I tried going directly to the Globe and Mail and Toronto Star websites next. I struck out with the Globe—all roads led me back to the Toronto Public Library—but I found an archives list for the Star. I entered in “Anneliese” in the Search box, along with a date range of March 23 to June 1, 1956, knowing that I could always broaden or narrow the search. There were several pages available. I clicked on the first one, hoping for a PDF but getting a list of payment options from one week to three months. I considered it, but the format wasn’t nearly as user friendly as the library’s page.
Frustrated, I looked for other alternatives, and stumbled upon a site that created the records for libraries, colleges, and other institutions. The Historical Newspapers section was lengthy, with several US, Canadian, and international publications. I clicked on the link to the Star and was taken to a page describing the paper, and the archives available. There was even an offer of a free trial if I contacted the Sales department. I called, only to be told that all the sales representatives were busy, but that the next available representative would be with me shortly.
I hung up after a twenty-minute wait on hold and decided to call it a day. Tomorrow was my visit with Randi, which left a drive to Toronto on Saturday. At least the traffic would be lighter. I just had to get home in time to get ready for my dinner with Royce. It meant an early start to get in my Saturday run, but unless I wanted to go back to the Cedar County Reference Library and delve through pages and pages of microfilm, I didn’t see any other option.
Procrastination One, Archives Zero.
27
Sun, Moon & Stars was tucked at the back of Nature’s Way Whole & Organic Foods, an expansive store that capitalized on all things organic, including a dizzying array of baked goods—many made with grains I’d never even heard of—as well as a plentitude of gluten-free products. There was also a massive section devoted entirely to the vegan lifestyle. If you couldn’t find something to eat at Nature’s Way, you were too picky to live.
On the opposite end of the sprawling spectrum you had Sun, Moon & Stars, a minute retail space packed with a treasure trove of trinkets, textiles, natural stone jewelry, healing crystals, books on the occult, and flowing cotton garments with tie-dyed patterns, shiny beads, and silk embroidery. A hand-painted ceramic incense holder in the shape of a lotus flower held a stick of sandalwood incense.
The shopkeeper fluttered toward me, a flurry of multi-colored silk scarves swirling around her. She smiled in greeting, waving a slender hand adorned with silver rings on every finger. “Callie, so good to see you again. Did the smudging do the trick?”
On my previous visit, Randi had encouraged me to smudge the Snapdragon house with white sage to cleanse it of negative energy. I’d felt ridiculous chanting “I am removing all negative energy and replacing it with positive energy,” while waving the smoldering sage stick in the air as I wandered from room to room. But at the time I would have tried just about anything, and I suppose things were no different now. I was here to see Randi with three objects in my handbag, hoping for answers I didn’t expect to find, and wondering if I should be smudging the Edward Street house.
“I believe it did. I can’t imagine how you remembered after all this time.”
She laughed, a breathy sound that matched her voice, and fluttered her scarves. “We don’t get many skeptics in here. The merely curious and the true believers, certainly, but outright skeptics are a rarity. I’ll let Randi know you’re here.”
I was thumbing through a book on tarot when Randi drifted into the room, her long, dark hair falling in loose waves down to her waist. There are few people in this world who radiate kindness, beauty, and charisma. Randi, with her cinnamon-colored skin and eyes the color of lapis lazuli, was the personification of all three. She could have bottled and sold her essence like some sort of magic potion. I felt the first layer of my skepticism dissolve and cursed myself for it.
When I’d been here last, Randi’s space had been painted floor-to-ceiling in an inky midnight blue. The walls had since been repainted in a deep shade of lavender, the ceiling a complementary shade of milky mauve. A myriad of tiny pot lights twinkled like stars overhead, casting a soft glow over the room. A gigantic candle in a tall wrought iron stand burned softly in one corner, the scent a soothing lilac vanilla. The only furnishings were a black lacquer rectangular desk and two chairs upholstered in a dark navy needlepoint fabric. There was a sun embroidered on the back of one, and the four phases of the moon on the back of the other. Randi sat cross-legged on the chair with the sun, her feet tucked underneath her, and gestured to the other. Several colorful bangles jangled on her right arm.
“Welcome back, Callie,” Randi said. “Did you find everything you were looking for on your search for your mother?” Her voice had a soft, musical lilt to it, with the faintest trace of a British accent.
“Let’s just say some secrets might have been better left buried under whatever rock they’d been hiding under, but thank you for asking.”
“No one’s past is without blemish, although some are more acne scarred than others. It is inevitable when we delve into the past that we discover things we would have rather not known. That is the price we pay to learn the truth. In the end, the truth, in all of its incarnations, is all we really have.”
Was I here expecting some version of the truth, or because Chantelle had coerced me into coming? What about Randi? Was she going to tell the truth, or create a fictional scenario based on cold readings and confirmation bias? I was mulling over the possibilities when Randi spoke again.
“Am I to assume you are here for another journey into the past?”
When I made the appointment, I had forgotten that I’d advertised the Grand Opening of Past & Present Investigations in the Marketville Post, including my name and email information as the main contact. How much did Randi know? Had she been to the website? Our Facebook page? Maybe yes, maybe no, but it was better to be upfront and tell her. If it was all out in the open, she couldn’t use it as one of her revelation techniques.
“I’ve started a business with a friend, Past & Present Investigations.” I updated her on the basic premise, leaving out the details of the Frankow case. Those had to remain confidential, and not just out of respect for the client. If I was to trust anything Randi told me, I had to know she was doing so without a lot of backstory.
Randi clapped her hands, her bracelets tinkling like wind chimes. “Congratulations. It’s wonderful how you have taken something painful and transformed it into a new path in life. That shows great strength of character.”
A new path in life. Had Randi read Misty’s latest message about the Seven of Cups? Or was I reading too much into what might only be a simple choice of words?
“I’m not sure how strong my character is, but I will say it’s been tested on more than one occasion. I’m here today with three objects. Each one is part of a current investigation. I’m afraid I can’t share the details with you.”
“Nor would I want you to. Such information would cloud my vision, rendering it unreliable.” Randi smiled, revealing a row of perfectly straight pearl-white teeth. “I’m sure you’ve been online researching psychometry, which is the official term for object reading. Unfortunately there are plenty of charlatans out there, and it is those individuals who give the legitimate practitioner a bad reputation. I assure you that I don’t rely on cold reading or confirmation bias. Some objects speak to me, and some do not, regardless of their history. Armed with that knowledge, are you prepared to go ahead with an open mind?”
I nodded, feeling somewhat reassured if not altogether convinced.
“Very well. Let’s see what you have brought for me today.”
I decided to start with the brooch. If I was correct in my assumption that Anneliese had purchased it in Quebec City, it was the oldest of the three items. I took it out of the organza bag and handed it over to Randi.
She rested the brooch on a tiny black velvet pillow and bent over to stud
y it from all angles, using a pencil-length LED flashlight and a jeweler’s loupe. After several minutes, she straightened.
“The fleur-de-lis suggests a French connection, but I would say this was purchased in Quebec, not France. The styling is not European, and the quality, while a step above what one might have found in Woolworth’s Department Store, is far from haute couture. The stones are rhinestones, not precious gems, but then I suspect you knew that already, especially since the gold finish has tarnished. Silver tarnishes, but gold does not. As for a timeline, I would place this brooch as being made in the early-to-mid 1950s. There are no maker’s marks, but that in itself isn’t unusual for the time period.”
So far Randi wasn’t telling me anything I hadn’t figured out on my own. I tried to hide my disappointment. I must have failed, because Randi addressed it head on.
“Have faith, my skeptical friend. The first thing I do with an object is to analyze it in a clinical manner. Only once I have done that can I connect to it spiritually. It is this combination that allows me to speculate on the meaning of each object, and its relationship to the owner.”
She picked up the brooch, closed her eyes, and placed her clenched right fist on the left side of her chest, over her heart. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry and instead did neither, silently watching Randi’s theatrical performance. Because I was sure it was a performance, staged for my benefit so that I wouldn’t feel ripped off when I paid her at the end of my visit.
Randi opened her eyes and rested the brooch back on the black velvet case. “This brooch was almost certainly a gift from a lover to a woman met on a ship. It may seem fanciful to you, but I believe the aquamarine stones represent the ocean, the sapphire blue the night sky, and the clear rhinestones the stars. From my clinical observation, I would suggest it was purchased in Quebec City or Montreal.”
Not a souvenir but a gift from a lover. I hadn’t thought of that. Had Anton Osgoode given the brooch to Anneliese as a memento of their affair? It was a possible explanation, and one the romantic side of me preferred. The cynic in me remained uncertain. If Randi had visited our Facebook page, she would have seen my post looking for ephemera related to the T.S.S. Canberra. I’d even done her the favor of listing the departure date from Southampton and the arrival date in Quebec City, adding that the woman was a German immigrant. My posts asking for information on rail travel would have filled in more blanks. Add the brooch into the mix and a good storyteller could create an entire world.
At least I hadn’t posted anything about Anton Osgoode. “Can you tell me anything about the lovers?”
“Let me look at each item of jewelry first. Perhaps then I can draw some additional conclusions. I make no such promises. As I said before, not all objects speak to me, no matter their history.”
It was an honest answer, albeit one that conveniently skirted the question. I handed over the pearl drop earrings and watched in silence as Randi went through her ritual, first studying the earrings from all angles, and then holding them against her heart. I wasn’t sure if I was amused or entranced by her performance.
“These earrings almost certainly started life as clip-ons,” Randi began. “I believe the transformation to pierced was done long after the original owner passed them along, possibly to a daughter.” Her brow creased into a frown. “Maybe a granddaughter. It’s confusing. I’m getting mixed messages. They were almost certainly intended as a wedding gift. Is there a matching necklace?”
Once again, I thought about our Facebook page and the photo I’d posted of the pearl necklace. Despite trying to keep an open mind, I was becoming increasingly suspicious. “There was a matching pearl necklace. Three strands. The owner wore them at her wedding.”
“Did you bring the necklace with you?”
“I don’t have it. I have only seen her wearing it in a photograph.”
“Did you bring the photograph with you?”
“I was told to bring no more than three objects.”
“A rules follower. I never would have guessed it,” Randi said with a smile. “Actually, a photo would have been acceptable, possibly desirable, but you can always return with it, should either one of us deem it necessary. You said there were three strands of pearls?”
“Yes. I thought the three strands might be symbolic of the past, present, and future.” No need to mention I’d gotten the idea from a Facebook follower. Then again, if she’d been to our Facebook page, she would have known that.
“That’s very astute of you. I was going to suggest the same thing.” The frown returned. “I believe these earrings have been worn during times of great joy and greater despair, possibly even danger.”
If Randi thought I’d start sharing what I knew, she had another thing coming. There would be no cold readings coming off this woman. I handed her the wedding band. “Perhaps this will help you.”
I was expecting a repeat of the black velvet pillow routine. Instead I watched, openmouthed, as Randi dropped the ring, grabbed the back of her head, and then doubled over, clutching her stomach in pain.
“Are you okay?”
Randi stared at me, tears welling in her deep blue eyes. “The woman who wore this ring was murdered in cold blood. I believe she was hit on the back of her head with a heavy object.”
She picked up the ring and closed her eyes for a moment, her breathing ragged. “She knew her killer. It was someone she loved…no, maybe not loved, but definitely someone she trusted.” She opened her eyes, her stare accusatory. “You knew, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I knew. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it would be painful for you. I’m trying to find out the truth about her killer. There is some doubt in my mind that the person incarcerated for it was responsible.”
“Remember what I told you earlier. In the end, the truth is all we have. Please bring me anything you have that belonged to this woman, anything at all. I will do this without any cost to you or your client. The woman who owned this ring deserves justice.”
I wasn’t willing to share anything with Anneliese’s name on it, such as her passport, immigration paper, or Sophie’s birth certificate, but I could bring Anneliese’s train case, and perhaps the postcards and photographs that were inside it.
Even as I planned my next visit with Randi for Tuesday of the following week, I knew it wouldn’t be enough. I had to find a way to get that crystal vase from Olivia’s room.
But how?
I called Chantelle from the parking lot outside of Sun, Moon & Stars, anxious to find out how she made out.
“Did you get to see Olivia?”
“Yes and no.”
“Either you saw her or you didn’t.”
“Let me start at the beginning and tell it my way, okay?”
I knew Chantelle well enough to know that she wouldn’t be hurried, at least when it came to telling a story. “Okay.”
“I went to reception, where the platinum blonde at the front desk made me feel as if I was there to spring an inmate versus visit a resident.”
“Yeah, she’s got that act down pat.”
“That she does. Anyway, I told her I was a friend of the Osgoode family, which technically isn’t a lie. I am a friend of yours, and you are part of the family. I’d brought a bunch of yellow daisies with me, and some homemade shortbread. I offered her a couple of cookies to have on her coffee break. She politely refused, but the gesture seemed to placate her because she acquiesced and called Olivia’s room. Olivia agreed to see me.”
“Fantastic.”
“Not so fast. I said ‘seemed to placate her.’ I got to Olivia’s room and had no sooner given her my cover story, when who charged into the room but Corbin Osgoode. He asked how I knew his mother. I had to admit that I didn’t know her, but that I was there as a friend of the family.” Chantelle sighed heavily. “He’s quite a piece of work, your grandfather. I felt about as welcome as a cockroach at a housewarming party. As for Olivia, she might be his mother, but he’s definitely the boss of her. He turned
me out on my ear, figuratively speaking of course, but another minute in that room, I have no doubt he would have gotten physical, or at least threatened it.”
For a moment I was too disappointed to speak. Then I got angry. “Who is Corbin Osgoode to threaten my friends or tell Olivia who she can or cannot see? Especially since she had agreed to your visit.”
“There’s more,” Chantelle said. “Before Corbin stormed in, Olivia told me that she was disappointed you hadn’t come back to take her out for lunch. Which means—”
“Olivia didn’t know that Corbin had forbidden me to see her.”
“Exactly. You were right, Callie. That man is hiding something, something Olivia knows. In amongst his rage, I sensed fear.”
Rage and fear. I’d experienced both in my dealings with Corbin Osgoode before, as had my father. Well, this time the roles were reversed. One way or another I was going to expose that secret, no matter what it took.
This wasn’t just about Anneliese Prei Frankow any longer. My grandfather had just made it personal.
28
Sometimes procrastination pays off. Either that, or you get lucky. I was checking my Maps app to determine which branch of the Toronto Public Library would be my quickest option for getting a library card when the phone rang. I checked the call display, hoping it wasn’t Royce calling to cancel our dinner tonight. It was ridiculous how much I was looking forward to the evening.
It was Shirley Harrington.
“Shirley, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until late April. Is everything okay?”
“Perfectly fine now that I’m back in Marketville,” she said, chuckling. “It seems I’m not snowbird material. Six weeks in Florida is about my limit. It might be different if I was married and staying down there with my husband, or if I was sharing the condo I rented with a friend, but as a single, I got bored. Of course, I’ve been home two days and I’m still bored silly. I’m seriously regretting my decision to retire.”
Past & Present Page 16