“Rutger Ramsay? The name doesn’t ring a bell, but then again, I only started five years ago. Why? Does this have something to do with the skeleton and coffin in your attic?”
“No, nothing. In fact, I’ve since come across a letter from my father. Turns out he put the skeleton and coffin in the attic.” I paused. “He had an idea for a stage play, Agatha Christie style.” Not exactly true but a reasonable explanation.
Arbutus chuckled softly. “Good old Agatha Christie. If only the police could gather a bunch of suspects together and get the killer to confess. But let’s get back to Rutger Ramsay. Why are you looking for him?”
I sighed, knowing I’d brought this inquisition onto myself. “It’s a long story.”
“Maybe I should come over.”
“Honestly, there’s no need. I was only trying to find Detective Ramsay. It’s a personal matter. I should never have bothered you in the first place.”
There was a long silence. Finally, “Okay, Callie. I’m busy enough without looking for cases. Call me if you change your mind.”
“I will. Thank you.”
I hung up, feeling grateful and stupid at the same time. Next I called the Southern Ontario Construction Company. After navigating my way through the same series of annoying prompts, I finally got through to a live person on reception. A bored voice asked how they could assist me. I could almost imagine her filing her nails at the same time.
“My name is Callie Barnstable. I phoned earlier.”
“Yes, I was the one who returned your call.”
Was that a yawn I heard on the other end? “I’m wondering if I can get a direct number for Dwayne Shuter. I understand he’s a site supervisor for your company.”
“Sorry, we don’t give out that information. The company has a very rigid privacy policy. I can pass along your name and number. If Dwayne wants to call you back, that’s up to him. Can I tell him what it’s about?”
“I believe that my father, James David Barnstable, worked for Dwayne. Or at least that Dwayne knew my father. My father—”
“Of course. I should have recognized your last name. Jimmy was a great guy. He didn’t have much cause to come to the office, but whenever he did, he’d bring a box of Timbits with him.” The receptionist chuckled. “He used to say there were no calories in a donut hole.”
I smiled, remembering. He used to tell me the same thing.
“The thing is,” the receptionist continued, “we’re under strict orders not to talk to anyone about Jimmy, especially the press. I probably shouldn’t even be talking to you. I can’t afford to lose my job.”
“I’m not the press. I’m Jimmy’s daughter. Besides, all I’m asking is that you pass along my name and number to Dwayne Shuter.”
“I suppose that would be okay. He usually pops by the office on Friday mornings to verify payroll. I’ll tell him then.”
It was the best I could ask for.
My last call was to Leith Hampton. This time I was put through right away.
“Callie, what’s up?”
“Why didn’t you tell me that Misty Rivers knew my mother?”
A long pause, then, “I assure you there is a very good reason for not doing so. Unfortunately, I have to cite solicitor-client privilege. I’m sure you understand.”
“Not really. My father is dead. Surely the agreement is null and void.”
Leith remained silent. I could feel my blood pressure rise and forced myself to take a deep breath. “I can always speak to Misty and see what she has to say.”
“You’re certainly free to do that.”
Exasperating, but I could tell I was fighting a losing battle. “What about a man named Dwayne Shuter? He’s the site supervisor where my dad worked.”
“Dwayne Shuter?” I heard some flipping of paper and then, “Here it is. 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. Why are you looking for him? Surely he wouldn’t have any information about your mother’s disappearance.”
How could I tell Leith my reason for wanting to talk to Dwayne Shuter without telling him about the marriage certificate? Or the two suspicious accidents my father had described in his letter? I thought fast and came up with what I hoped was a plausible explanation.
“I just thought if Shuter was the site supervisor that he might have been friendly with father.”
Leith cleared his throat. “I appreciate how invested you’ve become in this whole business, Callie, but it’s time for me to tell you exactly what I told your father when he came to me with the idea of this cockamamie codicil.”
“And that is?”
“Sometimes people leave and don’t want to be found. They start a new life with someone else, someplace else. I know it’s not what you—or he—wanted to hear, but it’s entirely possible that’s what happened with your mother.”
“You’re saying she left of her own volition?”
“You’re missing the point.”
“Which is?”
“That finding out the truth after all these years might cause you more heartache than happiness.”
“What if finding out the truth is important to me? Regardless of how much it might hurt. What then?”
Leith let out one of his theatrical sighs. “I’m trying to tell you, Callie, that you’re going to be digging into a past that will, in all likelihood, only bring you heartache, regardless of the outcome. Don’t do that to yourself. In a year’s time, the condition will be lifted, you’ll get the full inheritance, and you can do what you want with the house.”
My B.S. meter sprang into action, a skill honed during my time in the fraud unit at the bank’s call center. What did Leith know that he wasn’t telling me? Who was he really trying to protect?
Chapter 31
I went back to my computer and pulled up my Maps app. According to the directions, 127 Moore Gate Manor, Lakeside, was fifty minutes northeast of my current location. I printed off the route.
I thought about ways to visit my mother’s parents—if they even still lived at 127 Moore Gate Manor. My attempts of finding a telephone listing for an Osgoode in Lakeside had come up blank, but that didn’t mean much. Folks with money almost always had unlisted phone numbers, and besides, lots of people had ditched their landlines for cell phones. I was still mulling things over when the doorbell chimed. I went to the door and looked out the peephole.
It was Chantelle, holding a gallon of paint in each hand. I opened the door.
“Chantelle, you didn’t have to buy my paint for me. C’mon in.”
She came in and set the paint down in the foyer. “It’s just primer. They had it on clearance at the hardware store, five dollars a can, so I figured I’d grab it for you. Some folks don’t use primer, but I’ve always found it makes a difference.”
“Thank you. What do I owe you?”
“A lasagna dinner? I ran into Royce. He told me how delicious your recipe is. I gather he was here the other night.”
What exactly did Royce say, and why? Was Chantelle being sincere, jealous, or merely curious? I didn’t know her well enough to make an accurate assessment.
“I’m always happy to make lasagna and making it for one means I’m eating it for a week, so it’s a deal. I’m away this weekend, but one night next week?” I knew I should have said I was going to be at Royce’s parents’ cottage. With Royce. But I didn’t. I wanted to see if she already knew.
If Chantelle knew, she didn’t say. Instead she agreed to one night next week and started to leave. I have no idea why, but I stopped her.
“Chantelle, maybe you could do me another favor?” I waved my hand in the direction of the living room, and the papers on top of the coffee table. “If you’ve got a minute.”
Her face lit up and my conscience took over. “Before we do that, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“What?”
“I’m going to the Ashfords’ cot
tage this weekend with Royce. To meet his parents.” I felt the heat rise in my face. “That came out wrong. It’s just his parents might have known my mother. Anyway, I didn’t want you to find out later on and think I was holding out on you.”
“Like you did with the lasagna dinner?” Chantelle grinned at my discomfort. “Lighten up, Callie. I’m just messing with you. Royce is a friend of Lance the loser. Even if we both wanted a relationship—which we do not—Royce is too much of good guy to cross that invisible line. I actually respect that. Of course, it doesn’t stop me from flirting.” She shrugged her shoulders as if to say no big deal.
“So what’s the favor?”
“You mentioned you were into genealogy.”
“Not just genealogy. I’m also trying to develop a related business as an information broker. They seemed to be interconnected.” She smiled. “Teaching yoga and spinning is great fun, and it was enough money when Lance was supporting me, but I need to find something more lucrative. Plus, I like the idea of helping people connect with their past.”
An information broker. The very thing Leith had recommended.
“Are you taking on clients?”
“Not officially, at least not until I can develop a website and get together with my accountant. All on my to-do list. I could use the practice, though, not to mention a client reference. Why? Are you looking for someone?”
Now was the time to trust her and accept her offer of friendship or shut her out completely. Maybe more time passed than I realized, or maybe, once again, Chantelle had some sort of sixth sense that let her read me. All I know was that she reached over and gave me a brief hug, the scent of her herbal shampoo calming as magic elixir.
“You can trust me,” she said, letting go. There was something in the way she said it, an undertone of pleading. I realized, for the first time, that for all her flirtation and seeming self-confidence, Chantelle was one very lonely lady. The offers to help me paint, to take me shopping, to get me a reduced gym membership, were all an effort to fill void left by Lance, a man who, based on her reaction in the Italian restaurant, she still very much loved and missed.
What can I say? I’m a sucker for a sob story.
“You’d better come on in, Chantelle. This might take a while.”
Chapter 32
I put out a tray with homemade hummus, peppers, and naan wedges on the coffee table and poured us each a glass of wine, red for Chantelle, white for me. After a sip for courage, I got started with my story.
“I don’t know either set of my grandparents, not from my mother’s or my father’s side. Never even met them. My folks got married when I was on the radar. Apparently that didn’t go over so well.” I pointed to the photo album. “There are some photos of the wedding in there. Take a look for yourself.”
Chantelle picked up the album and flipped through it, pausing occasionally to study a photo at greater length.
“I see what you mean,” she said, putting it back on the table. “No photos of anyone outside of your parents on their wedding day. It’s unusual to say the least, but it backs up the theory that your grandparents hadn’t approved. Otherwise, there would have been at least one obligatory group photo, don’t you think?”
“What else do you notice?”
“Even after you were born, there are no photos with anyone else in them. Unless you consider Santa Claus.” She looked up at me, her eyebrows raised in a question. “That, and the photos stop when you’re six.”
“That’s the year my mother left. February 14, 1986.”
“Valentine’s Day.”
I nodded. “The jury’s still out on where and why she went. The police suspected foul play. I’ve been doing some research. Reading old newspaper accounts at the Reference Library.” I grinned. “I’ve also been talking to Ella Cole.”
Chantelle laughed. “Ella’s probably better than any library. What about your dad? What did he believe?”
“He never talked about her when I was growing up. We moved to Toronto a few months after my mother’s disappearance, not that I remember moving. My father put this album and a few of her personal belongings in the attic, padlocked it, and rented out the house. I didn’t even know about this place until after he died.”
“Not even a hint that it existed?”
I shook my head. “Furthermore, I have no idea why he never sold it. Why he just kept renting it out. Unless—”
“Unless he thought she’d come back here, but didn’t want to get your hopes up. Telling you about the house might have raised too many other questions.” Chantelle bit her bottom lip. “Which means, your father believed she might still be alive.”
“I think he might have kept hoping, despite any evidence to support it, at least. I don’t think he believed she was still alive at the time of his death.”
“The letter you mentioned. The one in the safety deposit box.”
“That, and some other things.” I wasn’t ready to talk about the will or the letter in any detail, at least not yet. I considered showing her my folder of printouts from the library but decided that, too, could wait. Baby steps.
Thankfully, Chantelle didn’t push it.
“So what about your grandparents? The ones on your father’s side?”
“All I know is that their names are Peter and Sandra Barnstable, that they used to live in Toronto, and that they moved decades ago, address unknown. To be honest, I haven’t done much to find them yet. I’ve been so busy with everything else.”
“Let me see what I can find out. What about your mother’s parents?”
“There, at least, I have an old address. At least I think it’s their address.” I took the marriage certificate out of the envelope and handed to Chantelle.
Her eyes scanned the document. “Your mother came from Lakeside. Should be easy enough to find them.” She grabbed my laptop, and before I could blink, her fingertips were flying across the keyboard. I dipped a red pepper slice into the hummus and nibbled on it, toyed with the stem of my wineglass, and stayed silent. Less than five minutes later she glanced up, a triumphant grin on her face.
“They do. Still live there. Corbin and Yvette Osgoode. It looks like they’re a bit of a high society couple, which would explain the nosebleed address.” Chantelle turned the screen towards me to show a Toronto Star newspaper photo of a distinguished couple at some sort of charity gala, him in a tux, her in a long gold lamé gown with rhinestones around the bodice.
I felt a catch rise in my throat. I’d always thought I’d inherited a mix of features from my parents, the black-rimmed hazel eyes and unruly hair from my father, the slightly too-wide nose and heart-shaped face from my mother. But with the exception of the eye color—hers were a molten chocolate brown—the aristocratic woman in this picture could have been me, forty years in the future. I wondered if Yvette fought with her hair, now short, curly, and iron gray, the same way I did.
Physical resemblance aside, the fact remained that they probably wouldn’t welcome me with open arms, no matter how much time had passed. I told Chantelle so.
“Maybe they will, and maybe they won’t, but there’s no law against taking a stroll around the neighborhood. Lots of people do it. I suggest we park at the public beach on Winding Lake Drive and go from there.”
Chantelle was right. No one would find it unusual to see a couple of women walking. The area attracted runners and walkers and cyclists in equal measure. I had dated a guy one summer, a triathlete with a fantastic body but not much else to offer. We’d spent more than a few days at that beach while he practiced open water swimming and I admired his form. Unfortunately, I discovered the only thing he was faithful to was training.
“You’d go with me?”
“Sure, why not? I love an adventure.” She picked up the photo album again. “We should probably take along a couple of the wedding pictures. Just in case.”
“Just in case?”
“In case we meet someone who remembers them or end up talking to your grand
parents.”
It wasn’t much of a plan, but at least it was a plan.
“When do you want to go?”
“How’s tomorrow morning sound? Bright and early, say nine o’clock? I don’t teach classes at the gym until tomorrow afternoon. As long as I’m back by three I’m golden.”
I didn’t have anything specifically planned for Wednesday, with the exception of trying to reach Dwayne Shuter again and checking in with Shirley at the Reference Library. I nodded my agreement, finished my wine, and poured another glass.
Ready or not, it was time to face the past.
Chapter 33
Chantelle was in my driveway promptly at nine a.m. Wednesday. Dressed in what I hoped would pass for acceptable walking clothes—shorts, a ‘Run for the Cure’ t-shirt, and running shoes—I climbed into her pickup truck, a zippered hoodie in my hand in case it was cold by the lake. Depending on which way the wind was blowing, it could feel up to ten degrees cooler. I saw a flicker of movement in the curtains at Ella’s front window and suppressed the urge to wave. Let her believe she’d been furtive.
The drive to Lakeside was enjoyable. Chantelle took the back roads, “the scenic tour,” she called it, versus the faster commuter route which tended to be more heavily traveled, albeit at this time of the day in the direction headed towards the city, not away from it. We chatted about everything but the mission at hand. I appreciated Chantelle’s attempts at diversion.
Parking for Winding Lake Beach was tucked behind a white clapboard convenience store. There was a hand painted sign in the near empty lot directing us to pay the five-dollar daily charge inside Ben’s Convenience. I knew from my days with the two-timing triathlete that come July the fee would be twice as much for half the time.
We made our way to the front of the store, pausing to look out at Lake Miakoda. It was still early in the season and only a handful of diehard swimmers in wetsuits and brightly colored caps were out in the choppy water. A cool breeze drifted onto the shore. I shivered just watching them, knowing the water temperature in late May wouldn’t be much over 58 degrees.
Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) Page 15
