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

school. It’s an unusual brick color.”
    I looked at the photo closely. The snippet of brown and gold mottled brick was barely visible, but it was there. “I’ll make a point of running by there tomorrow and scoping it out. Maybe it’ll bring back other memories. Thanks.”
    “There’s something else, Callie.”
    “What is it?”
    “I think I recognize your mother.”
    I stared at him. “How is that even possible? You didn’t live next door until ten years ago.”
    “True, but I grew up in Marketville. The reason I recognized the public school is that I went there as a kid, kindergarten to grade eight. Now my folks spend six months a year in Arizona, and six months at a cottage in Muskoka, but we used to live a few blocks from here.”
    “Were your parents friends with mine?”
    Royce shook his head. “I don’t think so. When I met your dad a few weeks ago, nothing about him seemed familiar and he didn’t mention knowing my family. I think he would have, don’t you?”
    “Probably,” I said, though in truth I wasn’t sure. He’d managed to keep more than that a secret from me. Then again, I couldn’t imagine why he wouldn’t have told Royce he knew his parents. “You said you recognized my mother. When did you meet her?”
    “My mom has always been into fundraising. She still is. When I was a kid, bake sales were popular, especially when it came to supporting school initiatives. The woman in the photos you showed me—your mother—dropped off a huge platter of peanut butter cookies to our house for one of those sales. I would have been about nine or ten at the time. This was before all the peanut allergies you hear about now.”
    “You can remember a woman you met once, back from when you were nine or ten? I’m impressed.”
    Royce grinned. “I remember because your mom brought me my own special homemade cookie. It was roughly three times the size of the other cookies, and she put a smiley face on it using chocolate chips. To a kid, merging peanut butter with chocolate to make a giant cookie was on par with getting a day off school without being sick.”
    “My mom used to make me a cookie like that for special occasions. I haven’t thought about that for years.” I frowned. “But why is it that I have no recollection of these photos being taken? Even after studying them, nothing rings a bell.”
    “Sometimes we suppress memories to protect ourselves. Perhaps when you’re ready to remember, you will.”
    “Why would I need to protect myself?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Do you remember the woman’s name?”
    “I’m sorry, I don’t.”
    “Would you mind calling your mom? I’d like to know if she remembers anything about my mother. Her name was Abigail, but I’m pretty sure that she also went by Abby.”
    “Consider it done.”
    I tried to make conversation after that, but suddenly my head was filled with a kaleidoscope of old memories. My mother baking a cake and letting me lick the bowl. The two of us building sandcastles at Musselman’s Lake. Me playing jumpsies in the driveway, my mother’s face lighting up as I called out M-I-SS-I-SS-I-PP-I, my feet and legs navigating the carefully connected elastic bands, without thought to the fact that Mississippi was an actual place, many miles to the south, in another country. It occurred to me that my father wasn’t in these particular memories, but I wasn’t ready to go there.
    Royce seemed to understand, passing on my halfhearted offer of coffee, although he did accept a small serving of tiramisu, probably because he’d made a bit of a big deal about it earlier. When he finally got up to leave, promising to return Monday morning with the renovation plans, we were both more than ready to be alone with our own company.
    “I’m sorry to be such a poor hostess,” I said. “Being in this house, the photographs, hearing that you might have met my mother. It’s starting to bring back memories long buried.”
    “I can only begin to