Past & Present

by Judy Penz Sheluk

  “Do you still drink your coffee decaffeinated with double sugar?”

  Shirley beamed. “Great memory.”

  “We did spend a lot of time together last year.”

  “That we did.”

  I got the coffee going and poured, made myself a cup of Earl Grey tea, and then walked Shirley through the evidence from start to finish, pausing only to put the tourtiere in the oven. I even told her about meeting with Olivia Osgoode, though I left out my suspicions about the crystal vase and Anton’s part in the murder.

  I also neglected to show her Anton’s obituary marked “Uncle Toni.” I knew she’d come across the obituary in her search, that much was a given. But the Uncle Toni part, I wasn’t quite ready to share that bit of information. I needed Shirley’s research and opinions to be unbiased. At least, that’s what I told myself.

  Shirley wrote copious notes as we went along, occasionally underlining something, and, difficult as it was, I refrained from offering any conjecture. It was one o’clock before we finished.

  “Perfect timing,” I said, getting up and stretching. “Let me toss the salad and get the tourtiere out of the oven. We can discuss the case after lunch. I’d like to start searching through the online newspaper archives first thing tomorrow morning, provided that works for you.”

  “I’ll be here at nine. As for my thoughts, I’d like to read my notes and think things through. I have a couple of theories, but I need to sort through everything first, alone in my own space. I hope you’re not disappointed by that.”

  Disappointed? I wanted to stand up and cheer. “Not only am I not disappointed, I’m relieved. I didn’t relish the thought of poring over newspaper archives. Then again, I’ve been unfolding this saga for days, and you’ve seen everything over the course of a couple of hours. It must be overwhelming.”

  “Overwhelming? Perhaps a little, but it’s also the most fun I’ve had since the last time we worked together. I thought I might make a list of the names we need to search, as well. I’m sure you have one already, but it won’t hurt to compare lists.”

  “Agreed. Now let’s have lunch so you can get out of here and start theorizing and making those lists.”

  Shirley had just left when my phone rang. I checked the caller display. Royce.

  “Hi, what’s up?”

  “I wanted to apologize,” he said.

  “Apologize? Whatever for?”

  “For not letting you know how I feel about you. For letting the case of Anneliese Prei get in the way of what was supposed to be a romantic evening.”

  “Oh. That. It’s okay. I’m as much to blame as you are, maybe more.”

  “It’s not okay. I’m interested in you, Callie, and not just as a friend or a confidante. I’d like us to try for something more.”

  My mouth went dry as I searched for the right thing to say. “I’d like that, too.”

  “What are you doing this afternoon?”

  “I thought I might go for the run I skipped this morning. Read a book. Watch some TV. Nothing that couldn’t be changed.”

  “In that case, I’ll be over in thirty minutes. And Callie?”

  “Uh huh?”

  “This visit will be strictly pleasure. No talk of Past & Present, ongoing investigations, and especially no talk about old murders. Deal?”

  “Deal.” I hung up and made a mad dash to my dresser drawer, pulling out a brand new set of sexy black lace lingerie. My intimate apparel efforts hadn’t been appreciated last night, but today was a new day and I was feeling optimistic. Thank heavens I’d gone shopping with Chantelle. Otherwise I’d be wearing sensible cotton undies and an oversized race T-shirt. Hardly the look I was going for.

  It was time for our strictly-pleasure moment.

  30

  Royce left at seven o’clock the next morning after a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, promising to call me with a time to visit the Cedar County Retirement Home. It was the first reference to the case that he’d made, and he followed it up with a long, passionate kiss that almost led us right back to the bedroom.

  I showered and changed, thinking about the night before while I got ready for my day with Shirley. Everything had been so easy with him, so comfortable. We’d even made plans for a trip to Niagara-on-the-Lake and Niagara Falls once the Frankow case was filed and finalized. Sightseeing, slot machines, and steamy sex, Royce had said. The deliberately wolfish grin on his face when he suggested it that made me laugh. Could the Barnstable family curse finally be over?

  Shirley arrived Monday morning exactly on schedule, forcing me to get my head out of the future and firmly back to the past. We sat across the table from each other, notebooks out, pens in hand.

  “The first thing we need to do is compare our list of names to research in the archives,” she said.

  “Agreed. Call out if there’s a name you don’t have written down. Otherwise, let’s just get through the list. The primary focus has to be Anneliese Prei, Anneliese (Prei) Frankow, Horst Frankow, and Sophie Frankow.”

  “I had Louisa written down,” Shirley said, looking at her notes.

  “So did I, initially, but we’re looking at a murder that took place in 1956. Louisa wasn’t born until 1982. The task ahead is formidable enough without looking for extra work.”

  “A valid point.” Shirley crossed Louisa’s name off her list. “Who else do you have?”

  “The witnesses to the christening, whom I assume were the godparents, Adam and Helena Bradford. The pastor who performed the ceremony, G. Walther. And the eleven signatures on the autograph page from the T.S.S. Canberra.” I slid my notebook toward her so she could compare them to what she had.

  Shirley checked off name by name, only pausing once. “This signature. Helena Brown. I wondered if she might have immigrated to Canada to marry Adam, becoming Helena Bradford. Helen is a fairly common name, but Helena? Not as common.”

  I couldn’t believe both Chantelle and I had missed such an obvious connection. It proved you could never have too many sets of eyes on the same problem. “You’re right. I can get Chantelle on that. If there’s a marriage certificate, she might find it on Ancestry.ca. Do you mind if I email her now? The sooner she gets this, the sooner she can get on it.”

  “Go for it.”

  I finished off the email and hit Send. “Anything else?”

  “I also have Anton Osgoode, the father listed on the birth certificate.”

  If Shirley had made the Osgoode connection, she was too diplomatic to mention it. “Yes, please look up Anton. Also his wife, Olivia.”

  “Got it, Anton and Olivia. We’re definitely on the same page. At least so far.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean, at least so far?”

  “I would like to do the archives research on my own.”

  I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. I’d been looking forward to finding something—anything, but honestly, I hadn’t been looking forward to the drudgery of the actual work. Perhaps Shirley sensed my procrastination had been deliberate avoidance and was trying to spare me. If that were the case, it would be unfair to burden her with the entire archives research.

  “Can I ask why?”

  Shirley blushed, her freckles standing out on her tanned face. “I miss it, Callie. The research, the thrill of the hunt, the exhilaration of the find. But frankly, it’s easier if I do this my way, in the comfort of my own home, where I can go off on a tangent if I want to, without feeling as though I’m holding up progress or wasting time. I give you my word that I’ll keep my billable hours to a minimum, and I promise to update you on a daily basis. Heck, I’ll do it hourly if you want. But I really want to do this on my own. Of course, it is your company. I’ll play it however you want.”

  “Actually, you’d be doing me a huge favor. I have some other things to take care of that are quite pressing.” Like Olivia Osgoode and the crystal vase. Like scrolling through thousands of photographs from the Telegram, something I felt compelled to do mys
elf. “I just don’t want you to feel as if I’m taking advantage of you.”

  “Trust me, if I ever feel that way, I’ll tell you. For now, I’m looking forward to getting started. The sooner, the better.”

  I smiled. “Then get out of here and get started.”

  Was it my imagination or did Shirley positively skip out of the house?

  Royce called a few minutes after Shirley left. “Good news. Olivia Osgoode was one of the first residents to sign up.”

  It was great news, better than I’d hoped for. I thanked Royce and promised him that I’d be there with a half hour to spare. Now all I had to do was find a way for Olivia to give me the crystal vase.

  I went online to find the York University Toronto Telegram Archives. I found them under the York Space Institutional Repository as part of the Clara Thomas Archives and Special Collections. It appeared to be a formidable task: ten thousand, two hundred and ninety-four images. Fortunately, there were a few search options, including one that allowed me to enter a date and the number of images per batch, ranging from five to one hundred. I typed in 1956, selected batches of twenty in ascending order, and hit enter.

  The first image was dated January 1, 1956. It was a cute photo of two cats playing with a watering can. The caption was “Cat: Owned by Mrs. Harold Walker.” It made me smile, but it also reminded me that this exercise could become a huge time suck if I didn’t stay focused.

  The first reference to a murder included several photographs starting on March 31, with the headline Murder and Suicide in Hamilton, Ontario. Intrigued, I googled for more information, but all links led back to the Telegram photograph archives. Just as well. I didn’t need another murder to investigate.

  There were several photos of Woodbine Racetrack, many with the added tag “Not used.” A few of a house fire, again in Hamilton, with the caption “Children set fire to home and then saved parents and family.” More searching led me to “Torso found” and “Body of murder victim found in Hamilton cemetery.” Both were interesting, but neither was remotely connected to Anneliese Prei. It became quickly apparent that the archives, while seemingly extensive and dating back to 1927, had huge gaps in each year represented. I was about to give up hope when I saw “Young mother murdered in own home.” Dated April 9, 1956, there was an artist’s drawing of the interior of a house. A woman was shown lying face down on the floor, arms sprawled overhead. A man in a suit was depicted standing over her, holding a large, but unidentifiable, object. It could have been a vase, a pot, any number of things. A young girl was shown hiding under the kitchen table. Uppercase labels within the drawing read “Young mother Struck with Blunt Object In Her Home.” “Man with blunt Object.” “Three-year-old daughter hid under the kitchen table.”

  Sophie hiding under the table was a new detail. She must have waited until the bad man had left before going to the neighbor, but how much could she have seen? Based on the drawing, no more than the man’s shoes and his pants below the knees. Definitely not his face.

  I also wondered why there was a drawing and not a photograph. Had the police refused photojournalists entry to the scene? Why were there no names associated with the victim and murderer? Were they being withheld to find and notify next of kin? I continued searching, but there was no further reference to the murder or the trial. It was as if it had never happened, as if this solitary drawing was the figment of the artist’s imagination. I checked the credits, hoping the artist would be credited. Unfortunately, “Telegram Staff” had been listed under Photographer and Creator.

  Frustrated and disappointed, I emailed the link to Shirley and Chantelle with a brief note explaining that there were no other references in the Telegram. I could only hope that the Star and the Globe would offer better results. In the meantime, I had to put my faith in Operation Olivia and the crystal vase.

  31

  I arrived at the Cedar County Retirement Residence by nine thirty on Tuesday morning, where I received a grudging clearance along with directions to the boardroom from Platinum Blonde. I was tempted to go to the third floor and knock on Olivia’s door, but resisted the urge. I didn’t need to get kicked out of the building, and I didn’t want to cause Royce any grief.

  The boardroom was long and narrow, with off-white walls, mahogany wainscoting, and a mahogany table that had been polished until it gleamed. A matching sideboard held a tray of on the rocks glasses, four pitchers of water filled with water and lemon slices, and two plates of assorted cookies. Chairs upholstered in buttercup yellow and burgundy sateen had been placed around the table. A quick count revealed a total of twenty-five chairs, twelve per side, and one at the head. Royce was already there, alternately fidgeting with his laptop and a movie screen. He looked up when he saw me and smiled. “PowerPoint presentation. Hopefully I don’t put anyone to sleep.”

  I gestured to the chairs. “I wasn’t expecting this many people.”

  Royce laughed. “Most of those chairs will be empty. There were only eight names on my list. Do you think I should move some of those chairs and place them along the wall? Or just leave it as is?”

  “Eight chairs to a side will be plenty. I’ll take care of it while you obsess about your PowerPoint setup.”

  I rearranged the chairs, poured ten glasses of lemon water and placed them and the plates of cookies on the table. I checked my watch. Nine forty-five. It was almost show time. I tapped the table for good luck in a “knock on wood” gesture.

  The first resident arrived a few seconds later, followed closely by the others. Royce greeted them at the door, while I checked their names off his list. Everyone was present and accounted for by nine fifty-five.

  Everyone but Olivia. I was almost in panic mode when Royce leaned over and whispered in my ear.

  “I took a chance and spoke to Olivia last night. She’s expecting you in her room.” He straightened up and said, “Thank you, Ms. Barnstable, for helping me to set up and greet everyone. Your assistance was much appreciated.”

  The seven residents sitting around the table clapped politely, murmuring their goodbyes while I made my exit. I glanced furtively down the hall in both directions, making sure Platinum Blonde was nowhere to be found. Once convinced I was in the clear, I made a beeline to the stairs and ran up to the third floor, taking two steps at a time. The elevator was too risky.

  I knocked on Olivia’s door, my palms as moist as my mouth was dry. There was no response for what seemed like several minutes, but was in all likelihood no more than a few seconds. I heard the lock click and waited for the door to open.

  “Come on in, Callie,” Olivia said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  I followed Olivia, waited until she settled herself into her chair, and then took a seat on the black leather sofa. She looked older today than she had a week ago, as if someone had stolen the sparkle from her.

  “Thank you for persevering,” she said. “I had no idea my son forbade you to visit until your friend came to see me. I apologize for causing you any embarrassment or discomfort. Corbin means well, but he can be a bit of a pompous ass. I blame Anton and myself. I coddled him for far too long, and Anton filled his head with all sorts of nonsense about the Osgoode name. Being a buyer for Eaton’s was prestigious, but it wasn’t as if Corbin was heir to a throne.”

  “I didn’t blame you, Olivia. I knew it wasn’t your idea to ban me from visiting. But I’m curious why Corbin felt the need to do so.”

  Olivia shook her head. “I don’t understand it. He knows I get lonely. Besides, you’re family.”

  Family. Corbin Osgoode would never consider me family. He’d made that clear on several occasions. My grandmother, Yvette, had made overtures, but no matter what she said or tried to do, Corbin ruled that household.

  But what about Olivia? Did I come clean or keep stringing her along with a sanitized version of the truth? I studied the elderly woman before me and found the answer in her eyes.

  “I have a story to tell you, Great-grandmother, if you’re willing to l
isten.” It was the first time I’d called her anything but Olivia, but she didn’t flinch or tell me to call her Olivia. Instead, she reached out to me with arthritic hands.

  “I’m willing to listen. And call me Gran.”

  Gran. I thought about how Corbin and Yvette would react and suppressed a grin. “Gran…I misled you earlier about the reason for my visit. It wasn’t because I was working on my family tree.”

  “I don’t understand. Are you saying you aren’t working on your family tree?”

  “I am, or at least I’ve started one, but that’s not the real reason for coming to see you.”

  “And what is?” Eyebrows raised, lips pursed.

  “I think you know that I spent last year trying to learn the truth about my mother’s disappearance in 1986.”

  “Yvette filled me in. I’m sorry that things turned out as they did. I’m even sorrier that you spent all those years with your father as your only family. We were wrong.”

  I shrugged. “It could have been worse. My father was a good man and a loving parent. Anyway, this isn’t about that, although I suppose in a way it is. I learned a lot about investigating the past last year. I decided to start my own business using that knowledge. I call it Past & Present Investigations. My friend, Chantelle Marchand, is my business partner.”

  Olivia clapped. “You have Anton’s blood running through your veins. Make lemonade from lemons, he would say, and serve it up in a nice crystal pitcher with matching glasses.”

  “I don’t know about lemons and lemonade. I do know I couldn’t bear to go back to working nine-to-five at a call center, and I’m not rich enough or old enough to retire. Past & Present Investigations seemed like the perfect solution. So far, we only have one client, although I’m sure there will be others. It’s that client’s case that brought me here.”