Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) (18 page)

I got up Friday morning feeling groggy and out of sorts after a virtually sleepless night. I don’t often drink coffee, but I needed the caffeine. I made a pot, extra strong, and felt almost human by the end of the second cup. I even managed to choke down a slice of toast with peanut butter.

I pulled up my report to Leith and briefly considered sharing the news of my grandmother’s visit with him. In the end I decided there was more than enough information to satisfy him for another week. I hit send and shut down my computer. It was time to head over to the library.

True to her word, Shirley had reviewed the microfiche records from both the
Toronto Sun
and
Toronto Star
from February 14 through to the end of March 1986. She handed me a file folder with a handful of printouts, patted me on the arm, and left me to review them on my own.

The first mention of my mother’s disappearance was on February 16 in the
Sun
, and February 17 in the
Star
. Both had clearly cribbed from the
Marketville Post
with nothing new to add. Thereafter there was the odd mention in both papers under a ‘Woman still missing’ type of headline, but you couldn’t help but get the impression it was considered a bit of a non-event, at least in a city the size of Toronto.

It wasn’t until the March 2nd issue of the
Sunday
Sun
that things got interesting.

The headline read:
Missing Women’s Parents Attend Political Fundraiser
. There was a photograph of Corbin and Yvette Osgoode, both smiling widely for the camera, he in black tie and tails, her in a heavily beaded midnight blue gown. Even without the headline, I would have been riveted to the picture. With the exception of the color of her eyes—a dark molten chocolate—looking at Yvette Osgoode was like looking at a photo of myself. Well, myself if I took the time to dress up in fancy clothes and have my hair professionally styled in an elaborate up-do.

It was only on closer inspection that you could see the tautness in Yvette’s chin, the way Corbin’s arm was wrapped around her waist, the knuckles white, as if his fingers were gripping a little too tightly.

The story went on to say that Abigail Barnstable, the only child of Corbin Osgoode, president of the Osgoode Construction Company, and his wife, Yvette, had been missing since Valentine’s Day. There were a few rehashed details culled from previous reports. Corbin asked that the public respect their privacy during ‘this difficult time.’

They had disowned her when she got pregnant with me, rebuffed any attempt at reconciliation, but were more than willing to go to a three-hundred dollar a plate political party fundraiser and have their photo taken by a reporter during their supposed ‘difficult time.’ I felt like flinging the printout across the room. I despise hypocrites.

Then again, maybe they’d regretted it, once she went missing. I thought about Yvette, how the police had suggested Abigail might come home to them. Maybe they had tired of answering questions from the police and nosey neighbors. Based upon this photo, there were definitely signs of visible tension in both of them. I turned the page over and went onto the final printout in the pile.

The article was in the March 14th issue of the
Toronto
Sun
, exactly one month after my mother’s disappearance. It took less than an eighth of a page, relegated to the back end of the paper. Filler on a slow news day. A photograph of a young woman holding a reward poster was aligned to the left of a brief recap of the circumstances surrounding my mother’s disappearance.

I wondered what Shirley had recognized first—the photograph of Misty Rivers, or the reward poster. Not that it mattered.

Because it wasn’t so much Misty and the poster that made me feel as though I’d just been punched in the gut.

It was the man standing next to her.

He was thirty years younger, and there was no trace of a paunch, but the eyes were every bit as electric blue as they were today.

My father’s lawyer.

Leith Hampton.

“I’m afraid I have to cite attorney-client privilege,” Leith had said when asked why he hadn’t told me Misty had known my mother. At the time, I’d assumed he was talking about betraying my father’s confidence. Now it appeared as though the client he was protecting was Misty Rivers. I wondered whether representing my father and Misty at the same time could be considered a conflict of interest.

It also made me wonder about his connection to Dwayne Shuter. I closed my eyes and remembered the way Leith had flipped through some pages. “Dwayne Shuter?” he had said, and then, “His name was on the official accident report as site supervisor, though according to Shuter’s statement he was off the premises at the time of the accident.”

Not, “No, I don’t know him,” or “Yes, I know him,” but, “His name was on the official accident report,” and later, “Why do you ask?” I was getting a very bad feeling about Leith Hampton.

“It’s the reward poster I was telling you about,” Shirley said, interrupting my thoughts. “I recognize the woman in the photo as well. She was definitely the one who came by the library and asked if we could post it. I can’t think of her name, though, and I’ve never met the man. I’d remember those eyes.”

“The woman was in a couple of the
Post
photos,” I said. “I’ve since identified her as Misty Rivers. She still lives in Marketville. She used to volunteer at the food bank with my mother. They must have been friends. I don’t think the man is from around here.” I felt badly about not telling Shirley the whole truth, but it was just too complicated. Fortunately, she seemed satisfied with my explanation. Or at least she didn’t push for more information. Either way, I was grateful.

I thanked Shirley for her hard work, promised to keep her posted on any progress, and headed home with printouts in hand, determined not to let my concerns over Leith ruin my upcoming weekend in the Muskokas. True, I was going to the Ashford cottage to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Ashford and hopefully find out more about my mother, but I was also in dire need of a bit of rest and relaxation. The opportunity to get to know Royce a little better was a bonus.

Royce and I left for his parents’ place on Lake Rousseau about ten o’clock Saturday morning with the idea of arriving about noon. We spent the drive discussing our favorite authors, and debating which was the stronger series, Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch or John Sandford’s Lucas Davenport
Prey
novels.

Despite the northbound cottage country traffic, we made good time on the 400 to the Highway 69 cutoff towards Muskoka. Thirty minutes and a few cutoffs later we came to a meandering chip-tarred road, which in turn led to a dirt-packed single laneway that would surely not be navigable during mud season or winter. If you happened to meet an oncoming car, there was—occasionally—a narrow shoulder that barely allowed the other vehicle to pass. Fortunately, it didn’t look like there was any traffic to worry about. The only life we’d seen so far was a flock of wild turkeys in no hurry to get out of our way. I was wondering if a GPS could even read a location when Royce seemed to read my mind.

“A GPS will only pick up as far at the paved road. Once you turn onto Ashford Road, you pretty much lose the signal. It’s good and bad. Good, because it’s mercifully private in an increasingly public world. Unless one of us invited you, you’re not about to find the place.” Royce chuckled. “That said, it’s bad if you want pizza delivery.”

We arrived at the cottage to find a fine-boned ponytailed woman, about my age, waiting in a slant-backed Muskoka chair outside a large log cabin. She got up to greet us, flicking a stray strawberry blonde hair away from her face. There was enough family resemblance for me to peg her as Royce’s sister.

“It’s about time you got your arse up here, Royce. Mom’s been driving me crazy since I got here last night. If I’d have known, I’d have waited to come until later today.”

“I told mom about noon,” Royce said.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She turned to me, her dark eyes twinkling, and stuck out a ringless left hand. “Allow me to introduce myself, since Royce seems to have forgotten his manners. Porsche Ashford, kid sister extraordinaire.”

I shook her hand somewhat awkwardly, as I was used to shaking with my right. “Pleased to meet you, Portia.”

“Not Portia, as in de Rossi. Porsche, as in the luxury automobile.”

Of course. Royce as in Rolls. The connection had never occurred to me before. Before I could say anything else, Porsche grabbed me by the arm and proceeded to steer me in the direction of the cottage.

“Royce can schlepp in whatever luggage you brought,” Porsche said. “C’mon and let me introduce you to our mom and Auntie Maggs.”

“Where’s Dad?” Royce asked. “I thought mom told me he wouldn’t be traveling this week.”

Porsche rolled her eyes. “He wasn’t supposed to be, but apparently he had some sort of last minute business trip. The usual story. He got back late last night. The first thing he did was arrange a golf game. Mom is none too pleased, let me tell you, but he promised to be back in time for cocktail hour. Now enough of your dilly-dallying. Go fetch the luggage. I’ll show Callie around and introduce her.”

I followed Porsche inside and barely suppressed a gasp. The interior of the cottage could best be described as rich rustic. The room was filled with leather chairs, sofas, and love seats in earth tones ranging from pumpkin and puce to brown and ochre, with coordinating throw pillows, woven from what appeared to be strips of fabric, tossed casually here and there. Solid oak coffee and side tables were scattered throughout the space. It shouldn’t have worked, it should have looked cluttered, but instead it looked cozy and cottagey and inviting. There was a faint smell of pine lingering in the air, emanating from artful arrangements of freshly cut evergreens mixed with daisies and sunflowers.

With the exception of a massive stone floor-to-ceiling wood-burning fireplace, the walls were covered with wildlife art. I’d studied art for two semesters in college and switched majors when I realized I would never be good enough to make a living at it, but I could still recognize an oil painting of a loon family by Robert Bateman, frequently reproduced, as well as an impressive collection of chipmunks, squirrels, and barnyard birds by Carl Brenders, all original oils from the looks of it. There were other paintings as well, by artists I couldn’t instantly identify, along with several hand-woven tapestries. The overall effect was striking.

But nothing could compete with the million-dollar view. A full bank of windows with double clear glass garden doors overlooked Lake Rousseau and the forests and rocky shores that surrounded it. Two women lay on recliners on an immense wooden dock that took up most of the frontage. I estimated it at about three hundred feet, possibly more. The taxes on this place were probably close to what I earned in a year. There were still a few original old cabins, but those were gradually being bought up and transformed into places like this one. Muskoka was money country with a capital ‘M,’ especially Lakes Rousseau, Joseph, and Muskoka. This is where professional athletes, celebrities, and CEOs went to get away from it all
.

“It’s spectacular,” I said.

“Daddy was a stockbroker. He did quite well in the market,” Porsche said. “Fortunately he got out of the business before the big crash.” She gave an impish grin. “Unfortunately neither Royce nor I inherited his financial acumen or his love for the cutthroat world of buying and selling on margin, much to daddy’s deep disappointment. Of course, at least Royce has his contracting business. I’m the starving artist in the family.”

“Dad has never considered my work dignified enough for an Ashford,” Royce said, coming into the room, a small suitcase in each hand. “Porsche is being modest. She wove all the pillows and tapestries in this room, and she has very successful shops in both Yorkville and Muskoka.”

Toronto was sometimes referred to as Hollywood North by the movie industry. Yorkville was the place they shopped when filming in Toronto. If Porsche could make the rent there with her tapestries, they sold very well indeed, and for a high price. I went over to one and admired the intricacy of her work. “You’re very talented,” I said, and meant it.

Porsche laughed. “You can stay.” To Royce she said, “Why not show Callie to her room so she can unpack. I’ll try to get mom and Auntie Maggs up from the dock”

The plan in place, Royce led me to a spacious bedroom with a double bed, pine dresser, and a four-piece ensuite bath. The white eyelet lace bedspread and curtains were brightened up by a colorful array of hand-woven pillows. More of Porsche’s handiwork, I assumed.

I put away the few things I’d brought to wear, freshened up, and sat on the bed, trying to calm the butterflies that had taken up residence in my stomach. Along with the Four Seasons photographs, I’d brought my folder with the printouts from the library. I wasn’t sure whether to show them or not. I was still assessing the pros and cons when there was a soft rap on the door. I opened it to find Royce on the other side.

“Ready?” he asked.

I nodded, trying to show a confidence I didn’t feel.

He took my hand and gently led me back into the living room. I left the folder behind.

An older version of Porsche was comfortably ensconced in one of the leather recliners. She had the same delicate features, the same almond-shaped brown eyes. Her strawberry blonde hair had been subtly colored and highlighted to hide any gray. This, then, would be Mrs. Ashford. There was no sign of the woman Porsche had referred to as Aunt Maggs.

“Callie,” Royce said, “I’d like you to meet my mother.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Ashford. Thank you for inviting me.”

“Melanie. Mrs. Ashford is my mother-in-law.” She waved a French-manicured hand. “It’s our pleasure. My sister, Maggie, went back to her own cottage across the bay for a little nap, but she’ll be joining us for dinner. Porsche went off to her shop in town. She’s got retail help, of course, but it’s always good to have the artist present. Folks like that. I also thought you might want to reminisce without them, at least initially.”

“That’s very considerate of you.”

“Nonsense.” Another wave of the hand. “Royce tells me you’re trying to learn more about your mother. I’ll tell you what I can, not that it’s much.”

“Actually, Melanie, it’s more than that. You see, my mother was last seen walking me to school on Valentine’s Day, 1986. I’m hoping to find out what happened to her. If she’s dead or alive.” I surprised myself by the open admission. I could tell by the quick arching of his eyebrows that I’d surprised Royce as well.

Melanie, however, didn’t appear the least bit surprised. She merely nodded. “It must have been difficult, growing up and not knowing why she left or what happened to her.”

“I suppose it should have been, but the reality is, it wasn’t. Not really. My father was a good parent. He made sure I was fed and clothed, and put me in the obligatory skating and swimming lessons. We never talked about my mother. After a while I just stopped thinking of her. I was six when she left. Almost seven. Old enough to remember at least some things. And yet…” I glance over at Royce. “Maybe I’ve suppressed the memories to protect myself. To protect myself from what, I have no idea.”

“So you don’t remember anything?”

I didn’t want to tell her that the memories were starting to come back, bit by bit, like disjointed movie scenes. At least not until I could put enough scenes together to create a story.

“Not really.”

“There were no pictures of her when you were growing up?”

I shook my head. “Not a one. I’m not sure if my dad didn’t want the reminder, or if he couldn’t bear the reminder. Regardless, the first time I saw a picture of my mother was when I found some in the house. I showed them to Royce when he was over for dinner. He thought he recognized her as the cookie lady who’d come to your house a couple of times. Hence my imposition on your hospitality.”

Melanie smiled. “It’s no imposition. Royce doesn’t visit nearly enough, and his friends are welcome anytime. As for remembering the ‘cookie lady,’ Royce always did have a sweet tooth.”

“What about Porsche?”

“It’s unlikely she would remember. Porsche would have been about three at the time. But, yes, the woman Royce thinks might have been your mom came by a couple of times to drop off baked goods for the school library fundraiser. We were trying to buy a full set of Nancy
Drew and Hardy Boys books. Those stuffed shirts on the board were only interested in purchasing textbooks and encyclopedias. They couldn’t understand that getting a child to read is the most important thing. Who cares if it’s a mystery story or the back of hockey cards?”

I smiled at her candor. Melanie Ashford might have money but she wasn’t a snob. “I brought the photographs. May I show you them to you?”

“I’d love to see them.”

I went back to the bedroom and pulled out the four seasons photos from my folder. I left the printouts behind. One thing at a time.

Melanie studied the photographs carefully, first one by one, then by laying them out in a row. “It’s interesting that she chose the same place for four pictures in four different seasons. Royce told me he thought they were taken at the elementary school. I’m sure he’s right, not that I would have made the connection. I wonder what motivated her to do that?”