mother or father to review in more detail at home, but so far, it looks like there isn’t much to go on.

Another omission, insomuch as I’d gone far beyond just looking at the time of my mother’s disappearance, and I had Shirley scouring the
Sun
and
Star
. It was true, however, that I’d made copies. I was storing tidbits to share if I ran out of news, like squirrels hiding their nuts for winter.

I read over my report. Satisfied I’d met the codicil condition without causing any suspicion, I saved the email as a draft, ready to send the next morning.

Job done, I reviewed the printouts again, but couldn’t summon up the energy to do another online search, this time for G.G. Pietrangelo. Instead, I took another look through the photo album, hoping to remember something more.

I didn’t.

It was almost seven by the time I felt hungry enough to make myself a light dinner and was contemplating scrambled eggs and toast when the doorbell rang. I ran through the possibilities. Royce? Ella? Chantelle? Or maybe Misty Rivers had decided to pay me another visit. I sighed. As much as I needed to talk to her, after the day I had, I didn’t feel like having company.

I got up and looked through the peephole to see a refined woman in her early sixties standing on the stoop.

Mrs. Yvette Osgoode.

My grandmother.

I opened the door and took note of the black Cadillac parked in my driveway. A man with a cap sat in the driver’s seat. Her chauffeur I assumed.

“Yes?”

“Good evening, Calamity. My name is Yvette Osgoode, although I suspect you already know that. I’d like to come in. To talk.” She licked her lips, a quick flick with the tip of her tongue. “Corbin…my husband…your grandfather. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“What about him?” I pointed to the guy in the Caddy. That was sure to get Ella’s curiosity up.

She shook her head. “He won’t say anything, and he’s used to waiting for me.”

I’m sure he was. I stood away from the doorway and waved her into the living room. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, water, something stronger? I have red and white wine and some fairly decent double malt scotch. I’ve also got some chocolate chip cookies and some shortbread. Both store bought but quite good.” I realized I was babbling and shut up.

“I’d love a scotch rocks. Thank you.”

I went to the kitchen and put a few cookies—my dinner now—on a bone china plate and poured two fingers of scotch into a tumbler filled with ice. It was the best I could afford, but by no means the best you could buy. Hopefully it would pass muster. I poured myself a generous glass of chardonnay. I put everything on a tray, including some of my fancy napkins saved for guests, took it into the living room, and set it down on the coffee table.

Yvette was sitting ramrod straight in the chair. The photo album and folder with newspaper printouts lay where I had left them. If she had been curious about either, she’d had the good manners to refrain from snooping. I picked them up, put them on the end table next to the sofa, and took a seat.

“Please, help yourself,” I said, taking a shortbread and nibbling on it. “Forgive me, but I was just about to make a light supper.”

“I’m sorry, I should have called first. Perhaps I should come another time.”

“Not to worry. You’ve given me an excuse to have cookies for dinner.”

She smiled at that, and I recognized my smile in hers.

“I wouldn’t mind a cookie myself,” she said, and took one of the chocolate chip ones. We sat in semi-companionable silence and munched and sipped. Three cookies and half her scotch later, Yvette spoke again.

“I saw you this morning. Outside of my house on Moore Gate Manor. You were with your friend.”

There was no point in denying it. “I was.”

“Why now? After all these years?”

It seemed like an odd question, given that my grandparents were the ones who rejected my parents, and by extension me, but I opted for the truth. Or at least a version of it. “My father died recently and left me this house. I haven’t seen my mother since I was six. I’m an only child. I suppose I just felt the need to find out if I had any other family.”

The explanation seemed to satisfy her, because she nodded.

“How did you know it was me?” I asked.

That really seemed to amuse her. “I’d say there was rather a strong family resemblance between us, wouldn’t you? I have to admit that it was a bit of a shock to see myself, forty years younger. Of course, you have your father’s eyes, or at least his eye color. Otherwise, the resemblance is uncanny.” She licked her lips again. “I told Corbin that Abigail would never forgive us for turning her out when she told us about the pregnancy. I told him she’d never agree to adoption, and most certainly not abortion. But he was…is a stubborn, prideful man, too concerned about appearances, about what the neighbors might think.”

She let out a harsh laugh. “As if a young girl in the family way is somehow worse than tax evasion, insider trading, or embezzlement. All crimes committed by some of our upstanding neighbors over the years. Not that everyone who lives in the neighborhood is a criminal. There are plenty of hardworking folks who earned their way into the Manor, and plenty more who inherited their way there. I’m sure that even those families have their fair share of skeletons. I tried to reason with Corbin, but he wouldn’t listen. Maybe because before your father came into Abigail’s life, she had always been daddy’s little girl. Suddenly, she’d fallen madly in love with one of his construction workers. Even worse, she was carrying that man’s child.”

I remembered what Ben, the Lakeside convenience store owner had said. “It’s sad, the things snobbery and stubbornness can cost a person.”

“I always believed Corbin would come around, given time,” Yvette continued. “Then one day, the police came to see us. I knew then that we’d lost Abigail forever.”

Yvette—I couldn’t quite bring myself to think of her as my grandmother—leaned back in her chair, as if exhausted from her epilogue. Her face was pale, and there was a faint bead of perspiration on her brow. She reached into her pink Birkin handbag and pulled out a small pot of lip balm. If I hadn’t been so freaked out by everything she’d told me, I might have laughed out loud.

“When did the police come to see you?”

“It was a few days after Abigail disappeared. Of course, we’d read about it. It was in all the papers.” Yvette took another sip of her scotch before continuing. “Corbin was sure she’d finally come to her senses and left your father. I didn’t know what to think. The police seemed to think she might find her way back to us. The officer in charge implied there may have been difficulties in the marriage.” Another sip of scotch. “I have no way of knowing if that was true.”

I knew I had to ask, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

“Did she? Come back to you?”

Yvette shook her head. “No. I wish she had. The police interviewed us on a couple of occasions. Actually grilled is more like it. Corbin…let’s just say Corbin had a temper when it came to your father and there was an incident once, at the convenience store on the lake. He tended to be overprotective. Abigail was our only child.”

Ben’s ‘man in the Mercedes.’ Corbin Osgoode might have skated on that particular altercation, but six years later, when his daughter had disappeared without a trace, the police must have dug up an old report.

“Can I ask you another question, Yvette?”

“Of course.”

“Why, after my mother’s disappearance, knowing you’d missed your chance to reconnect with her, why didn’t you try to connect with me? I was an innocent child, your flesh and blood.” I heard the catch in my voice and cursed myself for it.

Yvette’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“I did try, Calamity. It was harder back then to find someone, to get in touch. There was no Internet, no email, no texting. I hired a private investigator to find out what day you were born, and where you’d moved to after leaving Marketville. All without Corbin’s knowledge, of course. I sent letters by mail, birthday and Christmas cards, left messages on your father’s answering machine. I finally gave up when you were about thirteen. It was just easier to pretend I’d never had a granddaughter.”

All these years, I’d been led to believe that my grandparents didn’t want me, and now Yvette was saying it wasn’t true. At least from her side. My grandfather appeared to be another story.

“Are you telling me that my father didn’t return the calls, cards, or letters?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Calamity.” She gave a very sad smile and drained the rest of her scotch. “I can’t really blame him, especially since the letters and phone calls only came from me. Corbin and I both reacted rather badly to the news of your mother’s pregnancy. I think your mother might have forgiven us, with time, but your father was a very stubborn man.”

That much I knew to be true.

Yvette continued. “Perhaps if I’d managed to get Corbin on board things might have been different. I blame myself for not pushing harder. But we’ve found each other now. Perhaps we can start over. Maybe in time, Corbin will come around.”

I was bone tired and more than a little bit hungry, with a wine and cookie headache threatening to crack open my temples. I leaned forward and leveled her with my best black-rimmed hazel-eyed stare, the one my father used to bestow on me when he was good and angry.

“Perhaps it would be best if we didn’t meet again. I don’t want to put you in any difficulty with Corbin. After all, I’ve managed for thirty-six years without you. I’m sure I can manage another thirty-six.”

I don’t know what I expected. Maybe that Yvette would beg for a second chance, or at the very least ask me to reconsider, but instead she stood up, smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her immaculately pressed and pleated pants, thanked me for the scotch and cookies, and walked out the front door without so much as a backward glance.

I watched from the window as the Cadillac pulled out of the driveway. Then I sat back down, put my head in my hands, and cried, the kind of hard sobbing that leaves you splotchy-faced, mascara-streaked, and out of breath.

I was still crying when the doorbell rang. I looked out the window and saw that the Cadillac was back. Went to the door and opened it. Yvette stood there, her face pinched and pale.

“What now?” I asked.

“I’m going to have a long talk to Corbin,” Yvette said. “Force him to listen.” She gave me a weary smile. “He has to, doesn’t he? If he wants us both back.”

With that, she left.