Skeletons in the Attic (A Marketville Mystery Book 1) by Judy Penz Sheluk Page A

cabinet drawer shut and stomped my way back to the attic, pushing back the tears that started to threaten. When I was finally ready to cry for my father, I didn’t want to be angry.

Chapter 11
     
    I pulled myself through the attic entry, determined not to give in to my aversion to confined spaces. Unless I could enlist Royce to help me, it was unlikely I’d be able to move the trunks to the main level of the house, and I didn’t think our friendship—if we could even define it as such—was at the point where I could show him I had a coffin in the attic. I was going to have to go through everything up here on my own.
    But not right this minute. Today my only purpose was to see if there was a message from my dad tucked inside the coffin, or something—anything—that might offer a clue as to what the hell he’d been thinking.
    Even though I knew that the coffin came from a theater supply company, and that Morton, as I’d come to think of the skeleton, was nothing more than a PVC replica, it still took me a few deep breaths before I could bring myself to open it. When I did, I was once again struck by how light the lid was.
    Morton stared back at me with his cavernous eye sockets. I gently lifted him into a seated position—now that I knew his name I felt an odd connection—then checked underneath the satin headrest. Sure enough there was a letter-sized white envelope.
    I opened it and took out four photographs, each one of a woman, man, and young girl. They were standing in front of a small maple tree, holding hands and smiling broadly for the camera. I recognized a mid-twenties version of my father, a decade or so younger than I was today. I felt my throat constrict at the image of him smiling back at me, so vibrant and full of life.
    I’d never seen a photograph of my mother until that day, but I knew without any doubt that she was the blue-eyed woman in the photos. I’d inherited her heart-shaped face, her slightly too-wide nose. I felt a touch of envy at her hair, glossy blonde and poker straight.
    It stood to reason that I was the girl in the photos. There was certainly no denying the mass of chestnut brown curls untamed by hairbands or hats, or the serious black-rimmed hazel eyes. I looked to be about five, which meant these would have been taken the year before my mother had left us. I closed my eyes, tried to conjure up a memory, something, anything.
    Nothing came to me.
    What was interesting about the photographs—beyond the fact they’d all been taken in the same spot—was that each one had been taken in a different season. In one, the maple tree was leafless and covered in snow. In another, it was in full bud, a call to spring. In the third, it was covered in shiny green leaves, summer at its finest. In the fourth and final picture, the leaves had turned a deep crimson. Our clothing also depicted the seasonality, from coats, boots, and scarves, to light jackets, jeans, and running shoes, to t-shirts, shorts, and sandals.
    I turned the photographs over, one by one, and noted the same backhand slant, in the same turquoise ink, that had been on the listing of tarot cards. Spring 1985 . Summer 1985 . Fall 1985 . Winter 1985 .
    I was right. The pictures had been taken the year before my mother left. February 14, 1986, the date forever etched in my mind. Years later, when a boyfriend dumped me on Valentine’s Day, my father lamented that I’d fallen victim to the Barnstable curse. What I’d fallen victim to, I’d told him, was another classic example of my loser radar, a combination of poor judgment and lack of insight. I didn’t tell him that I’d actually been expecting a ring, or that I’d spent hours picking out just the right Valentine’s Day card, an adorable image of two porcupines kissing, with the message, I love you so much it hurts . It had hurt all right, just not in the way I’d expected.
    I wondered who had taken the pictures, where they’d been taken, and why that particular spot