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

imagine. Look, if you’d like, we could both pay my folks a visit, take the photographs with us. My dad travels a fair bit, but I’m pretty sure he’s around next weekend.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “I’m positive. My folks love company, especially my mom. Besides, you’d be getting anything they knew firsthand instead of filtered through me. Even if it isn’t much, or my memory is faulty, there are worse ways to spend time than a weekend at Lake Rousseau.”
    “I’d like that,” I said, although I wasn’t entirely sure. What if the Ashfords didn’t remember anything? Even worse, what if they told me things I didn’t want to know?
    “Let me set something up,” Royce said, leaning over to kiss me gently on the forehead, the soft scent of Irish Spring soap lingering. “Sweet dreams, Callie.”
    “Sweet dreams, Royce.” I closed the door and gently touched the spot where his lips had been.

Chapter 13
     
    I got up early Sunday morning after a night of tossing and turning, the odd bits of sleep I did have filled with disjointed dreams. I ate a light breakfast of oatmeal and tea, then got my running gear on and headed out, winding my way around the side streets and occasionally getting turned around. It would take some time to figure out the neighborhood. Eventually I found the public school Royce had mentioned.
    The distinctive brick made it easy to spot, as did the gigantic maple tree now in full bud. I stopped my GPS wristwatch and closed my eyes, trying to remember standing there.
    Nothing.
    I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but nothing wasn’t it. I plopped onto a wooden bench by a baseball diamond and surveyed my surroundings. Maybe if I sat here for a bit something would come to me.
    It didn’t. I felt an errant tear trickle down my cheek, quickly followed by a torrent of them.
    The tears took me by surprise. I’ve always been a bit of a loner, and after my St. Valentine’s Day massacre I’d made it a rule to eschew sentimentality. Yet here I was, sitting on a schoolyard bench, crying over a woman who had probably abandoned me and whom I could barely remember. I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt, restarted my watch, and ran back to Sixteen Snapdragon Circle, wondering if I’d ever think of it as home.
     
    I got back, made and drank a pineapple banana protein smoothie, put together a macaroni and cheese casserole for later—comfort food at its finest—and spent the remainder of the day removing the carpet in both bedrooms. It was tedious work that took a lot of muscle, moving furniture around to get at it, and taking the rolls out to the carport until next week’s garbage day, but it felt good to know the job was finally done.
    I wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or disappointed that there were no more hidden surprises. I checked my watch. Time to pop in the mac and cheese and toss a salad.
     
    As tired as I was physically, I couldn’t seem to relax after dinner. I tried reading, watching TV, and cruising around Facebook and Pinterest. I thought about the lease agreements Leith had emailed to me.
    I’d no sooner poured a glass of chardonnay, grabbed a notebook, and sat down at my desk to Google Jessica Tamarand, the tenant who’d broken her lease, when the doorbell chimed.
    I checked the peephole. The woman on the stoop was in her late sixties or early seventies, with soft wrinkles, over-permed gray hair in an afro-style popular three decades back, and gold-rimmed bifocals, the lines heavily etched into the glass. No progressive lenses for this one. Her thin lips were smeared with candy apple red lipstick and a shade of liner that didn’t quite match. I opened the door and caught a whiff of face powder and rosewater. Both had been used more than was absolutely necessary.
    “I’m sorry to be calling so late,” the woman said, though it was barely seven p.m. “It’s just that I just ran into Royce when I was coming back from my evening constitutional—I like to walk