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  SEARCHING FOR YESTERDAY

  A SHELBY BELGARDEN MYSTERY

  SEARCHING FOR YESTERDAY

  Valerie Sherrard

  Copyright: Valerie Sherrard, 2008

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  Editor: Barry Jowett

  Design: Jennifer Scott

  Printer: Marquis

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Sherrard, Valerie

  Searching for yesterday / Valerie Sherrard.

  “A Shelby Belgarden mystery”.

  ISBN 978-1-55002-788-4

  I. Title.

  PS8587.H3867S42 2008 jC813’.6 C2008-900696-8

  1 2 3 4 5 12 11 10 09 08

  We acknowledge the support of The Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

  J. Kirk Howard, President

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on recycled paper.

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  Dedicated with love to my daughter-in-law

  Maria Amatulli Vucenovic,

  who is beautiful in so many ways.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It’s funny how you can know someone pretty much your whole life, and then find out that you really don’t know that person at all. At least, you don’t know the things that really matter about them.

  In a town as small as Little River, where the same people tend to be in the same places year after year and you see the same faces day after day, it starts to feel as though your whole world is familiar in a boring, nothing-ever-happens way.

  Except it isn’t like that. Not really. It just seems that way.

  There are always things going on behind the scenes, behind the faces, things that you’d never guess. People have secrets — some good, some dark and horrible.

  Underneath the smooth surface of small-town life are both unseen kindnesses and hidden cruelties. Those human acts we never hear much about, and yet which occur on our streets and in our towns every day.

  Displays of goodness. A box of groceries left anonymously for an impoverished family. A donor card signed to offer someone hope even at a time of terrible grief. Medical care paid to save an injured stray. Donations made of money and time and caring, unknown and un-applauded apart from the recipients.

  But there is also evidence of malice. A child, mistreated and left to console himself. A cold heart turned away from a plea for help. A pregnant cat, dropped off on the roadside and left to face the birth of her kittens homeless and hungry. Heartless, hurtful acts of selfishness and spite. Outrages for which the culprits rarely face discovery or consequence.

  The frightening thing is that you often can’t tell them apart — the good Samaritans and the evildoers.

  There is so much we don’t know, so much that goes on behind what we see. Good fortune is celebrated and suffering is endured behind closed doors and closed faces.

  I found out a little about this shortly after Christmas this year. There was still more than a week left in the winter break and my best friend Betts and I were planning a skating party on the Green Pond. That’s the best spot around here for outdoor skating. We’d called a bunch of kids from school — mostly our friends in grade eleven, but there were a few from other grades too.

  Annie Berkley happened to be one of them. She’s a quiet girl who’s always struggling to lose weight. She has trouble fitting in with a group and tends to hang back when she’s someplace where there’s a crowd. Recently, she’d become even more reclusive than usual.

  I made the call to Annie, and her foster mother, Pearl Norton, answered the phone. When I asked for Annie, she hesitated, then I heard low voices, which sounded like a whispered argument. After a silent pause, Annie finally came to the phone.

  I could hear it in her throat when she said hello: that tight, strained sound of someone who’s trying to sound normal. So, of course, I was way too cheerful, trying to act like I didn’t notice anything.

  I told her about the party, no doubt going way overboard with the enthusiasm. It was as if I had the idea that, if I could just make it sound like it was going to be the most fun ever, she wouldn’t be able to resist the invitation.

  “Yeah, well, thanks for letting me know,” Annie said. If she had any enthusiasm for the idea, she managed to keep it well hidden.

  “So, you think you’ll come?”

  “I might.” Again, not even a hint of real interest.

  I could tell that she was just saying what she had to say to get off the phone, and that she had absolutely no intention of going to the party. But that’s not the kind of thing you can confront someone about, is it?

  “Great,” I said, feeling like an idiot for going along with the pretence. “So, I’ll probably see you there.”

  “Right.”

  “I really hope ...,” I started.

  “Listen, Shelby, I’ve gotta go,” she said, cutting me off before I could say another word.

  Then there was just a dial tone. I hung up the phone, feeling frustrated and, I might as well admit it, a bit insulted.

  “You’d think,” I said to Betts, “that she could make some kind of effort. After all, we did invite her. Most people just leave her alone.”

  “Most people know she wants to be left alone,” Betts pointed out.

  “But that’s not good for her,” I insisted. “She needs to get out, do things, spend time with kids her own age. I mean, she hardly bothers with anyone at school, and she’s the only teenager at her foster home.”

  “The Meyerton twins are there. They’re not that young, are they?”

  “They’re only eleven! You just think they’re older because they’re so tall.”

  “Whatever,” Betts said. She’d clearly tired of the conversation. “Anyway, maybe she will come.”

  But I knew she wouldn’t. And sure enough when everyone had gathered, when the hotdogs and marshmallows were being roasted and skates were flashing along the ice, Annie was nowhere to be found.

  I would have shrugged it off and figured if she wanted to be antisocial it wasn’t my problem, except for something I discovered through a quirk of fate.

  You see, as it happened, my boyfriend Greg had a cold. About an hour or so into the skating party he started coughing and coughing and couldn’t get stopped. This went on until he was red-faced and doubled over.

  “I’m going to get you something for that,” I told him. He tried to protest, but a new spasm hit him and I took that opportunity to haul off my skates, toss on my boots, and run up t
he bank to the road.

  I hurried along the street toward the convenience store on a corner about five minutes away from the pond. And when I reached the corner, I saw something down the street that stopped me in my tracks.

  It was Annie. Her back was to me as she trudged along, shoulders slumped and head down. I stood there with a horrible, sad feeling in my stomach as I watched her get farther away.

  You see, hanging from her left hand was a pair of white figure skates. And I realized that she had come to the skating party — or at least, she’d tried to. I pictured her getting close enough to see all of the kids skating around, laughing and having a good time, and I knew somehow that she’d wanted to join in, but something had held her back.

  It tore at my heart to think of her, overcome by shyness or insecurity, turning away and beginning the long walk home ... alone.

  On my way back to the party, cough drops for Greg in my pocket, I got thinking about how long I’d known Annie and yet how little I knew her. It seemed that, instead of getting closer to anyone as time went by, she was putting up more and more defences. And right then and there I made up my mind that I was going to do everything I possibly could to befriend this sad, lonely girl.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was the day after the skating party and I was standing on the front step of Annie’s foster home. There was no number on the house, but the mailbox said Lucas K. Norton in gold letters, so I knew it was the right place.

  I shivered and tugged my jacket closer to me as I waited for someone to answer my knock. I could hear movement inside: vague noises that finally gave way to the more distinct sound of approaching footsteps.

  “Yes?” A tall, thin man stood peering at me over eyeglasses that looked as if they might slide off the end of his nose any second.

  “Hi. I’m a friend of Annie’s. Is she home?”

  “Annie?” He sounded surprised, as though he wasn’t quite sure anyone by that name lived there.

  “Annie Berkley,” I said, as if he needed her full name to recognize whom I meant.

  “Yes, Annie.” He smiled. “I was just a little surprised. She doesn’t have a lot of friends over. But come in. Come in.”

  I stepped into the hall, making sure I stayed on the mat inside the door.

  “Is Annie expecting you?”

  “Not exactly.” Even as the words came out of my mouth, I wondered what that actually meant! “Is she, uh, busy?”

  “I don’t really know. She spends a lot of time in her room. Let me get my wife to check for you, uh ...?”

  “Shelby.”

  “Okay. Just excuse me for a moment then, Shelby.”

  I watched as he took a few brisk strides along the hallway, stuck his head through a doorway, and spoke in hushed tones to someone there. Then he stepped back and a woman emerged from the room. She came toward me, stopping just a few feet away at the bottom of a staircase, tilted her head upward, and hollered, “Aaa-nnie! There’s someone here to see you!”

  That accomplished, she turned to me with a warm smile. “She’ll be right down,” she said cheerfully. “You must be a classmate of Annie’s, are you?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Oh, never you mind that “ma’am’ business! Makes me feel old. You just call me Pearl.”

  “Okay,” I said, wondering if I should have added, “Pearl.” It didn’t quite seem called for. I smiled instead, feeling awkward and wishing Annie would hurry up and come downstairs.

  “So, Lucas tells me your name is Shelby.”

  “Yes, m... uh, yes, it is. Shelby Belgarden.”

  “You’re not Darlene Belgarden’s daughter, are you?” Pearl peered more closely, as if the answer was on my forehead. It strikes me as odd when someone says you’re not such-and-such a person. Makes it feel kind of strange to say yes you are, like you’re contradicting them or something.

  “Yes, I am,” I said.

  “Well, small world!” Pearl said. “I knew your mother in high school. Only, I was Pearl Somerville back then.”

  I smiled politely. Where was Annie?

  And then I saw her. She’d made her way to the top of the stairs and was looking down, but she made no move to actually descend the steps.

  “Hi, Annie!” I called. I gave a little wave.

  “Shelby.” Her shoulders sagged ever so slightly. Made me feel enormously welcome. “What do you want?”

  “I, uh ...”

  “Annie, honey, come on down here. You can’t expect your friend to shout back and forth, now, can you?”

  Annie obeyed, but she dragged her feet and looked so glum that I felt like telling her not to put herself out, I’d be happy to leave her to her misery.

  Luckily, with her foster parents standing there, I couldn’t do that, so I just waited, feeling foolish, almost wishing I hadn’t bothered to go there and wondering how soon I could politely make my escape.

  “It’s really nice to have met you, Shelby,” Pearl Norton said. “You come back again anytime.”

  Then she and her husband faded off down the hall and into another room as Annie reached the bottom step.

  “Uh, did you want something?” Annie said. There was no spark in her eyes and her face looked sad and empty. I was instantly reminded of why I’d come, and I resolved to do the best I could to be a friend to her.

  “I was just wondering if you were doing anything this afternoon.”

  “Not really.”

  “Great!” I said, forcing a smile onto my face. “Maybe we can hang out then, since you’re not busy.”

  “You mean, here?”

  I didn’t, of course. I wasn’t in the habit of showing up at someone’s door and inviting myself in. But Annie’s face told me that trying to persuade her to go somewhere else wasn’t likely to be an easy task.

  “Wherever you like,” I told her. “Here, or my place ...”

  “My room’s kind of messy,” she said, but I thought she looked just a little bit pleased.

  “Mine too,” I said. “It’s pretty well always messy, except when my mom gets on my case.”

  “Yeah, Pearl does that sometimes too.” A faint smile. “You can tell that she can’t take it anymore when she asks if you need a shovel to clean up.”

  “My mom’s not nearly that subtle,” I said, which got another smile from her. “She yells and uses words like barn and pigpen and goes on about how she can’t believe any young lady would let her room get into such a state. And on and on. I think it’s probably PMS.”

  “Well, come on upstairs then,” Annie said. “Judging from that, it sounds like my room is probably in better shape than yours.”

  “No doubt.” I followed her up the stairs feeling really good. After the initial resistance, it looked as though Annie had warmed to the idea of a friend visiting.

  As we made our way into her room (which, while a bit untidy, wasn’t nearly as messy as mine) I wondered if we’d find anything to talk about.

  Turns out that was the least of my worries.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The first ten or fifteen minutes were a bit awkward. It felt like Annie was responding to everything I said with as few words as possible, though I don’t think it was deliberate. It didn’t take long until I was feeling the strain of trying to keep a conversation going pretty much on my own.

  Things took a turn when I asked her how long she’d been living with the Norton family.

  “Almost three years,” she said. “It’s pretty much the best foster home I’ve been in.”

  “How long will you be here?”

  “Until they decide they don’t want me anymore.” She delivered this comment as though it had very little to do with her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I figure at some point it will end like every other place I’ve been. I’ll come home one day and my social worker will be sitting on the couch and my suitcases will be packed beside her on the floor. It will be obvious that it’s already been worked out. I used to wonder why no one
ever said anything to me until it got to that point. Judy — my worker, told me once that it was because people are worried if foster kids know they’re going to be leaving they might wreck things or steal stuff or whatever.

  “I don’t think that’s really it, though. I think it’s just easier to get rid of you like that than it would be to tell you you’re going and then have to face you every day.”

  “How do they explain it to you, when that happens?”

  “The foster parents I’ve had would say something like, “We’re sure you’ve noticed that things haven’t been going very well lately,’ or “We feel we’re just not able to give you what you need,’ and then they’d tell me I’m being moved.”

  “That’s horrible,” I said.

  “I’m used to it,” Annie said with a shrug. “I try not to get attached, no matter how nice the people are. But I really hate it when I go somewhere where there’s a cat or dog. It’s hard to leave them behind.

  “The Nortons have a cat,” she added. “Believe it or not, his name is Pepo the Magnificent. He’s big and orange and kind of goofy. The Nortons’ kid, Keenan, taught Pepo to flush the toilet, and now you have to keep the bathroom door shut or Pepo is in there, flushing away like a madman. I’ll really miss him when I get sent packing.”

  “Do you really think the Nortons will ask to have you moved?”

  “Probably. I don’t know. I’ve been here longer than anywhere else, and the twins have been here since they were six, so you never know. But I’m not counting on it. I could go any time. Or my mom could come for me.”

  She added the last part quickly, throwing it in like a detail that isn’t terribly important but that has to be mentioned anyway.

  “Where’s your mom now?” As soon as the question was out, I wished I could pull it back. Not that I wasn’t curious, but what if Annie’s mother was in jail, or a mental hospital or something?

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”