Misty Rivers, I presumed.
I opened the door and gave her my best quizzical smile. “Can I help you?”
She smiled back and made a sweeping gesture with both hands, the fingernails a titch too long and painted an inky midnight blue, the tips of each garnished in gold glitter—a French manicure transformed to tacky. The scent of patchouli oil drifted in the air.
“Misty Rivers, at your service.”
“I’ve been expecting you.” I realized, as soon as I said the words, that it was true. I had been expecting her, had in fact wanted her to come. As the last tenant of Sixteen Snapdragon Circle, Misty was my number one suspect when it came to putting the skeleton and coffin in the attic. “Come on in.”
Misty swooped in, glanced at the disarray in the living room, and sashayed into the kitchen. “I see you have a tea kettle. I’d love a cup of tea. Milk, one sugar.” She plopped into one of the two chairs at a bistro table that used to furnish my balcony.
Pushy. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any milk. I don’t drink it, and I wasn’t expecting company.” I felt a perverse flush of pleasure, as if not having milk in the house was some sort of minor victory.
“Clear then,” Misty said, apparently determined to stay for a visit.
I grabbed my cocoa butter lip balm from the second drawer—a drawer I suddenly remembered my mother calling the “junk drawer” for obvious reasons. It had been filled with everything from scissors to string. I plugged in the kettle and put out a plate of chocolate chip cookies.
“I suppose you want to know why I’m here,” Misty said, reaching for a cookie.
“I can guess. Leith Hampton said you thought this house was haunted. Apparently you convinced my father of the possibility.”
“That’s one way of summing it up.”
I poured the boiling water into my old brown and white teapot and placed it, along with two earthenware mugs, on the table. “I have to tell you, Misty, I don’t believe in such things as ghosts and haunted houses. I believe there is a reasonable explanation for everything.” I stared straight at her. “Including anything unusual that might be in the attic.”
If Misty knew what I was referring to, she didn’t give any sign, not so much of an eye flicker. Instead, she nodded as if she knew what I was going to say all along.
“I could sense you were a non-believer the moment I set eyes on you. But rest assured, a few weeks of living in this house will alter that perspective. When it does, I’ll be here for you.”
“Leith also mentioned you were on retainer,” I said, determined not to be swayed or swindled. “He also mentioned the reward.”
“Naturally I’d want to be compensated for my time, the same as you or anyone else would be,” Misty said, her black eyes flashing. “However, my offer isn’t contingent on money. It’s about finding the truth about your mother and ensuring that no danger befalls you, as it did your father. I warned him to be careful, but of course he wouldn’t listen. Obstinate as a bull. A typical Taurus.”
As a Taurus myself, I didn’t appreciate the commentary, but I chose to ignore it. What I couldn’t ignore was the fact that she knew my father’s astrological sign. Just how close had they become before his death? Instead, I tried to imagine whether a faulty safety harness could have been anything besides an accident. But surely the official investigation would have revealed, if not hinted at, foul play, had it existed? I made a mental note to contact the site supervisor and see what I could find out.
“There’s no reason to believe my father’s death was anything but accidental.”
Misty fluttered her blue fingernails. “If it makes you rest easier believing that, Callie, then by all means, although I will say it’s narrow-minded thinking on your part. If you’re sincere about solving the mystery of your mother’s murder, then you must also accept that your father may have been coming into the truth. That knowledge may have killed him.”
I poured the tea, as much to settle my nerves as to play hostess. What the hell had I got myself into? If Misty was right, I could be in danger. Maybe I needed to invest in an alarm system in addition to new locks.
“It’s only prudent to consider all possibilities, Callie,” Misty said, interrupting my thoughts. “To take necessary precautions should the need arise. As I said before, I’m willing to help you, should you decide to accept my offer in the future.”
“I’ll bear that in mind. I do have a question for you now that you’re here.”
“Ask away.”
“Do you still have a key to the house?”
“A key? No, of course not. I returned the front and back door key when I moved out. Why?”
“I’m having the locks replaced today and it made me wonder who might still have a key. I gather it’s been some time since the locks were changed.”
“Really? I just assumed there were new locks when I moved in. It’s disturbing to think someone else could have had a key while I lived here. You’re wise to install new locks.”
“May I ask you something else?”
“Of course.”
“Have you ever been in the attic?”
“The attic?” Misty frowned, accentuating the already prominent lines in her forehead. “First you ask me if I have a key, which I do not, and now you want to know if I’ve been in the attic, which I have not. I’m beginning to feel as if you’re accusing me of something, and I have to say I don’t appreciate it.”
Misty’s indignation seemed genuine, though I suspected that her line of work required considerable acting skills. Still, putting Misty on her guard was probably not the best way to approach this.
“I didn’t mean to offend you. I just wondered if there were mice up there. One of the movers thought he heard noises. It was probably nothing.”
“Ah, that would be the ghost of your poor, dead mum, trying to get your attention.”
“Since I don’t believe in ghosts, I’m going to have to look for mice. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I really have to get back to work. That carpet won’t strip itself.”
“Of course. I apologize for dropping in before you got properly settled. It’s just that I had a premonition. I wondered if you’d found it yet.”
“Found what?”
“A brown envelope. I couldn’t make out if it was addressed to anyone.” A dark crimson flush spread up Misty’s neck and across her face. “I’m still trying to refine my psychic powers. Sometimes my visions are a little clouded.”
“An envelope?” I shook my head, forcing myself not to look at the cereal cupboard. “No, I haven’t found anything like an envelope.”
“Yes, well, as I said, I’m still trying to refine my powers. It could have been a symbolic message, although usually those come in the form of animals or birds.” Misty stood up, brushed some invisible crumbs off her pants. “I’ll leave you my card. Please call me if you find yourself needing any assistance, any assistance at all. And thank you for the tea and cookies.”
I took the card and nodded politely. Then I escorted her out the door and into her car. I watched as she pulled out of my driveway, off Snapdragon Circle, and onto Trillium Way. When I was certain she wasn’t coming back, I went back to the front door and peered through the peephole. The image was blurred and distorted, but there was no question about it: you could definitely see inside the house. Right into my brown and yellow kitchen.
So much for Misty Rivers’ psychic vision.
Chapter 8
The locksmith arrived a few minutes after Misty had left. I asked him about replacing the peephole with something less invasive. Thankfully, he installed those as well. He assured me that a modern peephole would allow me to look out, but not allow anyone to look in. He set about to work, telling me it would take a couple of hours.
As much as I wanted to find out what was inside the envelope, I didn’t want to look at the contents with anyone around. Instead, I fired up my laptop and spent the time catching up on my emails. As promised, Leith’s assistant had scanned and sent
the rental applications for Jessica Tamarand and Misty Rivers. I printed them off and was just about to review them when the locksmith came to tell me he’d finished. I paid the man, watched him leave, then sat down in the kitchen, staring at the cupboard. It was time to find out what was in that envelope.
I’m not sure what I was expecting but it wasn’t five tarot cards carefully wrapped inside a sheet of pale pink paper, the sort of paper you’d find inside one of those fancy boxes of stationary at the greeting card store.
What I knew about tarot could fit in a thimble, but even I knew five cards was far from a full deck. I unfolded the paper, took note of the softly swirling backhand slant, the turquoise blue ink. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but to my eyes it looked feminine, which made sense given the color of the paper and ink. The cards were listed in order as follows:
1) III: The Empress
2) IV: The Emperor
3) VI: The Lovers
4) The Three of Swords
5) XIII: Death
I laid the cards out on the coffee table and looked at them a while. I realized I had no idea what any of it meant, though the last card, Death, definitely freaked me out.
I could check for meanings online, but it was probably best to consult with an expert. I thought about Misty Rivers. As reluctant as I was to involve her in my life, she did have a five-thousand-dollar retainer and I might as well have her earn it. Whether she actually knew anything about tarot was another story.
There was one more thing inside the envelope, a small silk brocade pouch, the sort of thing you’d put jewelry in if you were traveling. I undid the snap and pulled out a rectangular locket with a silver chainlink necklace.
The front of the locket was some sort of opaque glass, delicately encased with filigree silver in a swirling floral pattern. A solitary clear stone was inset in the center. A diamond? Or a rhinestone? The back was solid silver.
There was something decidedly old-fashioned about the style, as if it had been made in another era. I would take some photos and email them to my old school friend, Arabella Carpenter, to see if she could tell me any more about it. Arabella had just opened the Glass Dolphin, an antiques shop in Lount’s Landing, a small town about thirty minutes north of Marketville.
I opened the locket using the tip of my fingernail to find a photograph of a man with fair hair, serious brown eyes, and a chiseled chin tilted ever so slightly upwards. Something about the man looked familiar, though I couldn’t place where I’d seen him before. Had he come to the house when I was a little girl? Or had my mother met him somewhere, with me in tow?
I removed the photograph out of the locket, careful not to bend or damage it, and turned it over to find a handwritten note, the writing small and cramped: “To Abby, with love always, Reid. Jan. 14, 1986.”
January 14, 1986. Exactly one month before my mother’s disappearance. Abby. Not Abigail. A lover’s nickname?
More importantly, who was Reid? And what, if anything, did he have to do with my mother?
Chapter 9
I took about a dozen photographs of the locket from all angles—the picture of Reid removed—and emailed them off to Arabella with a note saying I’d just found the silver necklace in the Marketville house. I’d talked to Arabella at my dad’s funeral, and called her when I was getting ready to move from Toronto to Marketville, so she knew some of the story, although certainly not all of it. She was a good enough friend to know I was holding something back, but she didn’t press.
The tarot cards were another story. At the moment, the natural contact was Misty Rivers, but calling her so soon after her impromptu visit was bound to raise her curiosity. I decided to wait until I’d explored the attic properly. As much as I hated the thought of it, there might be other things to show her.
I rubbed my temples and tried to ward off the migraine I knew was coming. What had started off as a bit of an adventure and a legal obligation—not to mention a year off work—was rapidly turning into a complicated commitment with some skeletal twists.
Tomorrow was garbage day. Manual labor might help me think. I’d face the attic tomorrow.
I managed to finish removing the carpet from the living room, dining room, and hallway, stopping only long enough to eat. No other hidden treasures or surprises, although I was pleased to find the floors were in decent shape. They’d need to be refinished, but it would be a lot less expensive than replacing them. I hoped the bedroom floors would be as promising.
For the moment, I was left with about a dozen rolls of carpet, two green garbage bags, and one very sore back. I suspected my arms and legs would stiffen up overnight, and late as it was, I really wanted to sleep in without worrying about an alarm clock for the sake of an early garbage day pickup. I dragged out the vacuum, managed to get most of the remaining fluffy bits, then began schlepping the rolls out to the curb. I was on the third one when Royce Ashford came outside.
“Someone’s been busy,” he called out from his front porch. “Do you have any more to put out?”
“Only about another ten.” I felt my back spasm and tried not to grimace. “All offers of assistance gratefully accepted.”
Royce was ready, willing, and more than able, carrying two rolls at a time without a trace of discomfort. I started imagining six-pack abs under his Toronto Blue Jays t-shirt and mentally smacked myself upside the head. It would not do to get romantically involved with the next-door neighbor. Especially with my track record when it came to men.
“That’s that then,” he said, carefully arranging the last rolls of carpet into a neat pile. He handed me a newspaper rolled inside a yellow plastic sleeve. “Your Marketville Post, delivered every Thursday whether you want it or not. Filled with a week’s worth of local news, which basically serves as wrapping paper for store flyers. Not too thick at this time of year, but you need a crane to lift it during the Back to School blitz and at Christmas time.”
“I actually love going through store flyers, and I have a ton of things I need to buy. In fact, I’d offer you a drink after all your hard work, but I’m afraid all I have to offer is tea or coffee, without milk. I also plan to hit the liquor store tomorrow.” I looked down at my now filthy clothes. “Plus I’m probably badly in need of a shower.”
Royce laughed. “Yeah, you kind of are, though I will say I admire your work ethic. I could use ten of you at my company.”
“If that’s a job offer, I’ll pass. I have the bedrooms to de-carpet and a host of other renovations I haven’t even started to consider. I need to make a list. At least I got the locks changed today.”
“It’s a good idea to have new locks installed when you move into a place. You never know who might have a key.”
“That’s true. Leith Hampton thought you might have one.”
“Really? Well, no, can’t say I do. As for that renovation list, I’m happy to help you prioritize. No obligation to use my company. Just some neighborly advice to steer you in the right direction.”
“Thank you, Royce. I’d love to take you up on your offer. How about coming over for dinner one night and we can talk it over? I make a mean lasagna and Caesar salad. And I pour an excellent glass of Australian Cabernet Sauvignon.”
“A home-cooked meal and a glass of wine in exchange for some renovation advice? How’s Saturday sound? Or am I being too eager?”
I laughed. “You sound like a guy who could use a home-cooked meal without doing the cooking. Saturday works for me. How does six o’clock sound?”
“It sounds perfect. Right now, though, I’d suggest a good, long soak in a hot bath, preferably one loaded with Epsom salts.” He stepped closer to me and for a brief moment I thought he might be leaning down to kiss me. Instead he pulled a strand of wooly carpet from my hair. “Good night, Callie. I’ll see you on Saturday.”
“Saturday,” I said, when I could finally find my voice. But he was already gone.
Chapter 10
I checked my emails first thing Friday morning and was pleased to f
ind a reply from Arabella Carpenter.
Subject: Locket
Hi, Callie. Thanks for sending me the pix of your lovely locket. I have seen similar lockets over the years and as such, in addition to the photos you’ve sent, my email appraisal is based upon those examples. Here goes:
Based on the quality of materials and workmanship, along with its Art Deco style, your locket was almost certainly made in the 1920s. The opaque glass is camphor glass—clear glass treated with hydrofluoric acid vapors to give it a frosted whitish appearance, made to imitate carved rock crystal quartz. From the mid-nineteenth century to the 1930s, camphor glass was used for many things, from lampshades to bottles. In jewelry, it was often cast with a star pattern on the reverse to give it a radiant appearance. This is indeed the case with this piece, as you can see from the inside left of the locket when opened. There is one further mark on the back, a 14 with a semi-circle around it, which indicates this is not silver, as you thought, but 14 Karat white gold. The stone in the center of the locket is almost certainly a diamond, although I’d have to see it in person to be sure. Why not pop by the shop one day and bring it along? It’s high time we caught up over lunch or dinner.
Best,
Arabella
A locket from the 1920s. Was it a family heirloom? Purchased secondhand from a jeweler? Found at an estate sale? Arabella’s reply raised as many questions as it answered. I sent her back an email thanking her for her quick response. I promised to set up a firm date as soon as I had a chance to go through the rest of my mother’s things in the attic. I finished up with, “There may be a few more things for you to look at! Dinner’s on me! Callie.”
Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) Page 4
