Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) (3 page)

The inside of Sixteen Snapdragon Circle wasn’t much better than the outside. I went around the house, opening the windows to get rid of a musty smell that seemed to infuse every room. Then I went back to the entrance and took stock of my inheritance.

Avocado green and gold linoleum flooring in the hallway carried through to a small eat-in kitchen, the cupboards painted a gloss chocolate brown, the walls sunshine yellow. Harvest gold appliances. A laminate countertop, gold speckles on off-white, a pot ring burned into its scarred surface. A window over the sink overlooked the sagging carport. Welcome back, 1980.

An old memory came to mind. Me, as a little girl, four, maybe five years old, curly brown hair in a messy bob, standing on a footstool and staring out of that very same window. I was wearing a red and white striped apron with tiny heart-shaped pockets. I used to hide tiny pieces of beef liver in those pockets so I could flush the bits down the toilet after dinner. My parents had a strict “eat your dinner or there’s no dessert” policy, and no amount of gravy or fried onions made the liver tolerable to my taste buds.

I closed my eyes, hoping to remember more.

Popped them wide open when I heard a creak in the attic.

A shiver ran through me. I found the furnace control and turned up the heat. To the left of the hallway was a combination living room-dining room. I wondered if there was hardwood underneath the threadbare gold carpet that covered the floor. I kneeled down, lifted up a heat vent, and pulled back a corner to reveal a strip of pale blonde hardwood. Small mercies. That rug’s days were seriously numbered, and stripping carpet was something I could do myself. It would save a bit of renovation money for another project. From the looks of this place, fifty thousand dollars wasn’t going to go far. If I wanted to sell in a year and get a decent amount for the place, I’d have to put in a lot of elbow grease.

Another hallway led out of the kitchen and dining room and into a main bathroom in shades of 1970s pink, and two bedrooms painted builder’s beige. The smaller room was barely larger than a walk-in closet. The master bedroom was just large enough to fit a queen-sized bed if you were the kind of person who didn’t care about night tables. The eyesore of a rug continued throughout. I lifted up another heat vent and found evidence of more pale blonde hardwood.

Both bedrooms had decent-sized windows, with the master affording a view of the backyard. I noticed the sprawling lilac, not yet in bud. It was early May after an unseasonably harsh winter. It could be at least another month before it would be in full bloom.

I opened the master bedroom closet and made note of a small footstool and attic entry. According to Leith, my mother’s things would be stored there. I wasn’t looking forward to rummaging around an attic—thoughts of mice poop and spider webs sprang to mind, and I really hated closed-in spaces—but it would have to be done, and sooner rather than later. If I could solve this supposed “mystery” or prove there was no mystery to solve, I could go back to my life in downtown Toronto. It might not have been exciting, but it was cloaked in anonymity, something the recluse in me relished. Five years in my condo rental, I had yet to get to know any of my neighbors. One hour in Marketville and I already had the neighbor inviting me over for a drink or dinner.

I continued with my investigation of the house. A narrow stairway led to the basement. I’m not a huge fan of basements. They always feel vaguely creepy to me, and the low ceilings and dark wood paneling did nothing to warm me to this one. There was a separate room with an ancient washer and dryer not long for this world. It wasn’t a ringer washer, but it wasn’t far off. A second room housed the furnace, original to the house from the looks of it. It would probably need to be replaced before next winter. I mentally tallied up the renovation expenses I’d made note of so far and tried to shake off a feeling of gloom. It looked like I had inherited a money pit, and maybe a haunted one at that.

As if on cue, the furnace made a strange, belching noise before shuddering into submission.

“I hear you,” I said, and scampered up the stairs, taking them two steps at a time.

The movers weren’t expected to arrive for about an hour, which gave me time to hang up the clothes I’d brought, along with some basic kitchen essentials—kettle, tea, mug, and a package of chocolate chip cookies. I also managed to find a spot for three tubes of cocoa butter lip balm, one in a kitchen drawer, one in the bathroom, and another in the bedroom, temporarily on the window ledge until my bedside table was in place. The fourth tube I kept in my purse. Maybe it was a little neurotic, but there are worse addictions.

Thankfully, the movers were on time. It was a relief given all the horror stories I’d been reading in the papers about various moving companies scamming customers. Most of the scams seemed to involve movers who refused to unload a person’s belongings unless they agreed to demands for hundreds more in additional fees, such as negotiating stairs—I’d heard as much as fifty dollars per stair—and other miscellaneous charges. I’d been careful to get references, but you never knew if those were faked. Working in the bank’s call center in the fraud unit, I’d pretty much heard it all.

A couple of burly guys hopped off the truck, surprisingly graceful given their bulk. The taller of the two, Marty according to the name tag on his coveralls, came up to meet me. The other, a heavily tattooed guy, went to the back of the truck and began unloading.

“I shouldn’t take me ’n Tim more than a coupla hours,” Marty said. “You don’t have much stuff.”

That was true. My rental had been a 550 square foot one-bedroom with a miniscule balcony. I suppose I could have supplemented my new digs with things from my father’s townhouse, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. In the end, I’d donated what I could to the Salvation Army and ReStore and hired a company to take the rest to the dump. The only thing I’d kept
was his filing cabinet—jam packed with paperwork I’d have to go through and shred—and his toolbox, which was bound to come in handy. Until now, my screwdriver had been a bread knife and my tape measure had been my feet.

Marty and Tim worked in harmony, neither one showing the slightest sign of strain. After about ninety minutes, Marty handed me the release paperwork to sign and asked for cash or a credit card. I suppose given the state of the house, I didn’t look like a good bet for a personal check. I looked at the invoice and decided I’d been in the wrong business all these years. I was just about to hand over my Visa when I noticed that tattooed Tim looked a tad squeamish.

“Is everything alright?”

“Sure, of course,” Marty said. “It’s just that Tim here thought he heard noises in the attic. Bit of a little girl when it comes to mice, Tim is.”

“Weren’t no mice,” Tim said, the freckles on his pale face standing out like fireflies. “I’m sure I heard footsteps and then something like a lady crying. It was ever so soft, but—”

“Well, I didn’t hear anything, and I was standing right there beside you.” Marty sniggered. “You’d tell us if you were hiding someone in the attic, now wouldn’t you Ms. Barnstable?”

I folded my arms in front of me and tried my best to look annoyed, but the truth was Tim hearing things made me nervous. What was it Leith said? Something about one of the previous tenants getting out of her lease because of noises in the attic. And I had heard that creaking sound earlier. Not exactly footsteps and a lady crying, but still disconcerting.

“Do you mind taking a look inside the attic? I have to admit the idea of mice sort of freaks me out.”

“We’re on the clock,” Marty said, shaking his head. “Boss only pays for the hours we invoice.”

“Fine, I’ll pay you another fifty dollars each.”

Tim and Marty shrugged in unison.

“Very well. Seventy-five dollars each. Cash. Just do me a favor and take a peek.”

A furtive look passed between Tim and Marty, one that suggested I’d just been the victim of a scam, though I couldn’t be certain.

“I’ll look. Tim can stay down here and protect you.” Marty gave Tim a not-so-playful punch on the arm. “Show me where the entry to the attic is.”

I led them to the master bedroom and opened the closet door. “I noticed the laddered footstool earlier today.”

Marty pulled out the footstool, folded down the stairs, and reached up. “There’s a padlock on the entry way. Who padlocks an attic?” For the first time he sounded suspicious.

I didn’t much care for his tone. “My father, that’s who. He rented this place out for years. I guess he didn’t want folks snooping in areas that didn’t belong to them. Hang on a sec.”

I came back a minute later with the key ring Leith had given me. “Has to be one of these.”

Marty stared at the keys and the lock and somehow managed to select the correct key right off. He pushed open the wooden door, sticking his head and shoulders inside the opening.

“So far no evidence of rodents,” he said, his voice getting increasingly muffled as he clomped through the space. Tim, the gutless wimp, went outside under the guise of needing a smoke.

“What is it?” I asked as Marty climbed back into the bedroom. If the stunned expression on his face and the pale white pallor was any indication, he’d seen something that went way beyond spiders and mice.

“I think you might want to go see for yourself, Ms. Barnstable, and you might want to call the cops.”

“Call the police? Why? Has something been stolen?”

“Stolen? How would I know what’s supposed to be up there? There are a couple of dust-covered trunks. I’m guessing you’ll need a key to open them.” He handed back the brass ring. “It’s what’s not supposed to be up there that’s the problem. At least I don’t think it should be up there.”

“And that would be?”

“I’m no expert, but to me it looked like a coffin.”

“A coffin? Did you open it?”

“Hell, no. I got out of there the minute I saw the coffin.”

“If you didn’t open it, why do you think I need to call the police?”

“How many times do you find a coffin in the attic?”

How many times, indeed. I just hoped there was a reasonable explanation.

One that didn’t involve a dead body.

The attic was every bit as creepy as I expected, a windowless, claustrophobic space, the walls and ceiling filled with pink fiberglass insulation, the air smelling faintly of mothballs. Given the padlock, I had expected it to be stockpiled with valuables. It wasn’t. There was a large leather steamer trunk that looked like it might be vintage, a newer trunk, bright blue with brass trim, and what appeared to be a picture triple wrapped in bubble wrap.

There was also a coffin, full-sized from what I could gather. I took a deep breath, resisted the urge to bolt out the cubbyhole entry, and inched my way over.

Unlike the attic, there was no lock on the coffin. I almost wished there had been, if only to delay the inevitable. I took another deep breath, put on the yellow rubber kitchen gloves I’d brought with me—I’d watched enough episodes of
CSI
to know the importance of not leaving fingerprints—bent down, and gingerly lifted the lid. It was lighter than I expected, but that didn’t stop me from dropping it abruptly. The thump echoed in the room, scaring me more than I could have thought possible.

Because what I saw lying against the cream-colored satin wasn’t a dead, decaying body, but a skeleton. One that looked decidedly human.

I had been ready to uncover some skeletons in the closet. A skeleton in the attic was another matter entirely.

“Someone is playing a prank on you,” Constable Arbutus said after a thorough examination of the coffin and skeletal remains before her. “This skeleton is very high quality PVC, the sort that might be used to teach medical students about anatomy.”

I didn’t know whether to be relieved, terrified, or annoyed. I also didn’t have a clue who could have put it here. Or why.

“A prank? Are you sure?”

“Well, I can’t be sure it’s a prank, but I can be sure that this skeleton isn’t human.”

“What about the coffin?”

“
Nothing more than a stage prop. It’s very lightweight, probably made from papier-mâché, painted to look like wood.” Arbutus studied me for a moment, her gray eyes assessing my every movement. “It’s obvious you’re upset by this, and you have every right to be if you’re not the one who put it there. Do you have any idea who might be behind this?”

I shook my head. “I just moved into the house this morning. For all I know it could have been here for years.”

“Judging by the lack of dust on the coffin, versus everything else up here, it’s a fairly recent addition. You say you just moved in this morning. Didn’t you look in the attic when you were buying the house? What about the home inspector?”

“I didn’t actually buy this house. I inherited it from my father. It’s been rented out for years. What I don’t understand is how someone could have gotten into the attic. It was padlocked.”

“The lock is an older model,” Arbutus said. “It probably wouldn’t take a lot of skill to open it. There are tutorials online that give step-by-step instructions. The simplest explanation is that the person had a key.”

Which meant either my father had put the coffin up there or a key had been hidden in the house somewhere. Arbutus interrupted my thoughts.

“You mentioned that the property has been tenanted until now. When was the last time the locks were changed?”

“I don’t know if they’ve ever been changed. I can call the lawyer handling the estate. He might know.”

“I’d suggest you do that, if only to try to figure out who might have had access. Regardless, you should also change the locks, replace them with deadbolts.”

I nodded. Arbutus was right. I had no idea how many people had a key to Sixteen Snapdragon Circle. And deadbolts sounded like a good idea.

“Why did you go into the attic on your first day?” Arbutus asked.

I told her about the noises Tim the mover had supposedly heard and how Marty, the other mover, had agreed to check it out for me. I left out the part about thinking I was being scammed.

“You’re saying that this Tim heard footsteps and a woman crying?” Arbutus asked.

I nodded.

“Had you heard anything like that?”

I admitted I had not, although I had heard a creaking sound.

“Creaking I can understand. But footsteps and a woman crying, that’s something altogether different. You say Marty checked the attic after you paid the bill. Did he do that as a favor to you?”

“I agreed to pay them seventy-five dollars each. In cash.”

Arbutus chuckled. “Nice. They see a single woman moving into a house alone, then they find a way to check the attic to earn a few dollars under the table. I’m willing to bet that Marty got the shock of a lifetime when he saw the coffin.”

“He was the one who suggested calling the police. I thought if it was just an empty coffin, it might be strange, but nothing criminal. When I saw the skeleton, I decided he was right.”

“To be honest, it’s still not criminal. There’s no law against putting a coffin with a PVC skeleton in an attic, and we have no reason to suspect that anyone other than your father put it there. I’m afraid there really isn’t anything the police can do.” Arbutus watched me through narrowed eyes. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling me?”

There was, of course, starting with my mother’s disappearance in 1986, and my father’s more recent suspicions that she might have been murdered. Suspicions fueled by a psychic named Misty Rivers.

Something stopped me from telling Arbutus. Maybe it was because I still believed my mother had run off with the milkman, or some other male equivalent. Or maybe it was because I was afraid Arbutus would think I had staged the whole sordid attic scene, just to get the police involved and save me the trouble of doing the legwork myself.

“Nothing important,” I said.

I’m not sure if Arbutus believed me, but she nodded and handed me her card. “Call me directly if you learn of any deliberate attempts to frighten you, or if any other unusual happenings occur that concern you. Now how about we get out of this attic?”

She didn’t have to ask me twice.