Past & Present

by Judy Penz Sheluk

  The rest of the obituary included details of when and where the service would be held in Toronto. There was a photo of Anton, clearly taken before he’d been sick. I was struck by how much Corbin resembled him, especially around the nose and eyes.

  But that’s not what had captured our attention. It was what Sophie had written at the top of the obituary.

  “Uncle Toni.”

  25

  As soon as I read the words “Uncle Toni” I knew that I would have to find a way to visit Olivia again, Corbin be damned.

  “It would appear that Anton Osgoode remained involved in Sophie’s life,” Chantelle said.

  I nodded. “The question is, how involved?

  “Involved enough to refer to him as Uncle and keep his obituary. Maybe you can find out from your great-grandmother the next time you pay her a visit.”

  “Yeah, about that. I’ve been removed from the approved visitor’s list by my grandfather.” I filled Chantelle in on Corbin’s phone call. “I thought he did it because he was hiding something. Now I’m doubly sure of it.”

  “Doubly sure? What haven’t you told me?”

  “It’s just an expression.” I pulled out my cocoa butter lip balm.

  “We’re partners. We have to be honest with one another if this business is going to be successful.”

  I knew she was right, and I was willing to tell her about Corbin being the boy in the photo booth strip, but I still wasn’t ready to share the possibility that Anton Osgoode had killed Anneliese. Then it hit me.

  “Horst Frankow died in prison.”

  “Uh, yeah, we knew that,” Chantelle said. “Nice stall tactic, but it won’t fly.”

  “I’m not trying to stall. Follow along with me. You’re a foster kid, and the only thing you have from your past is a small suitcase with some photos and documents that belonged to your mother. Sophie would have gone through them over and over again, looking for clues. She would have assumed, based on the marriage certificate, that her father was Horst Frankow. I can’t believe that no one told her about Horst when she was growing up. Surely the foster care adults would have known.”

  “We’re talking about another time. Things were different then, not so liberated. Given the circumstances, it could have been a confidential placement. At the very least, the foster parents would have been sworn to secrecy. That being said, I have to agree with you. It stands to reason that at some point Sophie would have tried to find him. Maybe not until she was out of the system, maybe not even until she was adult, but she must have tried.”

  “And when she tried, she learned that he was the bad man who murdered her mother.”

  “That’s my read on it.”

  “Do you think Louisa knows?”

  “No, or she would have said something, don’t you think? My guess is Sophie took that secret to her grave. But we’re going to have to tell Louisa when we file our final report.”

  “You don’t think she’d want to know about this before then?”

  “Louisa prefers a single, final report, versus ongoing updates. Besides, we might find information to the contrary.”

  “Aha. Information to the contrary. Are we coming to the doubly sure part yet?”

  “Let’s just say that there’s something that I need to follow up. I promise to tell you what I’ve learned as soon as I have, whatever the outcome, but it’s something I have to do on my own. I hope you’ll be okay with that.”

  Chantelle leaned back, her gray eyes appraising me. I’m not sure what she was looking for, but I must have passed the test. “I can wait.”

  I wanted to hug her. “Thank you.”

  “Is that it? Because something tells me there’s more.”

  I’m always amazed by how easily Chantelle can read me. Most of the time, I’m grateful, especially when it works in my favor. Right about now, I wish I could be a little less transparent.

  “It’s about the boy in the photo booth filmstrip. I recognized him.”

  “You did? Who is he? How do you know him? He’d have to be in his late fifties by now.”

  “Sixty-two, actually, and last time we spoke, he warned me off this investigation.”

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? That the boy in the photo is your grandfather?”

  I nodded. “The one and only Corbin Osgoode.”

  “Then you have to confront him and make him tell you what he knows.”

  “You don’t know my grandfather. Confrontation won’t work. He’ll just shut me out.” The way he shut my mother out when she told him she was pregnant at seventeen. “I need to come up with a different strategy.”

  “What sort of different strategy?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know. I still believe Olivia holds the key. There has to be some way to see her again.”

  “I could try. Corbin has forbidden you to see Olivia, but that came from him, not her.”

  “She did seem to enjoy my visits.” I thought about it for a moment. “It could work. I told her you were the one who sparked my interest in genealogy, and that I was working on my family tree. So it wouldn’t seem completely out of place if you went there on my behalf. The only question is, should you take the photo strip with Sophie and Corbin with you?”

  “I can bring it to show her as a last resort, but I think it would seem less invasive if I can just get her talking. How to get her talking will be the challenge.”

  “What about your genealogy research on Horst and Anneliese? You could tell her that I became fascinated with their family tree once I realized that Sophie was a relative, and that you agreed to help me.”

  “That’s a good angle, but I’ve hit a brick wall on both. Entering their names in the database didn’t generate a single lead.”

  “Is that typical?”

  “No, but then again, this search is atypical. Usually there’s more information. A record of parents and siblings, for example, and where and when they were born. The names of the siblings, siblings’ spouses, and so on, with each name adding another rung in the ladder. The only information we have on Horst is his first and last name. There wasn’t even a middle name on the marriage certificate. We don’t know when he immigrated to Canada, or from where. I can check UK departure manifests, but there are a lot of them, and I have no idea where to start. We can assume he met Anneliese in Nottingham, but that’s a big assumption and doesn’t get us far. I’m not even sure it’s important.”

  “Speaking of the UK departure manifest, did you find Anneliese’s name on the T.S.S. Canberra?

  “Bad news there. There are plenty of departure manifests on record, but not that particular one.” Chantelle gave a rueful smile. “It could be worse. At least we have the autograph page. The manifest would have listed every single passenger, but honestly, what could we have done with the information?”

  What indeed? I didn’t know, but it would have been nice to find out. I noted the glum look on Chantelle’s face and attempted to cheer her up. “At least we know the basics from Anneliese’s passport: her date of birth, that she was born in Stettin, Germany. And of course, we know the date of her death. That should help you find out more.”

  Chantelle sighed. “Except Stettin is now Szczecin, Poland. In 1945 the Nazis issued an evacuation order, and most of the city’s German population fled, likely with not much more than the clothes on their backs, their records destroyed or, possibly, buried deep inside a church basement somewhere in Europe. If Anneliese had any relatives, dead or alive, they aren’t listed in the Ancestry database. What can I say? Genealogy is a wonderful thing, but it’s not magic.”

  The results were disappointing, but not entirely unexpected. It stood to reason that if Anneliese or Horst had any living relatives, someone would have come forward for Sophie, or there would have been some evidence of it in Anneliese’s train case, a photograph or a letter, something.

  “It’s okay. You can still use that as your cover story when you visit Olivia. Be honest and tell her you couldn’t find any
thing, but play up my disappointment. Tell her I’m trying to find out all I can about Sophie. Which is true.”

  “I’ll go tomorrow. Let’s just hope she’s willing to see me.”

  “If she doesn’t, we’ll have to go with Plan B.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Confronting Corbin without confrontation? And before you ask me how I plan to do that, let me answer. I have no idea.”

  “Maybe Randi will have the answer,” Chantelle said, laughing.

  I laughed along with her. “Or Misty. I’ll call her up and ask for a tarot card reading, maybe we’ll hold a séance in the living room.”

  Chantelle was still chuckling when she left.

  26

  I fussed over the objects I planned to take to Randi. Anneliese, Sophie, and Louisa had all worn the pearl earrings. Would that complicate things? I had the fleur-de-lis brooch and her wedding ring. Maybe that would be enough.

  After an absurd amount of deliberation, I stuck with my original decision to take all three. I’d gone from a complete skeptic to a hopeful cynic who should do some reading up on psychometry. A Google search came up with multiple links. After a quick scan, I found one that explained the concept more thoroughly than Chantelle.

  Psychometry is based on the theory that the human mind radiates an aura in all directions, which impresses everything within its orbit. Since all objects are porous, the minute holes in the object’s surface collect fragments of the mental aura of the person who possessed the object. If an object has been passed on down the family, it will contain information about its previous owners.

  That sounded promising, but I wasn’t quite ready to take off my cynic’s cloak. I searched for scientific evidence, psychometry and was rewarded for my efforts.

  There is no scientific evidence that psychometry exists. Skeptics explain alleged successes of psychometry by cold reading and confirmation bias.

  Cold reading is a technique used by mentalists, psychics, fortunetellers, mediums, and illusionists. A practiced cold reader can quickly obtain a great deal of information by analyzing the person’s body language, age, clothing, hairstyle, race or ethnicity, manner of speech, etc., all without any prior knowledge.

  Randi was one step ahead of me there. She had plenty of prior knowledge of me, and trying to change my hair, speech, or clothing wasn’t going to make a difference. At least this time it wasn’t about me, or a family member.

  Cold readings typically employ high-probability guesses, quickly picking up on signals as to whether their guesses are in the right direction or not, then emphasizing and reinforcing chance connections and quickly moving on from missed guesses.

  Before starting the actual reading, the reader will try to elicit cooperation from the subject. They may say something along the lines of, “I may see images that are a bit unclear which might mean more to you than to me. If you help, it may uncover more than if you do not.”

  I laughed out loud. Did people really fall for that? I kept reading.

  Once assured of the subject’s cooperation, the reader will make a number of probing statements or questions and assess their replies, both verbal and nonverbal. Subtle cues, such as changes in facial expression or body language, can determine whether a particular line of questioning is effective. Promising avenues of inquiry are pursued, and unproductive ones quickly abandoned. The reader will continue to refine and restate facts shared by the subject, reinforcing the reader’s alleged psychic ability.

  I would have to be on my guard when it came to a cold reading, although I’d never been great at maintaining a poker face. I googled, “How do psychics use confirmation bias?” and found what I was looking for.

  Confirmation bias is one reason why a psychic may only average one accurate hit for every dozen guesses, yet will be described as “totally accurate” by the client after the reading. People place a lot more importance on confirmatory evidence than on contradictory evidence.

  Using cold reading techniques, the psychic will make several ambiguous statements. The subject will selectively, though unconsciously, remember those statements made by the psychic that apply to their lives versus those that don’t. For example, a psychic will give a very general description about a relative and their relationship with the subject, saying something like, “Why do I sense this distance?” The subject’s response might be that their father lived on the other side of the country, or it might be that their father was detached, the kind of man who didn’t like to show love for the family. Either way, the psychic has new information to use later, along with other “revelations.”

  Forewarned was forearmed. Maybe there was something to psychometry, and maybe there wasn’t. I would see Randi tomorrow as promised, but with a healthy dose of common sense and skepticism.

  I knew I should start on the newspaper research, but memories of the hours spent at the Cedar County Reference Library looking for clues in my mother’s disappearance had been tedious work. I’d spent hours staring into a microfiche reader, and I’d had Shirley there to help me.

  At least this search would be online in the comfort of my home office, but I suspected it would be every bit as tedious. A big part of me also worried that I would find out things about Anneliese or Anton better left in the past. I knew I was procrastinating, but I decided to check our Facebook page before I tackled the archives.

  There were three new page Likes, several post Likes, and a couple of Shares. The pearl necklace in particular seemed to have struck a chord. One comment suggested that the three strands represented the past, present, and future. Almost certainly a wedding gift from groom to bride, no tears intended. It didn’t advance our investigation, but I loved the concept, and small details such as this, included in my report to Louisa, would demonstrate an attention to detail.

  The first thing I did was open the photo of Sophie and her classmates in Niagara Falls that Chantelle had scanned. Enlarged, the faces were grainy but distinguishable. I studied each face carefully, looking for anything or anyone that might stand out. Nothing did.

  Disappointed, I shifted my attention back to our website.

  Misty had posted another message, this time with a photo of the Seven of Cups. The card depicted the silhouette figure of a man, his back to the reader. He appeared to be mesmerized by the seven golden cups floating on a cumulus cloud in front of him. Each cup contained a different object. In the top row there was a beautiful blue head unattached to a body, a veiled figure reaching outwards, creating a mysterious mushroom-shaped ghost-like persona, and a snake coiling its way out of the cup. In the bottom row there was a blue castle, overflowing jewel-like treasures, a laurel wreath with a skull drawn in the cup beneath it, and a blue dragon.

  Seven of Cups (Element: Water)

  The suit of cups represents emotions. There are many theories on what the contents of each cup represents. Some believe they represent temptation. Others believe these objects are nothing more than illusions. My belief is that they represent the many choices an individual can make, although each path will offer some challenge and possible risk. For example, the castle is without windows, the head is without a body, while the cup beneath the laurel wreath has a skull drawn into it. At what cost was the win for the victor?

  Misty’s Message: There is a difference between contemplation and procrastination. Have you been deliberating on a course of action or have you been avoiding it? There are many different paths you can choose, each with its own set of consequences. The important thing is to take action so that you may learn from it and move forward.

  Damn, it was as if Misty was speaking directly to me and my foot dragging on the archives search. The skeptic in me knew the answer: if the message hadn’t concerned me I would pass it by. And if her message resonated with me, it would also resonate with others. I shared each of her posts on our Facebook page, scheduling them two days apart in the hopes of creating some buzz. That done, I tweeted the latest one out on Twitter with a photo and a #tarot, and set up a Pintere
st Misty’s Messages board under the Past & Present Investigations account, creating a pin for each post.

  I emailed Misty, cc to Chantelle, letting them know what I’d done, and asked Misty to update Pinterest, Facebook, and Twitter whenever she wrote a new message, and encouraged her to create an Instagram account. I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t procrastinating, that I was setting things in motion so that I wouldn’t get sidetracked the next time Misty posted a message, but I knew she was right. It was time to take action and move forward.

  It started out well. I entered “Historical Newspapers” in the search string for the Toronto Public Library and found links for the Toronto Star and the Globe and Mail.

  I clicked on the tutorial on the Toronto Star archives page. It gave a detailed example on Hurricane Hazel in 1954. Encouraged by the ease of the search process, I hit the Access Online button, only to find out that I needed a library card to access the archives. It would be free if I lived, worked, or owned property in Toronto, but otherwise the most economical option was a thirty dollar charge for a three month period. I was ready to whip out my credit card when I read the fine print. I had to apply for the card in person with proper identification. True, I could apply at any branch, but the closest branch was still an hour’s drive away. I started an online chat with a library representative, hoping that the rules could be bent, if not broken. The suggestion was met with a firm no. I could imagine the stony-eyed stare on the other end and signed off with a polite thank you, cursing under my breath.

  Did I know someone with a library card? Chantelle? Royce? Misty? I made a note to myself to ask.