Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) (19 page)

“I’ve been wondering the same thing. More importantly, is this the woman you remember as Abby?”

“Almost certainly.” Melanie looked up. “I wish I could help you more, but I never really got to know her.”

I was no further ahead. I collected the photographs, placed them back in their envelope and summoned up a smile, trying to hide my disappointment. After all, the weather outside was glorious, and I still had a weekend away at Lake Rousseau. Getting to know Royce a little better was an added bonus.

Melanie, however, seemed to sense my disappointment. “Perhaps my husband or my sister will remember more about your mom. Marketville’s still a small town, but in 1986 it was positively incestuous.”

“In the meantime, Callie,” Royce said, speaking up for the first time, “we can go for a tour of the lake. The boat’s all ready to go. I’m sure mom won’t mind being left to her book.”

“Not only won’t I mind, I insist,” Melanie said.

I had to admit a tour of the lake sounded like fun. Especially with Royce. Despite my best intentions, I found myself falling for him with each passing minute. I just hoped my loser radar had gone on hiatus.

“Far be it for me to argue with my hosts,” I said, and followed Royce out to the dock.

It had been years since I’d visited the Muskokas, but it felt as though time had stood still. Royce was an accomplished boater, navigating around the numerous inlets and islands with ease as I took in the craggy granite bluffs dotted with pines, the cottages ranging from small cabins to magnificent summer homes, their docks sporting canoes, kayaks, jet skis, yachts, and boats of every size and color. Even the cell towers had been disguised to look like trees. I could imagine myself spending a summer here, and felt an unexpected twinge of envy for those who did.

We arrived back to the cottage about four p.m., giving us plenty of time to get ready for what Royce called Happy Hour.

“A long standing Ashford family tradition,” he said. “We all meet for drinks at five in the sunroom. Casual attire only. Shorts and t-shits or jeans and sweatshirts, depending on the temperature. Right about now, everyone will be napping or getting cleaned up.”

“Getting cleaned up sounds good to me,” I said, knowing my hair would have gotten that wild windblown look that sounds sexy on paper but in reality looks like a bird’s nest. “So does Happy Hour.”

I took extra care with my appearance, making sure my hair was tamed into a tidy French braid, adding a light touch of mascara to my lashes. I donned white capris, a multi-colored t-shirt in shades of pink, plum, and purple, and amethyst stud earrings. I’d just slipped on a pair of white sandals when Royce knocked on the door.

“You clean up nice,” he said, his eyes scanning me from top to bottom and back again.

I felt the color rise on my cheeks. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at me that way, let alone paid me a compliment.

“Thank you. I’ll admit I’m feeling a bit nervous about meeting your father and Aunt Maggie. I want to make a good impression.”

He put an arm around my waist and led me into the hallway towards the sunroom. “They’re both going to love you. Especially my father, though I have to warn you. He can be an outrageous flirt when it comes to beautiful women. My mother pretends to ignore it. Sometimes I think she finds it vaguely amusing, as if it’s a game the two of them play with each other. Sort of like cat and mouse, except with humans.”

“I’ll consider myself forewarned. I just hope one of them remembers something about my mother. As great as this day has been, that’s the main reason I’m here.”

“The main reason, Callie? I’m shattered.” Royce gave an exaggerated frown, then smiled warmly. “All joking aside, I’m sure they will. What was it my mom said? About Marketville being a small town?”

“She said back then, Marketville wasn’t just small, it was incestuous.”

“Then you’re in luck. When it comes to incestuous, Aunt Maggs is a bit of an expert.”

The sunroom was actually a screened-in porch that took up the entire west side of the cottage. Once again, the view was nothing short of magnificent, taking in forest, granite rock formations, and a large swathe of Lake Rousseau. The sunsets would be spectacular.

White wicker dominated the space, although once again Porsche’s handiwork was in evidence throughout in the colorful pillows and casual throws. I wondered how much of her
commercial success had to do with purchases by her parents and their friends. A lot, I expected, although there was no doubt she had talent.

Porsche and Melanie Ashford were curled up in matching wicker rockers, each with a martini in hand. Melanie gestured to a stainless steel bar, complete with built-in refrigerator. “Welcome to Happy Hour, Callie. My sister and husband should be here shortly. In the meantime, there’s a pitcher of vodka martinis already made. There’s also a decent selection of spirits, soft drinks, sparkling water, wine, and beer. Royce, pour the lady a drink.”

I settled on an Australian chardonnay, took a seat in a comfy looking settee, absurdly pleased when Royce sat next to me.

I had just taken my first sip of wine when a heavily bejeweled woman in her mid-fifties strolled in. She’d gained a few pounds, and her red hair was no longer entirely dependent on nature, but there was no question about it.

Aunt Maggs was Maggie Lonergan. The woman Ella Cole called Magpie.

The woman who accused my father of murdering my mother.

“Aunt Maggs, I’d like you to meet my friend and neighbor, Callie Barnstable,” Royce said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Callie, this is Maggie Lonergan, my mother’s sister. Also affectionately known as Aunt Maggs.”

“Royce, darling, you know how much I hate Maggs,” the woman said, but there was indulgence in her tone. To me she said, “Please, call me Maggie. It’s lovely to meet you, Callie. Any friend of Royce’s and all that.”

I made an effort to be polite. I was, after all, a guest, and I only had Ella Cole’s version of Maggie’s accusations.

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Maggie. Melanie says you might have known my mother. Abigail Barnstable.”

Maggie poured herself a martini, added six olives, one at a time, then slid into a lounge chair. She reminded me a bit of a lizard slithering into the sunlight.

“I knew her as Abby. We volunteered together at the food bank. Or should I say, I volunteered and your mother ran the place. Her rules and all that.” Maggie smiled, but I detected a trace of irritation, as if something still bothered her after all these years. I could almost feel her trying to shake it off. She took out one olive with a toothpick, picked the pimento into a napkin, popped the olive in her mouth, munched on it slowly, and then gave another cold smile. “I’m afraid that sounded rather unkind. Without your mother, Marketville wouldn’t even have a food bank, at least not at that time. She was relentless in her efforts to get it off the ground. It’s just that people with that kind of drive or vision, they sometimes forget that other people have feelings.”

Had my mother truly been like that? A person who didn’t care about other people’s feelings? Ella Cole hadn’t suggested as much, but she may have been trying to spare me. Then again, Maggie struck me as the kind of person who needed to be center stage. The way she came in to Happy Hour, fashionably late and dripping with jewelry, as if trying to make a grand entrance. Maybe my mother didn’t kowtow to her. I was debating on how to respond when Melanie chimed in.

“I’d forgotten you volunteered at the food bank,” Melanie said, chuckling at the memory.

“I have no idea what you find so amusing,” Maggie said with a disdainful sniff. “The food bank is a very worthy cause.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Maggie, it’s been thirty years. Why not admit you were a reluctant volunteer at best?” Melanie folded her arms in front of her and glared at her sister. I got the impression there was more than a little sibling rivalry between them.

Maggie rolled her eyes dramatically and fished another olive from her martini, repeating her earlier pimento-removing ritual. “I wouldn’t say I was reluctant, Mellie. True, I was there because I’d been assigned a hundred hours of community service, but I did get to pick the charitable organization.”

“Aunt Maggs. Community service. I had no idea.” Royce grinned. “Whatever did you do?”

“Yes, do tell, Auntie Maggs,” Porsche said, leaning forward.

“What did our father do, is more like it,” Melanie said. “Without his involvement in the auxiliary police department, and the Lonergan name, your Aunt Maggs could have wound up with a lot more than one hundred hours of community service.”

“Your mother is exaggerating, as is her custom. It was a minor shoplifting incident, a couple of baubles from the jewelry store.” Maggie waved a ring-laden hand. “What can I say, I’ve always liked shiny things.”

“You actually got arrested?” From the tone of his voice, the thought of it seemed to amuse Royce more than offend him. I gathered Aunt Maggs was the black sheep of the family and worked hard to maintain her reputation.

“Of course not. The store called the cops and they detained me, but your grandfather was able to convince everyone that the entire mishap was just an unfortunate misunderstanding. I returned the jewelry and agreed to do the community service. Willingly.”

“Did you do all one hundred hours at the food bank?” I asked, hoping to drive the conversation back to my mother.

Maggie nodded. “Roughly eight hours a week for three months. Unpacked boxes, sorted the donations, stocked shelves. Whatever Abby asked, the volunteers did.”

“Did you get to know her very well?”

This time Maggie shook her head. “Can’t say as I did. She tended to keep her private life private, at least when it came to me, although I got the impression she wasn’t particularly happy at home.” She pressed her lips together. “I’m sorry, that was insensitive.”

“Not if it’s what you believed. I’m looking for the truth, not some candy-coated version of the past. Did anyone else who worked there feel the same way you did?”

“I can’t speak for anyone else.”

I knew that Misty Rivers, Dwayne Shuter, and the man only known to me as Reid had also worked at the food bank, but I didn’t want to tip my hand. There were likely more volunteers who hadn’t been photographed. “At this point I’m just trying to find out who else might have worked there. Do you recall the names of any of the others?”

“Hmmm…I’d have to give it some thought. As Mellie was so quick to point out, it has been thirty years, and my memory’s not what it once was. But there is one person who definitely should remember your mother.” She shot a malicious grin in Melanie’s direction. “As I recall, he and Abby were quite friendly.”

“And who was that?”

“Why Melanie’s husband, also known as my brother-in-law, and Royce and Porsche’s father. He should be here any minute, fresh off a hard day on the golf course. Why not ask him yourself?”

As if on cue, the screen door opened and an athletic-looking man in his early fifties sauntered into the sunroom. He leaned over, kissed Melanie on the cheek, and murmured something in the ear. She blushed slightly and gave him a playful tap on the shoulder.

If I felt nervous before, it was nothing compared to what I was feeling now. The fair hair might have turned a silvery shade of gray, and the chiseled chin might have softened somewhat over time, but the brown eyes had stayed the same—dark, serious, intense.

The man from the locket.

Reid.

It occurred to me that the reason Reid had looked familiar all this time was because of Royce. It wasn’t so much that Royce was a younger version of Reid, as was the case with Porsche and Melanie, as a general similarity in the overall features. Standing in the same room, however, it was overwhelmingly obvious and I couldn’t imagine how I’d missed it. I made a concerted effort not to look shocked and must have succeeded because no one looked at me oddly.

In fact, no one looked at me, period. All eyes were on Reid. He had a commanding presence, the sort that comes with power and wealth. I could imagine him, thirty years younger, handsome, charismatic, more than a little bit arrogant, on his way to making his first million in the markets, yet somehow still finding time to volunteer an hour or so here and there.

I could equally imagine my stay-at-home mother, a leader and go-getter by all accounts, trying to find new meaning in her life by taking charge of volunteer initiatives while scraping by on my father’s income as an apprentice sheet metal worker. A decent living, to be sure, one with promise, but often seasonal, especially when the residential or commercial construction industry was in a slump. I know. I’d experienced enough of those times growing up. It had been feast or famine. Crazy overtime hours for eighty-hour work weeks during a project on deadline, then nothing—maybe a few hours here and there.

Reid poured himself a generous scotch on the rocks and made his way over to where I was sitting. “You must be Callie Barnstable. Royce has been telling me about you. It seems you’ve made quite an impression on my son.” He flashed an ultra-white smile and winked in Royce’s general direction.

Porsche grinned and hugged her knees to her chest as if waiting for a show. Melanie stared into her martini. For his part, Royce looked mildly embarrassed, not that I blamed him.

“Guilty as charged,” I said, attempting a smile. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Our pleasure. Melanie tells me you’re hoping to find out more about your mother.”

“That’s right. Abigail Barnstable.” I studied his face for any sign of discomfort. Nada.

“Abigail Barnstable, yes, although I knew her as Abby. I volunteered with her on a couple of initiatives. I first met her at a Canada Day tree planting sponsored by the town. When she wanted to start up a food bank, she called me and asked if I could help.”

“So you stayed in touch after the tree planting?”

“Not really. I suspect that she called everyone on her volunteer list. Maggie volunteered at the food bank as well, although as I recall her time there may not have been completely voluntary.” He took a sip of his scotch and winked at Maggie.

I forced another smile. “Maggie’s already shared her reason for volunteering. What about you? Surely a successful stockbroker wouldn’t be in the position of enforced community service. Were you friends with my mother?”

“Friends?” Reid narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to the side as if in deep concentration. Waited a few moments, then, “No, I wouldn’t say we were friends.”

More like lovers, I thought, thinking about the tarot cards and the locket. But I couldn’t call him on it, not here in his own cottage country sunroom with his wife, son, and sister-in-law present. Besides, he wasn’t likely to admit it. “So if you weren’t friends—”

“Let’s just say your mother could be very persuasive, and the food bank meant a lot to her.” Another ultra-white smile. “Abby was a very passionate woman.”

I wasn’t sure whether Reid meant the double entendre or not, but I couldn’t help but notice that the color had drained from Melanie’s face, while Maggie looked positively like a cat with the cream. Royce looked oblivious. I plunged ahead.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about her. My mother left when I was six, and my dad didn’t talk about her much as I was growing up.”

“I can understand that. There was a lot of gossip after your mother’s disappearance, much of it directed in his direction. It must have been extremely difficult for him. For both of you. Of course, I never knew your father. My association was strictly with Abby, and it was a very long time ago.” Reid cast a sideways glance at his wife. “That chapter of my life is long behind me.”

“I wish we could tell you more, Callie,” Melanie said, a faint flush staining her cheeks, “but the reality is none of us knew her very well. I’m sorry we can’t be more help.”

Did Melanie really believe that? Because I was convinced there had been an affair, and Reid’s innuendo and body language suggested his wife knew all about it. Maggie’s earlier offhand comment just confirmed my suspicions.

I thought about the locket. Surely if my mother had left that day to meet or be with Reid she would have worn the locket, not hidden it inside an envelope under the carpet. But if she’d left to meet with his wife, possibly worried about what might happen during the meeting. Until now, I’d suspected that Reid was the one who sent the tarot cards, but now I wondered if Melanie had been the orchestrator of that particular symphony.

I took a generous sip of my chardonnay and contemplated my next step. Reid claimed he didn’t know my father but the truth was both men had been at the Canada Day tree planting, and without a doubt my mother would have introduced him. That meant he’d lied. Showing Reid the tree planting photo would make me look sneaky. It would also put Reid on the defensive, something I didn’t want. But if I just showed the photograph from the food bank, maybe I could find out more about Dwayne Shuter and Misty Rivers.

“Earth calling Callie, come in Callie.” Royce’s voice, a soft buzz in my ear. I flashed him a sheepish grin. I knew I’d been alone in my thoughts but I hadn’t realized it had been so obvious.

“My apologies. It’s just that I was thinking about the printout I’d brought along with me. It’s in my room.”

“Printout? What sort of printout?” Royce and Melanie spoke in unison. Maggie’s eyes narrowed. Reid’s face was inscrutable.

“I’ve been doing some research at the Regional Reference Library. I found a photograph of my mother at the food bank during a holiday drive. It was in the
Marketville Post
. I didn’t realize it until now, but I’m sure both Maggie and Reid are in the picture. May I show it to you? There are a couple of other people in the photo. Maybe you can tell me who they are.”

“I’m not sure what good identifying people we knew thirty years ago will be of any help to you, Callie, but I’m sure we’d all be happy to take a look.” Melanie looked at Reid and Maggie. “Isn’t that right?”

“Goes without saying,” Maggie said, studiously picking the pimento out of another olive.

“Whatever we can do,” Reid said, but judging by the sudden twitch in his jaw, I wasn’t entirely sure I believed him.