Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) (12 page)

I pulled one of the bistro chairs onto the front porch and was sitting there, munching on pizza and sipping wine, when Chantelle dropped by on her way home from work at the gym. I had been so wigged out by the letter that I never did get the paint, and had, in fact, forgotten all about it and told her so. I was somewhat embarrassed by the admission. After all, she’d volunteered to help me paint and I couldn’t even manage to get the supplies.

Chantelle waved off my apology and asked me if anything was wrong. I suppose my sitting outside drinking wine and eating pizza was a signal. Or maybe it was the stunned look on my sauce-smeared face.

“Nothing wrong. I just received a letter and the contents were a bit upsetting.” I found my manners. “Can I get you a glass of wine? I probably shouldn’t be outside drinking alone. Ella Cole will have a field day.”

“If she’s talking about you, she’s leaving the rest of us alone,” Chantelle said, laughing. “But, sure, I’d love a glass of wine and a slice of pizza if you’re offering. I just did three one-hour workouts and I could eat the arm off a bear. Are those hot peppers I see?”

I nodded. “Plus extra sauce. Messy, but good.”

Chantelle followed me inside and brought out the second bistro chair while I poured the wine and put a slice of pizza on a plate. Then we made our way back out to the porch.

“This front porch is the nicest thing about this house,” I said, not quite sure what else to say. “I should get a couple of wicker chairs or something, make it look more inviting.”

“That’s a good idea. But the rest of the house will be just as nice or nicer once you get at it.”

“I’m sorry, again, about not getting the paint. I’ll try to go tomorrow.” Even as I said it I knew I’d want to go to the Regional Reference Library. “Or maybe Saturday.”

“If you can wait until Sunday, I can go with you. It’s my day off. We can pick out paint. Maybe even get a couple of wicker chairs. I told you, I love to shop. I’ve also got a good eye for décor. What color is your bedspread?”

“I could actually use a new one. The one I have is as old as the hills. And I’d love to take you up on your offer of helping me shop. It’s not one of my strong suits.”

“Perfect. How’s eleven o’clock? We can do some shopping, maybe even grab an early dinner if you have the time.”

Not cooking Sunday dinner for one sounded good to me. “You’re on.” I wondered if Chantelle would ask me about the letter, but she didn’t. I found myself oddly disappointed. I really needed a confidante. Could I trust her?

“How long have you lived on Snapdragon?”

If the question seemed out of the blue, Chantelle didn’t seem to notice.

“It will be ten years come October. Lance and I bought the house when we got married.” She gave a rueful smile. “Happier times.”

“Are you from around here originally?”

“Hell, no. Neither is Lance. We’re both from Ottawa, but Lance got a job in Toronto, and we couldn’t afford anything there. Even Marketville was barely in our price range. At first I hated it here, but I’ve grown to like it. I still miss Ottawa, but this is home now.”

“Did you ever meet my dad?”

She shook her head. “I saw him come by a couple of times, but I never spoke to him. I think Royce knew him though. Why? What’s with the twenty questions?”

“I’m sorry. I’m being insufferable.”

“No, no you’re not. It’s just that I get the feeling I’m being interviewed for something.” She studied me through narrowed eyes and then nodded. “This is about the letter, isn’t it? You want to tell me about the letter, but you don’t know whether or not you should trust me.”

I didn’t realize I’d been so transparent. Or maybe Chantelle was just really perceptive.

“I want to tell someone about the letter,” I said. “I’m just not ready to do that yet.”

“When you’re ready to talk about it, I’ll be ready to listen.”

We sat in silence after that, sipping our wine and munching on pizza. I wanted to ask her about her genealogy work, but now didn’t seem like the time to do that. After fifteen minutes of companionable silence, Chantelle promised to return on Sunday and made her way across the street.

I heard a window close at the house next door.

Ella Cole had gotten an earful.

I woke up to the sound of footsteps clomping around overhead. It only took me a minute to remember that Royce had arranged for the roof to be done that day, but I’ll admit in that minute I was pretty much terrified. Once my heart stopped pounding, I got out of bed and got ready to face the day.

The first thing I did after breakfast and a quick chat with the roofers was to prepare my weekly report to Leith.

To: Leith Hampton

From: Callie Barnstable

Subject: Friday Report Number 2

Met two more neighbors, Ella Cole and Chantelle Marchand. Ella and her late husband, Eddie, were friends with my parents. Ella provided some history into my mother’s disappearance, specifically that my mother had walked me to school the morning of February 14, 1986, and was never seen again. Ella believes the police suspected my father of foul play, but could find no evidence. I believe Ella may have more information, and will attempt to befriend her. Chantelle does not appear to have any connection to the past. Found a safety deposit key, as you know, and went to the bank. The safety deposit box held a few coins and some U.S. cash.

I concluded my report by noting that I had tracked down the second tenant, Jessica Tamarand.

Jessica is now Randi, a tarot card reader at Sun, Moon & Stars, a new-age shop in Marketville. I met with her on Tuesday. She recalls my mother’s disappearance because her family had just moved into town, and it was big news. However, she was just a teenager and had no information to offer.

I was omitting some of the facts in my report to Leith, in this case the found tarot cards and the letter from my father, but I reasoned that both were private communications. I would share in due course, once I knew where all the pieces fit. Satisfied I’d given Leith enough to comply with the terms of the codicil, I hit Send and then logged off. It was time to go to the Regional Reference Library. I just hoped no one fell through the roof into the attic. I’d have a hard time explaining that coffin.

The library was in the next town south of Marketville. A sprawling, four-storey building, the library served the whole of Cedar County. It boasted the largest collection of books, magazines, digital editions, and archives in the region. I signed up for a library card at registration then made my way to the information desk on the main floor, trying to keep my heels from clicking on the tiled floors.

“Where might I find the newspaper archives?”

“From what year?” the information clerk asked.

“Nineteen eighty-six.”

“That would be on the third floor. You’ll have to ask Shirley to help you. She’s head of Archives. I’m pretty sure those records are still on microfiche.”

I had absolutely no idea what microfiche was, but I nodded anyway. I took the staircase, a winding affair with glass walls and wrought iron railings. Along the perimeter there were dozens of rows of magazines, shelves upon shelves of books, and a bunch of black metal filing cabinets. In the center of the room there were several long tables with chairs. Some of the tables held computers, many of the monitors large and out-of-date. Two of the tables held something
that looked like an overhead projector. There were a couple of people reading magazines, and another couple on computers, but no one seemed interested in the projectors.

The librarian in charge sat behind a counter near the back of the room. She was busy tapping away on her computer when I approached her. She looked up and slid a pair of black-framed reading glasses onto her forehead. I assumed this was Shirley, Head of Archives.

“May I help you?”

“The woman at the information desk on the main floor told me someone named Shirley could help me access the
Marketville Post
newspaper archives. From 1986.” I handed her my library card. She glanced at it briefly, scanned it into a computer, and handed it back.

“I’m Shirley,” she said, and pointed to a name plate on the desk. “Those records will be on microfiche.”

“I’m not sure what that is.”

She grinned. “No, I suppose you’d be too young to remember when microfiche was the next big thing. You probably barely remember the fax machine, let alone telex.”

The bank still used faxes on occasion. But telex? What the heck was a telex? I suppose the confused look on my face confirmed her guess.

“Never mind,” Shirley said with a smile. “It has nothing to do with your request. I’m just showing my age. Basically, microfiche is a way of storing many documents in a small space. The film is an index-sized card, which you insert into a microfiche reader—those machines that look like an overhead projector. The reader blows up the image and displays it on screen. Obsolete technology now, of course, but it was quite innovative at the time.”

“Is it difficult to use?” The machines looked like something out of the last century. Which, of course, they were.

“Not at all. We even have a printer if you want to print a copy, and there’s a charge of ten cents a page, plus one dollar for the file folder to keep them in. Now, let’s find the section you’re looking for and I’ll give you a quick lesson.”

The microfiche storage for the 1980s took up several drawers in a black metal filing cabinet.

“They’re all sorted by the date and name of the publication,” Shirley said, pointing at the index labels. “Do you know the name of the publication? Or the exact date?”

I had decided to start with the
Marketville Post
, February 13, 1986, the day before my mother ‘disappeared.’ It was a long shot that there would be anything in there, but since the
Post
was only published on Thursdays, it couldn’t hurt. Besides, maybe something in that paper had triggered whatever happened to my mother.

Shirley pulled the microfiche, duly indexed under name and date, and instructed me not to re-file the cards, noting that, “If they got out of order, it will be hopeless for the next person.” I promised, although it amused me to think that I couldn’t be trusted to file by name and date.

Once we had the rules sorted out, Shirley showed me how to use the reader. It was all pretty simple, though part of me empathized with whoever had taken on the tedious task of filming all the back issues. I’d been asked to scan and convert a series of articles on fraud into PDF format for the bank’s newsletter, and it had been mind-numbingly boring.

A quick read through didn’t offer any immediate clues, but it did provide a glimpse into a much smaller town than Marketville was today. There were want ads and obituaries, even some birthday greetings and wedding announcements, but mostly there were lots of photographs of local residents doing local things. Kids bundled in snowsuits tobogganing, their parents looking on with frozen smiles. Acne-ridden adolescents dancing at the Sadie Hawkins school dance, a couple of teachers acting as chaperones standing in the corner trying, somewhat unsuccessfully, not to look bored. A two-page spread on Marketville’s Rep hockey team, complete with a play-by-play report of recent games.

I studied each and every photo, reading the names. None of them rang any bells. It did make me realize, however, that my mother’s tree planting on Canada Day in 1984 would likely have been covered. Time to backtrack. I put the February 13, 1986 fiche into the box supplied by the librarian, and went back to the files. My choices were June 28 or July 5. I went with July 5, since the tree planting would have been on July 1st.

I wasn’t disappointed. There on the front page was a picture of my mother, her long, blonde hair tied back into a ponytail, a smear of dark earth on her smiling face. She was wearing gardening gloves, denim shorts, a red t-shirt sporting a white maple leaf inside a shovel, and hiking boots. The caption read:
Local resident Abigail Barnstable leads the Marketville Canada Day tree planting initiative at Marketville P.S
.

There was a brief story written by a G.G. Pietrangelo to go along with the photo, with a couple of quotes from my mother on the importance of volunteering and community. From what I could gather, there were similar tree planting ceremonies around the town, all organized by my mother. The article ended with
More photos on page 8.

I started up the printer. As promised, page eight had a collage of photographs, also credited to G.G. Pietrangelo. Unfortunately, none had captions. I made a note of the name, though I wasn’t sure what I would ask or tell him or her, even if I was able to track them down all these years later. Then I studied the photos more closely.

The images were grainy, the quality of the reproduction less than perfect, but I could still make out the faces. In a group photo of ten smiling volunteers, all wearing the same red maple leaf t-shirts, my father was standing in the front row, next to my mother. He looked relaxed and happy. They both did.

But there was one other face that stared out at me. A man’s face. A man with fair hair, serious brown eyes, and a chiseled chin tilted ever so slightly upwards.

It was the man from the locket.