Past & Present

by Judy Penz Sheluk

  “I see you’ve covered all the bases,” I said, putting the flowers in the vase and placing them on the ledge of the pass-through. That way, they’d be visible from both the kitchen and office area. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Can I pour you a glass of Chardonnay?”

  “You can.”

  Royce did so, then poured himself a glass of red. I set the oven to pre-heat and led the way to the comfy chairs under the pass-through. I was already seated when I realized I’d left my computer on. Having an office in my living space did have its drawbacks.

  “I should turn that off. I’ve done enough work for today. I don’t want to be tempted to start googling stuff after you leave.” I blushed. “Not that I expect you to leave right after dinner or anything.”

  “I knew what you meant,” Royce said with a grin. “You’ve landed a case already? Impressive.”

  Since he’d asked, I had no alternative but to update him on Louisa Frankow’s request to learn more about her grandmother, but I kept it brief, and the names anonymous. Besides wanting to spend an evening without shoptalk, there was client confidentiality to consider. I also didn’t want to talk about my visit to Olivia. Such conversation might lead to talking about Royce’s family, a subject I planned to avoid for as long as possible. The oven buzzer went off just as I was telling him about the Facebook posts.

  “If we want to eat before midnight, I need to put the lasagna in the oven and get the salad made.”

  “I’ll help you slice and dice.”

  It was a tight fit, but we were able to work side by side in companionable silence. There are plenty of ways to fancy up a salad, but I veer toward simple ingredients. Romaine lettuce, red and yellow bell peppers, mushrooms, celery. Homemade garlic butter croutons, if I have crusty bread, want to add crunch, and am not worried about the calories. The garlic could have been a concern, but it was already in the lasagna, and besides, we were both eating it.

  “Croutons?” I asked. “I can use some of the bread you brought. It’s better if it’s a day old, but it can still work. There’ll still be bread left over for the balsamic oil and vinegar dip I’m making.”

  “Homemade croutons?”

  “Are there any other kind?”

  “I’ve never had homemade croutons. Can I help?”

  I took a large sauté pan from the cupboard, added butter, and placed the pan on the stove. “Mince two cloves of garlic while I get the bread ready. When the garlic is ready, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the garlic to the butter with a teaspoon of sea salt as soon as the butter has melted.”

  I cut the bread into one-inch cubes while Royce took care of the rest.

  “Once the butter, garlic, and salt are combined, add the cubes and coat them evenly on all sides,” I said. “I’ll get the parchment paper onto a baking pan. The croutons take about twenty minutes to bake, but I’ll put them in now so they cool off before we eat. I just have to remember to turn them over a couple of times.”

  “I’ll remind you.”

  “You’re a good man.”

  “I’m going to remind you of that,” Royce said, and leaned over to kiss me softly on the forehead, his hands gently cradling my chin.

  I wouldn’t have to turn off my computer after all. I had a feeling work was going to be the farthest thing from my mind as the evening progressed. I hoped the Barnstable family curse had died with my father.

  17

  We’d just finished dinner, and judging by the amount of food Royce was able to consume, he’d enjoyed every morsel.

  “Where did you learn to cook?” he asked, pushing his plate to the side.

  “My dad was actually a pretty good cook. He didn’t have an extensive menu, but he made a mean Hungarian goulash, his perogies were as good as any Ukrainian baba’s, and his crepes were to die for. I’ve never been able to master those. I can’t seem to get the batter thin enough. But the one thing he taught me was not to be afraid to try, whether it came to cooking, or baking, or life.”

  “You must miss him.”

  “I do, more than I thought possible. It’s funny, you know. When your parents are in your life, you don’t really think there’s a time that they won’t be there. Well, maybe you do when they’re really old, but my dad was in his mid-fifties, as fit and healthy as someone half his age.” I heard my voice crack. “I’m sorry. It’s just hard to believe he’s gone.”

  Royce took my hand and held it gently. “I know he died in an accident on the construction site, but I don’t know what happened. Did you want to talk about it?”

  Every instinct told me to say no, not yet. Dodge the issue for another day, another time. Instead, I found myself oversharing. “I don’t believe his death was an accident. According to the Workplace Safety and Insurance Board, and his employer, Southern Ontario Construction, a faulty safety harness was to blame. Either the harness was faulty or he didn’t secure it properly, as if he was an imbecile who couldn’t fasten a buckle. He fell from the thirtieth floor of a condo under construction and landed on the concrete sidewalk below. He died within moments, if not on impact.”

  “But if it wasn’t an accident, then what was it?”

  “I think he might have been murdered.” I left out my suspicions that my grandfather was behind it. I needed him to keep an open mind, and Royce was already staring at me with unabashed curiosity.

  “Murder? Why would someone want to murder your father?”

  Because my dad had left me a letter in a safety deposit box, and the safety harness wasn’t the only accident to happen to him at work. Because accepting it really was an unfortunate occupational accident meant I’d have to stop obsessing about his death and move on with that aspect of my life. Because I hated my grandfather and everything he stood for and as long as I could find a way to blame him, I could keep that hatred fueled.

  Royce had let go of my hand. I tried to read his expression and realized the talk of death and murder had ruined any chance for a romantic evening. The Barnstable family curse was alive and well. We just couldn’t help but bring it on ourselves.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve said too much. You probably think I’m crazy.”

  Royce shook his head, his brown eyes soft and serious. “I don’t think you’re crazy, but I do think you’re conflicted about your father’s accident. Tell me why.”

  It would be good to have an objective opinion. “There was a letter…”

  “Okay.”

  “Wait here.”

  I scrambled up the steps, pulled the folder labeled “Dad” from under the bed, took a deep breath, and trundled back down the stairs.

  “My dad left a letter in a safety deposit box,” I said, sliding the folder over to Royce. “Maybe I’m reading too much into it. The Workplace Safety and Insurance Board and the Ministry of Labor did a thorough investigation.”

  Royce removed the documents from the folder and began reading, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Can you make a photocopy of the letter and bring me a highlighter?”

  I didn’t ask why, just went to the printer and made the copy, found a yellow highlighter, handed him both, and watched as he began to highlight specific sections of the letter.

  “I’m isolating the paragraphs that are relevant to your concerns,” Royce said. “Then we can review each one with an unbiased eye.”

  I didn’t know how unbiased my eyes would be, but the idea had merit. “I’m game if you are, but I think it’s best if you start at the beginning.”

  Royce began reading. I felt my throat constrict hearing the now familiar words spoken out loud.

  Dear Calamity, Yes, I know you hate being called Calamity, but I figure if I’m dead, you’ll give me a pass. If you’re reading this, then I suppose I am. I’m also hoping that you’ll forgive me for the Marketville codicil in the will.

  He stopped and looked up at me. “Shall I go on?”

  I nodded, not trusting my voice.

  Of course, I knew there was a chance you’d just wait o
ut the year and let Misty Rivers take over the investigation, and maybe that’s what I should have insisted on, especially if I wanted to protect you from hurt or harm. The thing is, I’ve been trying to protect you from knowing the truth for so many years. I was wrong. You had a right to know, maybe not when you were six, but certainly when you were old enough to understand. Instead, I allowed the years to go by, never talking about your mother. That was as unfair to her memory as it was to you.

  Royce paused, his eyes scanning my face. I nodded again, closing my eyes as he read.

  Here’s what I know: Your mother loved you. She also loved me, although I admit we had our share of ups and downs. What marriage doesn’t? Especially with two people who were nothing more than children themselves when they brought you into the world. I do not believe, however, and never have, that your mother left us voluntarily. Something, or someone, forced her to go. For many years, I thought she’d come back. It’s the reason I kept the house at 16 Snapdragon Circle. How else would she find us, if not for that house? This was a time well before social media and internet accessibility.

  The years ticked by, and after a while even I started to give up hope. Leith Hampton, dear friend that he is for all his pompous ways and multiple marriages, begged me to give up the search years before, after a private investigator, someone I paid a great deal of money to, found out nothing. For a long time, I heeded that advice. After all, the investigator had come highly recommended by a man I trusted implicitly.

  Things changed when Misty Rivers rented the house. She told me the house was not haunted, but possessed by your mother’s spirit. I know it sounds farfetched, but another renter had insinuated much the same thing.

  Misty was convinced your mother had been murdered, and she wanted to help me seek out the truth. I’ll admit I was skeptical at first. I’m not a believer in spirits or psychics, but I’ve never been able to reconcile your mother’s disappearance. I decided to put my trust in her.

  Royce hesitated. “We’re coming to the first section I highlighted. Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” I said, my voice barely audible.

  We had barely scratched the surface when I was almost killed on my lunch break. The job was a new condo development with more than a few complications, and construction was well behind schedule. In an effort to save time, each day one of the workers would take everyone’s order and phone it in to a local restaurant and then pick up the food. That day happened to be my day.

  He stopped reading. “It could have been any other worker. That day just happened to be your father’s day.”

  “But all the workers knew it was his day,” I said, feeling defensive. “They knew he was the one placing and picking up the order.”

  “Are you saying that you suspect one of the other workers?”

  Time for the moment of truth. “No…actually, I think my grandfather might have been responsible for…” My voice trailed off as I saw the doubt creep into Royce’s eyes.

  “Your grandfather?” Royce stared at me, the doubt turning into something I couldn’t read and didn’t want to define. “How would your grandfather know it was your father’s day to pick up lunch?”

  I didn’t have an answer for that. After a few moments of silence, Royce turned his attention back to the letter.

  I was crossing Yonge Street to get to the sub shop when one of our construction company’s vans ran the red light. If it hadn’t been for another pedestrian, an elderly man who managed to pull me back with his cane at the last possible second, I would never have had the opportunity to write this letter.

  Royce looked at me kindly. “Yonge Street is one of the busiest streets in downtown Toronto. Traffic gridlock is legendary. Vehicles are always trying to avoid waiting at a red light. Running a yellow is expected; the light turning red midway through the intersection is part of the game.”

  “But it was a company van, which meant someone from Southern Ontario Construction had been driving it.”

  “Would your grandfather have been driving a company van?”

  I was forced to admit it was unlikely. A Cadillac was much more in keeping with his style. “It’s possible that my dad spotted the yellow going to red and started crossing before his light turned green. He’d had a tendency to do that.”

  “The same as almost every other pedestrian in Toronto scurrying to their next destination,” Royce said with a smile.

  “What about the elderly man and his cane? He hadn’t started crossing the road yet. Maybe he sensed danger.”

  “And maybe he was just being cautious by waiting for the walk signal.”

  I knew Royce was right. “Just keep reading, okay?”

  Royce obliged.

  About a week later, another incident occurred, this time as I was leaving the job site. I’d already taken off my hard hat and was just outside the building when a rivet gun fell from thirty floors up, missing my head by less than an inch. If that rivet gun had connected, death would have been instantaneous.

  “There’s more to the letter,” Royce said, “but that’s the last highlighted section. The thing is, that rivet gun could have easily struck any other pedestrian. How easy would it be to target a person thirty floors below with any accuracy?”

  I had to admit, not so easy, and likely impossible. I rooted around my purse until found my cocoa butter lip balm and smoothed it on my lips, the familiar taste and feel calming my jittery nerves. Could I have been wrong all these months? Could the accidents have just been accidents? Had my hatred of my grandfather clouded my objectivity?

  For the first time since my father died, I forced myself to admit that it was entirely possible.

  Not just possible. Probable. I slipped the highlighted photocopy back into the file folder, along with the original letter and the rest of my father’s death documents: his will, the Workplace Safety and Insurance Board and Ministry of Labor reports, and the coroner’s autopsy, all the while avoiding eye contact with Royce.

  “I’m sorry,” Royce said, taking my hand again. “I should probably go, let you process this.”

  I pulled my hand away and kept my gaze averted, determined not to cry. “Yeah. You probably should.”

  I turned off the lights, lit a candle, and sat in the semidarkness after Royce left, trying to make peace with my decision to let this go. I was still sitting there, long after the candle burned out, when the sun came up the next morning.

  18

  My brain was fogged from going without sleep. I contemplated going for a short run but knew it would be hopeless. Perhaps later on, when the wine wore off. I don’t drink a lot of coffee, but I fixed myself a strong cup before turning on my computer to check email. I was pleased to find a response from Old Time Trains.

  Thank you for your inquiry. There were a number of passenger trains between Quebec City, Quebec, and Toronto, Ontario, although origin points were always at Canadian Pacific Railway’s (CPR) Windsor Station in Montreal. By origin point, I mean that Montreal was a major terminal where trains started and ended. Passengers had to change trains at origin points, as there were no through schedules, even though the timing may have been such that the effect was a through trip. In certain circumstances one or more cars may actually have been taken off one train and added to the other one, thus the passenger need not get off. But, this was highly dependent upon distance traveled and time of day, volume of passengers etc.

  The train taken by your German immigrant would have depended upon the arrival time of the ship, the time required to clear immigration etc., as well as the possibility that she might like a stopover in Quebec City. The more important trains operated by CPR left Quebec City at 1:15 p.m. and 5:00 p.m. seven days per week, arriving in Montreal at 5:00 p.m. and 9:10 p.m. respectively. The trains exiting Quebec City were named Frontenac, most likely named after Chateau Frontenac in Quebec City, and Viger for the Place Viger Hotel in Montreal. The night sleeper train to Toronto was No. 21 Chicago Express. Trains departing Montreal included at 10:15 p.m. (No. 21 ni
ght sleeper train), arriving in Toronto at 7:00 a.m. seven days per week.

  I do not have passenger lists, but suggest you try the Pier 21 (Canadian Museum of Immigration) history people in Halifax as they have such materials and could possibly provide a contact for Quebec City arrivals.

  I hope this information is helpful. All the best to you in your search.

  It was a more detailed response than I had hoped for, let alone expected. My first step was to email Old Time Trains back with a sincere thank you. My next step was to forward the email to Chantelle.

  Chantelle, this was received in response to my Facebook post for information on the train from Quebec City. You mentioned a contact at the Canadian Museum of Immigration. Hopefully they can help us with passenger lists for the trains mentioned. Callie.

  That done, I searched for a photo of the No. 21 Chicago Express and found one, along with a detailed history of the train, on Old Time Trains. I downloaded the picture to share on the Facebook page, included a link to the photo, and then captioned it:

  All Aboard! I've just received a detailed response to my train question from @OldTimeTrains. They have confirmed there would have been a stopover at CPR’s Windsor Station in Montreal, and also provided the names of the trains and when they would have left Quebec City and Montreal. Shown: No. 21 Chicago Express. Thanks to all who chimed in. Your help is appreciated.

  Feeling buoyed by the success of my train post, I decided to try another. I scanned Anneliese’s three postcards from the T.S.S. Canberra, posted them in a group on Facebook with the caption: