Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) (22 page)

“I found the locket,” I said.

“What locket?”

I glared at him. “Don’t play games. I found the locket with your photograph inside it, a photograph signed by you, with love always, to Abby. I found it in the house, shortly after I moved in.”

Reid stared at me, his face a mask of bewilderment. Either he was one hell of an actor, or he truly had no idea what I was talking about.

“You can believe me or not, but I don’t know anything about a photograph inside a locket,” Reid said. “Why would I lie about that when I’ve admitted to everything else?”

“First of all, you haven’t admitted to everything else. I’ve been doing some research, and I found a photograph of you in a December 1985 issue of the
Marketville Post
. You were volunteering at the food bank with my mother.”

“Okay, so I volunteered at the food bank. Maggie was volunteering there and she told me they were desperate for help during the holidays. The only day I was there was the day of the photo shoot.” Reid frowned at the memory. “I wasn’t expecting undying gratitude, but your mother was positively rude to me, implied that I had an underlying motive. I couldn’t understand that. We’d parted amicably, had seen each other in passing several times after that. We’d always been pleasant to one another. Then out of the blue, when I come to help her out, she treated me like some sort of a stalker.”

“Maybe she didn’t appreciate receiving the tarot cards.”

That netted me another blank look.

“What tarot cards?”

“Are you trying to tell me that you didn’t give my mother a locket and you didn’t mail her the tarot cards?”

“I’m not trying to tell you. I am telling you. You said Abby received tarot cards. Clearly they represented some sort of threat to her and she believed I’d sent them.” Reid rubbed his chin and nodded. “That would explain her behavior towards me, but I swear I didn’t send them. You said you found the locket in the house. Where?”

“In an envelope. The locket was inside it, along with the tarot cards.”

“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that the house was rented out since 1986 and yet no one found the envelope before now?”

“It was well hidden.”

“Or maybe someone left it for you to find, knowing you’d be moving in.”

It was a possibility I hadn’t considered. I went to my purse and pulled out my cocoa butter lip balm. The ritual of dabbing it on gave me time to think about the options. Had Misty hidden them for me to find? As the last tenant, she had the most opportunity, outside of my dad, and I didn’t think he’d hide anything under the carpet. Not when he had a safety deposit box at the bank. Maybe Misty had hidden them for my dad to find, knowing he was planning on renovations. Either way, if someone other than my mother had left them, Misty was the star candidate.

“Why would someone do that?”

“I don’t know, but clearly someone believed they were important enough to hide. Will you show me what you found?”

I thought about it. Part of me was reluctant. On the other hand, if Reid were lying, maybe I’d notice something in the way he reacted. “I’ll be right back.”

I went to the kitchen, opened up the cupboard over the fridge, and pulled out a box of bran flakes, now devoid of cereal and acting as a filing cabinet for the envelope and its contents. Then I went back to the living room, grateful that my open concept floor plan wasn’t yet in place.

I pulled out the tarot cards first, tapping each one with my index finger as I placed them side-by-side on the coffee table. “Five tarot cards. The Empress, The Emperor, The Lovers, the Three of Swords…and Death.”

Reid picked up each card and studied it before placing it back down on the table. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about tarot.”

“I don’t pretend to understand it either, but I did visit a tarot card reader by the name of Randi. She believes whoever sent these used a five-card spread that represented the Past, Present, Future, the Reason, and Possible Results, and that whoever sent them to my mother took the images at face value. For example, The Empress, with her long, flowing blonde hair represented my mother in the present.”

“And the Emperor is in the past,” Reid said. “Abby’s father.”

“Exactly. Which means—”

“Whoever sent these cards knew that part of your mother’s history.”

“Yes.”

“What about The Lovers? You said that represented the future.”

“Randi didn’t seem to think it represented my parents.”

“Meaning the card might have represented me and Abby.”

“I think it’s possible.” I pointed to the Three of Swords, the image of a red heart with three steel blue swords driven through it, storm clouds overhead, rain in the background.
“According to Randi, this card represents sorrow, deep sadness, and heartache, but she was especially interested in the three swords. As if the unhappiness was shared.”

“And the Possible Results—”

I nodded. “Death.”

Reid didn’t say anything for a good few minutes. Finally, “Who do you think sent them to Abby?”

I shook my head. “I wish I knew. Until today, I assumed it was the same person who gave her the locket. I also assumed that the person was you.”

“Why me?”

I took the locket out of the envelope and passed it to him across the table.

Reid turned the locket over and over in his hands. “It’s lovely. It also looks old. And expensive.”

“My friend, Arabella, owns an antiques shop in Lount’s Landing. I sent her photos of the locket. She tells me the style is Art Deco, likely made in the 1920s. The opaque glass is something called camphor glass and based on the mark at the back, the silver is actually fourteen-karat white gold. The clear stone in the center is probably a diamond, but of course, she can’t verify that from photographs.”

“Based on the quality and the use of white gold, I think your friend is right. I still don’t understand why you think I gave Abby this. Wouldn’t it be more probable that the giver was your father?”

“I think you need to open it.”

Reid did just that, taking care not to damage the delicate opening. I could hear the breath catch in his throat when he saw the photograph of himself.

“There’s a note on the back of the photo.” I watched as Reid popped the picture out and turned it over.”

“To Abby, with love always, Reid. Jan. 14, 1986,” he read out loud. He looked at me, his dark eyes serious. “Who would do this? It’s like a bad joke.”

“Are you saying this isn’t your handwriting?”

Reid shook his head. “It’s a good imitation, overall, but my uppercase A is more rectangular. If you give me a pen and paper, I’ll show you what I mean.”

I got both and waited while he rewrote the same words, then compared the two examples side-by-side. The handwriting had strong similarities, but he was right, the uppercase A on the back of the photograph had slightly rounder edges. Even the lowercase letters had subtle differences. I don’t know if I’d spot either unless I was looking for it, however. I massaged my temples. There was something else about the handwriting, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Hopefully it would come to me.

“Did you send my mother letters?”

“Never. It would have been too risky.”

“So she wouldn’t know if this was your handwriting.”

“I can’t say for certain. I wrote up all of our notes when we were prepping for the Canada Day tree planting initiative. Would she spot the differences a year and a half later? It seems unlikely. Then again, I never heard from her about the locket. If Abby truly believed I sent it, why didn’t she get in touch?” Reid’s shoulders slumped and for the first time since I’d met him he looked every year of his fifty-some years. “I don’t know what to think.”

“The obvious answer is that someone was trying to frame you, mess with my mother’s head, or both.”

Reid put the photograph back, closed the locket, and handed it back to me. “I don’t know what to tell you, Callie. I know all signs point to me. All I can tell you is I didn’t give the cards or the locket to your mother.”

I wasn’t ready to let it go. “You admitted that you loved my mother.”

“I also told you I loved her enough to let her go.”

“Maybe I’m being naïve, but I actually believe you.” And I did. Unfortunately, the realization didn’t bring me any closer to the truth about my mother.

“Thank you, though I can’t help but wonder who was behind all of this.”

“I’m going to do everything in my power to find out.”

“Be careful, Callie. Whoever it was has kept the secret for thirty years. They aren’t going to give it up willingly.”

“I’ll be careful.” How many times had I promised that already?

Reid didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway. “Fair enough. I’ll call you if I think of anything that might help.”

“I think Maggie might remember more than she let on. She worked at the food bank every day for a month. I just don’t know how receptive she’ll be to my phoning her up and interrogating her.”

“I’ll try to talk to her. I’ll tell her it’s important that she gets in touch with you. She’ll listen to me.”

“I appreciate it.”

“It’s the least I can do. I should have done more—no, done something—when your mother disappeared, but I didn’t want Melanie to know about the affair and I was afraid it would come out. Now I find out she knew all along.” Reid shook his head. “All these years, we’ve been tiptoeing around a secret.”

I wasn’t about to tell Reid about his wife’s affair with Dwayne Shuter. Maybe Melanie would confess, or maybe not. Either way, it wasn’t any of my business. I looked outside, saw that it had started raining. “The weather’s turned. Do you want a ride back to the mall?”

“No, thanks. I’m only going next door. I need to talk to Royce. It’s time that he learns the truth after all these years.”

“Why now?”

“Because it should have been done a long time ago. Because as long as the past remains buried, none of us will have a chance in the present. Not me and Mel, and not you and Royce.”

“Royce and I are just neighbors.”

Reid smiled. “I saw the way my son looked at you. Those weren’t neighborly thoughts he was having. I got the impression the feeling was mutual.”

I felt myself blush. “Somehow I don’t think your wife would approve.”

“Leave Melanie to me. You just follow your heart. I’m going to encourage my son to do the same.”

I walked Reid to the door and watched as he made his way over to Royce’s house, the baseball cap shielding his face from the rain.

I got up at five a.m. Monday morning, tired of tossing and turning. What with Melanie, Reid, Royce, my grandparents, and Leith all battling for top position in my head, sleep had been elusive. If this kept up, I’d have to invest in some serious under-eye concealer.

I still hadn’t decided how best to approach Leith, although I was very glad I’d kept my weekly email communications to him at a minimum. I thought about contacting Misty Rivers. I just wasn’t up to it. When I finally sat down to talk to her, I needed as much knowledge as possible. The same would hold true for Leith.

But where to get that knowledge? I fired up my laptop and typed G.G. Pietrangelo into the search bar. A LinkedIn listing popped up for a Gloria Grace (G.G.) Pietrangelo, photographer. Her job at the
Marketville Post
was listed in the resume as ‘staff writer/photographer’ from 1983 to 2008. So she’d stayed with the
Pos
t for twenty-five years. Had the decision to leave been hers, theirs, or mutual?

There was a link to a website for Gloria Grace’s Nature Photography. I clicked on it and spent the next hour immersed in a world of stunning photographs, mostly birds, butterflies, fauna and flora, with the occasional insect, turtle, and snake. I wasn’t an expert, but even I could recognize when something was really good, and these were truly exceptional. A quarter of a century taking shots of smiling politicians and kids on toboggans, writing blurbs that most people never read, must have seemed like a life sentence. My guess was twenty-five years at the
Post
was about all Gloria Grace could tolerate.

In addition to taking breathtaking shots, Gloria Grace offered pre-planned group outings, all geared exclusively to wildlife and nature photography. The last one had taken place a month earlier at the Bruce Peninsula National Park in Tobermory. There was an online form to arrange for private or semi-private lessons.

A list of recommended cameras included a selection of point and shoot and digital SLRs in a wide range of prices. I printed off the list and got ready to go shopping.

It was time to buy myself a camera.

Chantelle was just getting in as I was going out. Dressed in yoga wear, and toting a pale green mat, it appeared she was coming back from teaching a class. I called out to her before taking the Ashford cottage weekend into consideration.

“I’m off to buy a camera. I noticed a huge camera shop in the Nature’s Way plaza. I thought I’d check it out. Want to come? I’m terrible at making decisions, and you
are
the self-proclaimed shopping expert.”

She grinned, opened the door to her truck, tossed the yoga mat inside, and crossed the road in less time than it took me to extend the invitation.

“I don’t know a darned thing about photography, besides taking really horrible pix with my phone, but I’m all in. My plans today included cleaning the house and paying bills.” She slid into the passenger seat of my Civic and closed the door. “There’s a great all-day breakfast place in that plaza. I love all-day breakfast, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“Perfect. We can go there afterwards. I’m dying to find out what happened with Royce and his parents.”

“I’m not sure what to tell you,” I said with a laugh, thinking about that old adage—more truth is told in jest.

The camera store had an overwhelming selection. Thankfully, I’d brought my list.

“I don’t want anything too pricey,” I said to the associate. “I’m not sure photography is something I really want to get into. I do have a list of recommendations.”

“What sort of photography are you planning?”

“Flowers. Birds. That sort of thing.”

Chantelle raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. I knew I’d be grilled at the all-day breakfast place. Another pun intended.

The associate looked over my list, nodded, then asked me to wait while he found a couple of camera candidates. He came back with three.

“Each of these is a point and shoot. They have the advantage of being compact and lightweight, at a much lower price point than an SLR. Of course the quality of the photos won’t be quite as good, but for a novice, any of these three cameras would suit your needs.” He smiled. “You can always upgrade.”

I made my decision based on the case color—black, price—midpoint and size of LCD display—largest, while Chantelle dickered with the associate on the price. After a bit of back and forth, he reluctantly knocked a few dollars off. I grinned. They’d both played the game well. Far better than I could have.

“Thank heavens that’s done,” Chantelle said as we took our seats at the breakfast place. “Totally boring, even with that little debate thrown in.” She leaned forward. “So tell me, just when did this interest in wildlife photography come on? Was it at the cottage?”

“Not exactly.”

“Hmmm. Okay, then what did happen at the cottage?”

“I’m not quite ready to talk about it yet.”

“I can wait. That brings us back to your sudden interest in nature photography. At least I’m assuming it’s a sudden interest.”

“It is,” I said, and updated Chantelle with an abbreviated version of the articles found in the
Marketville Post
while we ate our breakfast—to die-for French toast with powdered cinnamon sugar, sliced bananas, and real Ontario maple syrup—promising to show her the printouts back at the house.

“Let me get this straight,” Chantelle said, after I’d finished. “All of the articles and photographs in the
Post
—at least those ones relating to your mother’s disappearance—were by G.G. Pietrangelo, who has since retired and now goes by Gloria Grace Pietrangelo, and who now specializes in nature photography.”

“That’s right.”

“Your idea is to arrange for a private lesson, casually mention your mother, and hope she remembers something that will help you?”

“Put like that, it does sound ridiculous.”

“I’m just not sure how you’re planning to introduce the topic.”

“I suppose I hadn’t really thought that part through.” I pushed my plate aside, my appetite gone. “Plus it was thirty years ago. The chances of her remembering anything are remote.”

Chantelle considered this for a few moments then shook her head. “I don’t agree. This would have been at the beginning of her career. Long before she got tired and jaded. It would also have been a big news story in a very small town.”

“But that brings me back to your original point. How do I ask Gloria Grace about it?” I sighed. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe I should just send the contact form with the truth. Tell her I’m trying to find out the truth behind my mother’s disappearance.”

“You could do that, I suppose, although you run the risk of coming across like a bit of a nut. She might also remember and decide she doesn’t want to get involved.”

“What do you suggest?”

“You need to meet with her in person, use the element of surprise. Taking a lesson is a good way to do that.” Chantelle drummed her fingers on the table, a look of concentration on her face.

“I’ve got it,” she said after a couple of minutes. There was a glint in her eye that hadn’t been there before.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’m about to get back to nature with you. C’mon, let’s get out of here. It’s time to buy another camera. A pink one. Black is so pedestrian.”