Past & Present Read online

  The certificate was signed by G. Walther, Pastor, and witnessed by Adam Bradford and Helena Bradford. The purple stamp signifying the name and address of the church had been faded to the point where the only legible text was “St.,” “Chur,” and “Toronto,” the last t and o in Toronto almost invisible. Unless Chantelle could find out something about a G. Walther, a pastor in 1953, the church would remain unknown, not that the name of the church really mattered.

  It didn’t even matter that Sophie’s father wasn’t Horst Frankow. We’d suspected as much, even if we hadn’t expected to find written proof in the form of a Certificate of Baptism. It was the surname of the father that Chantelle and I recognized.

  Osgoode. As in Corbin and Yvette Osgoode. My mother’s parents. My grandparents. And we were far from close, given that they’d disowned my mother when she came home pregnant at seventeen. That disassociation had remained, even after I was born.

  I’d recently started working on a family tree on Ancestry.ca. Call it closure, or validation, or just plain curiosity after everything Chantelle had told me about genealogy. As a result, I’d learned that Anton Osgoode was my great-grandfather, and that he’d died in 1987 at age sixty-six. There had been no record of anyone named Anneliese, at least not in what I’d discovered so far. I also knew that my great-grandmother Olivia was still alive at the age of ninety-one, at least the last time I checked, and that she had never remarried.

  It also meant that I was related to our client, Louisa Frankow, though my boggled state of mind was currently unable to figure out what that relation might be. Possibly half first cousin once removed?

  My thoughts slid off course to an added twist. I suspected that in some way, Corbin Osgoode had been responsible for my father’s occupational accident. I just hadn’t been able to prove it. Yet.

  Past & Present Investigations had just taken on a whole new meaning.

  9

  Chantelle got ready to leave. She promised to search for a passenger list from the Canberra, as well as start the genealogical research on Anneliese Prei and Horst Frankow. She could have pushed me on the Anton Osgoode stuff, but she didn’t, and that’s one of her greatest strengths, the ability to read people’s emotions and respond to them. I appreciated her all the more for her innate sensitivity.

  “I’ll add checking the Toronto Star’s newspaper archives to our to-do list,” I said. I might have been feeling shell-shocked, but we still had a job to do.

  “Good idea. I’d recommend starting in 1950 and working through the years.” Chantelle shot me a pitying glance. “It’s not going to be an easy job.”

  “Nor one I’m looking forward to.” I thought about the hours spent at the library looking at microfiche for news items about my mother. It was slow, tedious work, though Shirley, a former librarian, seemed to thrive on it. But it could pay dividends, as I’d discovered for myself. I made a list of names. “Anneliese Prei, Anneliese Frankow, Horst Frankow, Sophie Frankow, Louisa Frankow, and Anton Osgoode. Am I missing anyone?”

  “The pastor, G. Walther,” Chantelle said. “And Adam and Helena Bradford. They were witnesses at the Baptism, and could be Sophie’s godparents.”

  “Which brings us to another mystery. I’ll admit that I’m not well-versed in religion, but aren’t godparents supposed to look after the child if something happens to the parents? Why would Sophie have gone into foster care if she had godparents?”

  “Unless Anneliese had a will specifically naming the godparents as custodians, they wouldn’t have a legal obligation to look after Sophie.”

  “Hmmm. I think it’s unlikely that Anneliese had a will.”

  “Agreed. Of course, it’s also possible that the godparents were the ones to put Sophie in foster care. Whatever their story is, they have to go on the list.”

  “Done. I’m also going to give Louisa a call. I’d like her to bring over Sophie’s jewelry box and the rest of the photos sooner rather than later.”

  “As long as I’m here when you go through them.” Chantelle gave me a quick hug. “I’ll leave it up to you on how much you want to tell Louisa.”

  Meaning, would I tell her that we were related. I knew I’d have to, at some point, but not yet. Not until I figured out how everything tied together. I called Louisa at her office and got her voicemail saying she’d be out of the office for the next week. I left a message saying we’d already made some progress, but could really use Sophie’s photos and jewelry box when she returned. I started a written report as soon as I hung up, including billable hours. For a moment I felt a bit like the late Sue Grafton’s fictional private detective, Kinsey Millhone, albeit without the index cards and black all-purpose dress. The thought made me smile.

  What didn’t make me smile was the thought of contacting Olivia Osgoode. I hadn’t made an effort yet, given my strained relationship with my grandparents, most notably her son, Corbin. He had shunned his teenaged, pregnant daughter, my father, and, in turn, me. I also knew arranging a meeting was necessary and soon, in light of her age. I hoped all her faculties were still intact.

  But how would I find her? I searched for her name only and came up empty. No surprise there. How many ninety-one-year-olds had Facebook pages or residential landlines in their own names? Plan B would be to call every retirement residence in Cedar County, but the thought of doing that exhausted me, especially since my queries would almost certainly be blocked for privacy reasons. That left Plan C: call the Osgoodes and ask. I slid a tube of cocoa butter lip balm out of a drawer and smoothed it on, pondering the ramifications of contacting my grandparents. Part of me wanted to keep them at arm’s length while I attempted to investigate Corbin from the sidelines. The other part considered the old adage, “keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”

  I picked up my cell, flipped through my contacts, and dialed. If I got lucky, Yvette would answer the phone, and I wouldn’t have to deal with Corbin.

  I got lucky.

  If Yvette Osgoode was surprised to hear from me, she gave no indication, though a hint of sarcasm rang out strong and true.

  “Callie. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  I wanted to call her grandmother, but the name stuck in my throat. Calling her Yvette seemed disrespectful, although I wasn’t quite sure why. I decided not to call her anything, and plunged ahead with my prepared story.

  “I’m working on my family tree.”

  “Are you? I hear a lot of people do that these days.”

  No offer of help, not that I expected any. “I’m hoping to get in contact with Olivia Osgoode. My great-grandmother.”

  “I’m well aware of who Olivia Osgoode is.” Yvette’s tone was positively acerbic. “What I don’t understand is why you feel the need to contact her. She’s old, cantankerous, and she has a tendency to live in the past. She’s never expressed the slightest interest in meeting you.”

  Sucker punch to the gut delivered. “Perhaps she followed her son’s lead. Regardless, I’m willing to take my chances at rejection. I’ve had plenty of experience in that department.” Sucker punch right back at you, Grandma. As for Olivia living in the past, couldn’t that work to my advantage? I wanted her to revisit the past, not get all caught up in the present. I wasn’t looking for a family reunion.

  There was a lengthy silence on the other end of the line. I forced myself not to speak. This was a battle of wills, one that I was determined to win.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Yvette spoke. “She’s at the Cedar County Retirement Residence. It’s in Marketville, at the corner of Mavis and Lester. Room eighteen on the third floor. It’s up to her if she wants to see you. I won’t interfere either way, not that it would matter if I did. She’s always found me insufferable, a feeling that I assure you is mutual.”

  I resisted telling a mother-in-law joke, thanked her for her time, and hung up before we could get into anything remotely personal. Whatever road Yvette was ready to go down with me, I wasn’t willing to join her. At least not while Corbin
was alive.

  I checked my phone for the time and was surprised to find it approaching four o’clock. It would be too late to pay Olivia a visit. I’d volunteered at a retirement home during high school as part of my community service hours. The one thing I’d learned was that dinner hour started early, as did bedtime.

  Temporarily frustrated, I closed my eyes and considered other avenues to explore. There’s something about closing my eyes that helps me shut out the world and allow my subconscious to take over. It didn’t take long for an idea to take hold. I could study the photographs from the Canberra.

  I selected the two photographs of Anneliese in the ship’s tourist class lounge and placed them side by side on the table. Except this time, I wasn’t looking for Anneliese.

  It took me a few minutes to zero in on every other person in the photos, and compare them, disregarding anyone who appeared in only one. That left me with three people, in addition to Anneliese: two women, and one man. I wasn’t particularly interested in the women, especially since neither were standing anywhere near Anneliese. I was, however, interested in the man. In the photo of Anneliese by the piano, he was standing across the room, but he was definitely looking in her direction. Even better, in the picture where she was mixing and mingling, he was standing next to her. He wore a tweed suit, striped tie, white shirt, and a wide smile.

  I pegged him to be about thirty years old. Height five foot eleven give or take an inch on either side, which I deduced from Anneliese’s recorded height on her passport of five foot four, along with an estimation of the two-inch heels on her peep-toed pumps. His hair was almost black, the waves slicked back in the style of the day, his eyes deep set and equally dark, his nose straight and narrow. Broad shoulders on an otherwise trim build, despite the fashionable, if baggy, pleated trousers. A handsome man who carried himself with the self-confident assurance of the good-looking.

  I pulled a magnifying glass from a drawer in the table and hovered it over his features, taking them in one by one until no doubt remained. Age, hairstyle, and fashion differences aside, this man was a dead ringer for my grandfather. True, Corbin Osgoode’s hair was now on the snowy side of white, but I’d seen pictures of him in his youth. He’d had the same wavy black hair, the same trim, broad-shouldered physique, the same self-assurance. I’d always assumed it was because he had nosebleed money. One look at Anton made me realize it was more than that.

  It all added up to one thing: the tall, dark, and handsome stranger in the photo was my great-grandfather, Anton Osgoode. The plot had indeed thickened.

  I forced myself to make some dinner, if you consider heating up canned French Canadian pea soup making dinner. I’m not usually a tinned soup kind of person, preferring to make my soup from scratch, but there was something about this brand of pea soup that I found comforting, perhaps because it had been one of my father’s favorites. Add a crusty roll, and you were golden. Not that I had a crusty roll. I did, however, have a loaf of rye bread in the freezer. It would have to do.

  I considered my next move while sopping up soup with slices of lightly buttered rye toast. I’d have to tell Chantelle what I’d discovered, that much was a given. But first I’d pay a visit to Olivia Osgoode. A surprise visit, if Yvette had kept my phone call to herself. I remembered her reaction to the mention of Olivia’s name, and thought that the odds were in my favor.

  I pushed the remaining bread and soup aside and started planning my strategy. Everyone needed a strategy. Didn’t they?

  Morning didn’t arrive soon enough for me. I’d had a sleepless night, unaided by a generous glass of Australian Chardonnay before bed. If anything, the wine had served to keep me awake. Live and learn.

  I stopped at the supermarket and bought a bunch of red and white carnations, the freshest-looking flowers in an otherwise sorry-looking selection. Not sure whether to go with chocolates or cookies, I settled for a box of chocolate-coated cookies. It was now or never.

  Cedar County Retirement Residence was brand new and seriously swanky, a five-story red brick building with generous green space surrounding it, and plenty of free parking for visitors. A quick online search revealed it cost upwards of five thousand dollars a month, without extras like meals delivered to your room, or day trips to the mall or doctor. Olivia’s government pension wouldn’t cover the rent, but when it came to money, the Osgoodes weren’t exactly hurting.

  The lobby featured oversized porcelain tiles in a rich, creamy shade, a tray ceiling sprinkled with pot lights around a large, oval skylight, and pale gold walls. Two curved sofas, upholstered in muted burgundy striped satin, framed a round mahogany table. An enormous bouquet of mixed flowers stood in the center.

  I made my way to the glass-and-granite reception area, where an attractive platinum blonde in her early thirties greeted me with a condescending smile and an inquisitive stare. Clearly most visitors were regular. Or regular enough. A first-time visitor with carnations and chocolate-covered cookies was viewed with suspicion.

  I had my spiel memorized. “I’m here to see Olivia Osgoode. She’s in room eighteen on the third floor.”

  “East wing or west wing?”

  Damn Yvette for leaving out that little detail, no doubt intentionally. “I’m not sure, to be honest.” I put on my brightest smile. “I’m her great-granddaughter, Callie.”

  Platinum Blonde raised a thinly plucked black eyebrow. “Olivia didn’t mention that she was expecting any visitors.”

  “I’m trying to surprise her.”

  At this, Platinum Blonde’s mouth puckered in disapproval. “We don’t encourage surprise visits with our older residents.”

  Weren’t all of their residents older? I bit back a snarky response. “I did clear it with my grandmother, Yvette Osgoode. She had no objection.”

  The name drop worked. It would appear that Yvette Osgoode was a force to be reckoned with, even if her feelings for Olivia were less than loving. I followed Platinum Blonde’s directions down to the west wing elevator, pressed the button for up, and waited for the ding. I could do this.

  I could.

  10

  Olivia Osgoode’s room was compact, but well appointed, with a living room and a separate kitchenette equipped with bar-sized refrigerator, microwave, kettle, and coffeemaker. Two white colonial doors, both closed, undoubtedly led to the bathroom and bedroom. The décor and furnishings were surprisingly modern: hardwood floors the color of cognac, glass and chrome coffee and end tables, a wall-mounted flat screen television, and a black leather sofa with matching chair. There were a couple of rose pink throw pillows on the sofa, the walls painted to match, the only hint of a feminine touch. The overall impression was one of a downtown Toronto condo rather than a retirement residence.

  Olivia sat upright and rigid in the chair. She was a fine-boned woman with translucent skin that had been lined by age in the gentlest of ways, as if an artist had painted in the wrinkles, and then smudged the paint to soften them. She assessed me with clear blue eyes and I got the distinct impression she didn’t suffer fools gladly. Unfortunately, a fool is just what I felt like, standing before her, carnations and chocolate-coated biscuits in hand.

  “You have your father’s eyes,” she said. “Jimmy Barnstable wasn’t nearly good enough for my granddaughter, but he did have nice eyes. Black-rimmed hazel. You don’t see that often.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I opted for silence and stood before her like a chastised schoolgirl. She must have taken pity on me, because when she spoke again, it was to direct me to a crystal vase in the cupboard above the refrigerator for the flowers, and to another cupboard for napkins and a plate for the cookies. I managed to take care of both tasks and set everything on the coffee table without dropping them, a miracle given the unexpected weight of the vase and my shaking hands.

  “Tea would be nice with the cookies you brought.” Olivia said. “You’ll find a tin of Earl Grey in the pantry, along with a teapot. I can’t abide the idea of tossing a teabag in a mu
g and pouring some hot water over it. Pure laziness. The key to a perfect cup of tea is to ensure the water reaches a proper rolling boil. Then rinse the teapot with some of the boiling water before putting in the tea and filling the pot with water. Let it steep for exactly four minutes, not three and not five. In the meantime, you’ll find bone china mugs in the cupboard above the cutlery drawer, along with the sugar pot. There are creamers, milkettes, and fresh lemon in the refrigerator. I try to keep them on hand for visitors, though those are often sadly lacking, present company excluded. I take my tea black.”

  I took my tea black as well, which at least eliminated one of Olivia’s instructions. I plugged in the kettle, found the teapot and bone china mugs, and waited for the kettle to come to a boil. When it finally did, I rinsed the teapot before adding the water and tea, and set the chronometer on my watch. At exactly four minutes, I poured the tea, brought the mugs to the table, and took a seat on the sofa, grateful for the reprieve. I’d been here less than ten minutes and was already exhausted. It was easier to run a marathon.

  Olivia took a cookie and dipped the tip into her tea with arthritic hands. It was a small gesture, but it made her seem more human somehow, less imperious. I followed suit, and for a brief moment we enjoyed our tea and cookies in companionable silence.

  “How did you find me?” Olivia asked, setting down her mug.

  “Yve—My grandmother told me where you lived.”

  “Anywhere but with her and my son,” Olivia said, drily, “although Corbin insists on managing my financial affairs. He believes that I’m no longer capable of doing it myself, as if growing old is synonymous with becoming stupid. I could almost understand that, but he doesn’t trust me to hire a professional, either. He’d rather tell me how much he’s doing for me.” She summoned up a sad smile. “I’m not complaining. I have my meals and snacks delivered to my room, or I can eat in the dining room with the droolers, deaf, and dim-witted. There’s a well-stocked library on the main floor, and nursing care when I need it. There are worse places to live. But enough about me. What brings you here after all these years?”