Past & Present

by Judy Penz Sheluk

  I skimmed through the rest of stories. Despite daily updates, few additional details surfaced. To compensate, the reports rehashed the facts as known. Anneliese had been in her kitchen. Her three-year-old daughter had been playing under the kitchen table when her mother was struck on the back of the head with a blunt object. The daughter, who was never named, ran to a neighbor saying a bad man had hurt her mother. Nothing I hadn’t already known.

  A photo of Anneliese and Horst on their wedding day, almost identical to the one in the train case, had been used over and over. One neighbor, who asked to remain anonymous, eventually came forward, adding a little bit extra to each day’s report in the Star, as if savoring her fifteen minutes of invisible fame. At least I assumed the neighbor was female. The murder had taken place during the day, after all, when most husbands were at work, and housewives looked for diversion.

  Horst and Anneliese were a quiet couple who liked to keep to themselves.

  * * *

  Anneliese doted on her daughter. Sometimes, I thought Horst was jealous of her.

  * * *

  Horst was very protective of Anneliese, you might even call him possessive, but then who could blame him? Anneliese was a looker.

  * * *

  I would often hear them argue when the windows were open.

  * * *

  Visitors? There was a woman once, but I only saw her backside as she was leaving. Anneliese told me she was the wife of an old friend. Never did get her name.

  And then, a rueful confession.

  I wasn’t home the morning it happened. I always do my day’s grocery shopping at ten, home by eleven. You can set a clock by me.

  “Our gossip isn’t the one Sophie went running to,” I said.

  “A regret the woman likely took to her grave,” Shirley said, grinning. “But it is unfortunate. Had she been home, she would almost certainly have seen or heard something.”

  Except she always did her food shopping at ten, home by eleven. What if Anneliese had told Anton that the best time to come over was between ten and eleven?

  Or maybe Horst killed Anneliese after all. Who better to know his neighbor’s routine? I could imagine Anneliese telling Horst, laughing at the woman’s dull predictability. I pushed the thought aside for the moment and showed Shirley the drawing from the Telegram. “This suggests the daughter was hiding under the table, not playing.”

  “Does it matter?” Shirley asked. “Either way, the poor lamb was there to witness her mother’s death. She must have had nightmares for the rest of her life.”

  “According to Louisa, she did.”

  “Well, thank heavens Horst didn’t know she was under that table. Then again, maybe he did, but couldn’t bring himself to kill his own daughter.”

  Or maybe he wasn’t the killer. “Let’s go to the next batch.”

  Horst’s arrest on May 1 made front-page news in the Star and page two of the Globe. Both recapped everything they’d written before, both used the same wedding photo of Anneliese and Horst. The Star’s reporter noted that a preliminary inquiry had been scheduled for June 7. The Crown Attorney was quoted, “The purpose of the preliminary inquiry is to determine if there is sufficient evidence to set the matter down for trial. In practice, the inquiry is used to test the strength of the Crown’s case.”

  The reports receded to the back pages for the next couple of days, eventually disappearing until June 6 and 7, when there was a reminder in the Star about the impending inquiry. On June 8, the preliminary trial made front page news once again, along with pencil drawings of Horst, dark circles under his eyes and sunken cheeks in stark contrast to his fair hair, a too-big suit that hung on a skeletal frame. I scanned both reports quickly. The bottom line was that the trial would commence on September 10, and was expected to last a week or less.

  “The trial is covered in these pages,” Shirley said, flipping to the next section in the binder. “I’ll sum them up for you now, and let you read them at your leisure, if that works for you.”

  “It does.”

  “The thing that struck me most was that there was no direct evidence that Horst killed Anneliese. There were, however, plenty of witnesses who came forward to testify about Horst’s jealousy and temper, mostly neighbors, but also some local shopkeepers. There were reports of bruising on her arms, as if Anneliese had been grabbed in a rough manner. The Crown did a commendable job painting the picture of a husband who was easily enraged.”

  “What about the murder weapon?” I asked, thinking about the crystal vase.

  “Never found, although the police explained that it would likely have been something heavy found in the house, a frying pan or a pot. There would have been sufficient time, they said, to dispose of the item before Anneliese’s body was discovered, or to simply scour it clean and put it back in the cupboard. Remember, there was no DNA evidence back then. It was a plausible explanation.”

  I shook my head. “No murder weapon and no direct evidence. It’s hard to believe Horst was convicted of manslaughter, even with the testimony of the neighbors and shopkeepers.”

  “Look at the pencil drawings. He has the appearance of a condemned man. But the nail in his coffin was Guenther Walther.”

  G. Walther. “The pastor who baptized Sophie?”

  “One and the same. Walther testified that according to Anneliese, Horst Frankow was not Sophie’s biological father. A copy of the Certificate of Baptism was put into evidence, but the name of the father was excluded from all newspaper reports as ‘not relevant’ to the trial. I’m assuming the judge ordered the papers to refrain from including Anton’s name, but that’s just an assumption. I have no idea if there was a limit on reporting testimony back then.”

  I tried to process everything Shirley had told me. Horst would almost certainly have had grounds for appeal—if he had lived long enough to file for one.

  “That’s everything on Anneliese and Horst,” Shirley said, interrupting my thoughts. She turned to the last page in the binder. “There was no mention of Anton Osgoode in any of the reports then, or later. The only thing I found was his obituary in the Star. I’ve included it in the binder. Since there is no mention of Anneliese or Sophie, I didn’t delve into it any further.”

  I appreciated Shirley’s attempt to spare me any embarrassment. “Thank you.”

  Shirley smiled, kindness emanating from her. “If that’s all, I’ll leave this with you and be on my way.”

  “You’ve done such a thorough job, and in record time. Louisa will be very pleased. Send me an invoice for the hours you’ve put in, and I do mean all of the hours. Our client expects to pay for services rendered.”

  “Very well, I will, on one condition. Promise that you’ll hire me again in the future.”

  “You have my word.”

  After Shirley left, I read the clippings from start to finish, and then reread them three more times looking for anything I might have missed, an inconsistency between reports, a random fact that hadn’t resonated.

  I kept going back to one statement. Visitors? There was a woman once, but I only saw her backside as she was leaving. Anneliese told me she was the wife of an old friend. Never did get her name.

  Olivia?

  34

  I was quick to hop out of bed as soon as the alarm buzzed the next morning instead of hitting the Snooze button. I was going to pay Randi a visit, and I was actually looking forward to it.

  I’d made the decision to bring nothing more with me than the vase and the suitcase. If Randi truly could read objects, I didn’t want that reality cluttered with facts garnered from postcards and photographs.

  As before, the breathy-voiced shopkeeper welcomed me as I entered Sun, Moon & Stars. Randi flitted down the stairs moments later and invited me into her room on the second floor. After we took our seats and exchanged basic pleasantries, I opened the train case, removed the crystal vase, leaving it inside its canvas carrying case, and put it on the floor next to my chair. Then I placed the case on th
e top of the desk.

  “I’d like you to start with this,” I said, all business. No cold reading from this client.

  Randi pulled the train case toward her, her ringed fingers studying every exterior seam before opening it. More careful examination, eyes open and closed, the eventual lifting of it to her heart.

  “This suitcase originally belonged to your murdered woman.” It was a statement, not a question.

  I nodded. It was a natural assumption. Nothing supernatural there.

  “So many secrets inside. Photographs. Postcards. Important documents. Some were long hidden beneath the seams at the bottom.”

  I didn’t respond. Chantelle had re-stitched the seams, and she’d done a good job of it, far better than I could have, but it didn’t take a psychometrist to see that they’d been tampered with. And why tamper with them unless something was hidden underneath? The cynic in me returned.

  “This type of suitcase was known as a cosmetic case back in the 1950s,” Randi said. “They were also referred to as train cases, although it almost certainly made a journey over water, as well as by rail. I sense it has traveled to many houses, and not always under the happiest of circumstances.” Randi rocked back and forth, the case now in her lap, eyes shut, her face skewed in concentration.

  I was starting to feel antsy, and more than a little bit silly. Perhaps she sensed my impatience because Randi opened her eyes and slid the train case toward me in a gesture of frustration. “I’m sorry. There are just too many impressions. Some are very old, others very new. I can’t seem to distinguish one from the other. It’s all a jumble. Perhaps if I had more time, but no, I don’t think so.”

  I’ll admit I was disappointed, though it did reaffirm my earlier skepticism. I took the case and placed it on the floor. “I have one other object. A vase.” I slipped it out of the bag and gently placed it on the desk.

  Once again, Randi went through her ritual, turning it upside down and over again. “This is a specially designed crystal vase,” Randi began. “It is signed and dated ‘R.C. Riedel nineteen- fifty-something,’ at the bottom, although I’m sure you’ve discovered that for yourself. I’m not sure if that’s a two or a five at the end. It’s very faint, it could be either. The craftsmanship and style is undoubtedly Czechoslovakian.”

  I hadn’t discovered anything for myself. In fact, I hadn’t taken the vase out of the canvas bag since Olivia had handed it to me. Some investigator. “Of course.”

  Randi placed the vase against her chest, her breath becoming ragged as perspiration formed on her brow. “I also believe you’ve found your blunt object. There is anger and pain, but there is also deep love, and something else. Jealousy? Fear?”

  Was Randi expecting me to answer? I remained silent. She closed her eyes again, her fingers tracing the patterns in the crystal. After a moment she began to nod as her breathing returned to normal. “I’m seeing an image now.”

  “What sort of image?”

  “There’s a mountain filled with roses of every color.” Randi’s eyes fluttered open, a smile spreading across her lovely face. “What time is it?”

  I looked at my watch. “Eleven fifteen.”

  “Eleven fifteen. Make note of the date and time, Callie. The women who owned this vase are finally at peace.”

  It wasn’t until I arrived home that I realized the significance of Randi’s words. Not “the woman who owned this vase,” but “the women.” I paced until Chantelle arrived an hour later, anxious to share the binder of news clippings Shirley had accumulated, and to discuss my visits with Olivia and Randi.

  Chantelle was equally eager to share her news. I let her go first.

  “Shirley was right,” she said. “The Helena Brown on the T.S.S. Canberra autograph page was Sophie’s godmother, Helena Bradford. She immigrated to Canada to marry Adam Bradford. As you can imagine, both Brown and Bradford are common last names, but I stuck with it, and managed to find a record of them, and their marriage, on Ancestry.ca.”

  “That’s fantastic.”

  “Not so fast. They’re both deceased, though Helena outlived Adam by about a decade. Regardless, if they knew what became of Sophie, or where she was fostered, or if they knew anything about Anton or Corbin, they took that knowledge to their graves.”

  My disappointment must have shown because Chantelle became defensive.

  “I know it’s not as exciting as it could be, but I thought it would demonstrate how thorough we were. Especially since my guess is you’re not about to confront Corbin any time soon.”

  It was my turn to be defensive. “I’m waiting for the right time.”

  “I’d say there’s no time like the present. We need that loose end tied up before we can present our final report, and we’re pretty much there.”

  She had a point. “Fine. I’ll call him now. In the meantime, here’s what Shirley came up with from the archives. Start reading and let me know what you think.” I blushed. “Do you mind reading them out on the deck? I need privacy if I’m going confront Corbin. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  Chantelle trundled outside without argument. I summoned up my courage and dialed. Yvette answered the phone.

  “Hello, Yvette, this is Callie.” I couldn’t bring myself to call her grandmother. “Is Corbin available?”

  “Hello, Callie.” Her tone was considerably cooler than the last time we spoke. I suspected she’d gotten a tongue lashing from Corbin for giving me Olivia’s address.

  “I’m sorry, this isn’t a good time, unless you’re calling to apologize for stealing Olivia’s vase.”

  “I didn’t steal her vase, she gave it to me.”

  “Owned it for sixty years, guarded it as though it were priceless, and then just handed it over when you visited her on Tuesday morning? After you were expressly forbidden from doing so. Did you think we wouldn’t find out? Never mind, don’t answer that. I will give you top points for timing. It was impeccable.”

  Impeccable timing? “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I heard her sharp intake of breath, then, “I’ll let Corbin know that you called. He’s busy making…I wouldn’t wait by the phone.” She hung up before I could say anything else.

  I made a pot of tea to calm my nerves, set up a tray with two mugs and six peanut butter cookies, and went out to find Chantelle.

  “Thanks, I was just going to come in and make a cup of tea. It’s a bit chilly out here.”

  “Not as chilly as the reception I just got from Yvette. As was to be expected, His Highness was not to be disturbed. Busy making something or the other. If he doesn’t call me by tomorrow, I’ll try again.”

  “That’s all you can do.”

  “Did you read all the newspaper reports?”

  Chantelle nodded. “I skimmed them quickly to get the gist. I’ll read them over more carefully at home. There isn’t anything in there we didn’t already know or suspect, outside of the pastor testifying. One thing did stand out, though.”

  “What was it?”

  “Hold on, let me find it.” She flipped through the pages. “Here it is, and I quote, ‘Visitors? There was a woman once, but I only saw her backside as she was leaving. Anneliese told me she was the wife of an old friend. Never did get her name.’ I wondered if the wife of an old friend might have been Olivia.”

  “I wondered the same thing. I’ll ask her the next time I see her if I can manage to get by security. I expect it will be difficult, if not impossible. Yvette just accused me of stealing Olivia’s crystal vase.”

  “So you got the vase? Did Randi see it?”

  “She did, the vase and the train case. The train case was a bust. Apparently it had too many impressions. She couldn’t distinguish one from the other. The vase, however…”

  I went to the cupboard where I’d stored it, took it out, and handed it to Chantelle.

  “It’s very decorative. And heavy.”

  “It’s Czechoslovakian crystal, and yeah, it is heavy. I almost dropped it
the first time I picked it up. It’s lovely, though, isn’t it? The two lovebirds, the pen, and the envelope.”

  “It’s hard to believe something so pretty could have been used to kill Anneliese.” Chantelle turned it over. “It’s dated on the bottom, 1950-something. It’s hard to make out, but it must be a two, since Anton and Anneliese met in 1952. What did Randi say about it?”

  “She believes it’s the blunt object that killed Anneliese. She also claimed to have seen an image of a mountain filled with roses.” I paused. “It was the oddest thing. She asked me what time it was, and I said eleven fifteen, and then she told me to remember the time and date. She said the women who had owned the vase were finally at peace.”

  “The women, plural?”

  “Yeah. I assume she meant Anneliese and Olivia. I suppose keeping the vase all these years served to remind her of Anton’s…” I paused midstream. “I need to read Anton’s obituary again.”

  “His obituary? Whatever for?”

  “I need to double check something.” I went to my files and pulled it out, skimming it quickly to find Olivia’s maiden name. Damn. Maybe there was something to this psychometry business after all.

  “Anton Osgoode didn’t kill Anneliese. Olivia did.”

  Chantelle stared at me, openmouthed. “Olivia? But Sophie said there was a bad man, not a bad woman.”

  “Sophie was three years old and playing under the table. All she would have seen was the person’s shoes. Maybe Olivia was wearing pants. Maybe Sophie said bad ‘mom,’ not bad ‘man.’”

  “I suppose it’s possible.”

  “Not just possible, probable. It explains Olivia’s guilt all these years. The reason the vase was one of the few things she brought with her to the retirement home. It served as a reminder of what she did. Killing Anneliese. Allowing Horst to go to prison for the crime. She felt responsible for his death as well as Anneliese’s. I think she went to visit Anneliese the time the neighbor spotted her, saw the vase, and knew it must have come from Anton.”