Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) by Judy Penz Sheluk Read Free Book Online

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