Past & Present Page 7

  She made it sound like I was the one who’d stayed away when the reverse was true. The Osgoodes had been the ones to abandon me, the child of their teenaged daughter, Abigail, and the unworthy Jimmy Barnstable. I bit back a bitter response, knowing it would end our conversation.

  “I’m working on my family tree.”

  An arched eyebrow. “Why?”

  “I have a friend, Chantelle, who’s into genealogy. She made it sound interesting.”

  “And is it?”

  I shrugged. “It’s too early to tell.”

  “I can assure you we’re not nearly as dull as our family tree might suggest.”

  I leaned forward. “Is that so?”

  “Not so fast. I need time to think about it. Do I want to share the story, or carry it with me to my grave? I’m not sure. Besides, I’m an old woman, ready for her afternoon nap.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have prepared you for my visit. Instead, I’ve barged in here unannounced and overstayed my welcome.”

  “Not at all. I appreciate the courage it took for you to come here. It couldn’t have been easy.” She paused, her bright blue eyes taking the whole of me in, top to bottom and back again. After a few moments she nodded, as if arriving at a decision.

  “Come back tomorrow at noon. Bring me a homemade tuna sandwich on whole wheat. Albacore, not the stuff that looks and smells like cat food. Packed in water, not oil, oil makes it too greasy. No salt, light on the pepper. Real mayonnaise, not that sugary salad dressing concoction they force us to eat here. Use enough that the sandwich is moist, but not so much that it makes the bread soggy. The tiniest bit of butter, not margarine. If you don’t have butter, leave the bread dry. Lettuce and thinly sliced cucumber and tomato. In turn, I’ll save some of the cookies you brought for dessert. They’re quite lovely. A nice combination of arrowroot biscuit and chocolate.”

  I wrote down her order the minute I was outside of her room, making sure I had every detail right. Olivia was testing me, and I intended to pass.

  11

  Olivia Osgoode took a dainty bite of her tuna sandwich, which I’d made to her exacting specifications.

  “He was a philanderer, you know,” Olivia said, setting her plate down on the table. “My husband, Anton. Your great-grandfather.”

  “A philanderer,” I said. “Are you saying that Anton cheated on you?”

  Olivia nodded. “His first dalliance was shortly after our wedding, although I was blissfully unaware of it for some time. Not that finding out would have made a difference. I got pregnant at eighteen in a time when we called it ‘the family way’ and marriage was the only option. Even if we weren’t tear-our-clothes-off passionate about one another, we got on well enough. Things were different back then, at least they were for unwed mothers. I didn’t want to be an unwed mother. I certainly didn’t want to wear the stigma of a divorce.”

  I couldn’t begin to imagine a time when social mores were so rigid they could compromise someone’s right to happiness. “Did you love Anton?”

  “I loved my son, Corbin, more than life itself,” Olivia said, ignoring my question. “Did you know that I suffered through three late-term miscarriages after he was born? That was another thing no one spoke openly about, along with menstruation and God forbid—the ultimate taboo subject—sex. For a while, people would ask Anton and I if we were planning to have more children. After a time, the questions stopped. With every miscarriage, Corbin increasingly became my world.”

  I could imagine my grandfather being doted on from cradle to college. It went a long way to explaining the man he’d become. “What about Anton’s world?”

  “I thought he felt the same way. Or at least I did until I found out about Sophie.”

  I creased my brow and tilted my head to the right, my attempt at looking confused. “Sophie?”

  “That’s the part of the family tree that isn’t quite so dull,” Olivia said, “although I need you to promise that you won’t share what I’m about to tell you with Corbin or Yvette. They don’t know, and there’s no reason for them to find out. Especially after all these years.”

  “You have my word.”

  Olivia stared at me with shrewd blue eyes. I held her gaze without flinching, easier said than done. After what seemed like an eternity, she continued.

  “Her name was Sophie Frankow, that’s spelled s-o-p-h-i-e, not s-o-f-i-e, last name f-r-a-n-k-o-w. She was Anton’s illegitimate daughter and Corbin’s half-sister.”

  I feigned a look of surprise bordering on shock, and pulled a pen and notebook from my purse. “Sophie Frankow,” I said, writing it down. “Do you know when she was born?”

  “March 23, 1953.” Olivia closed her eyes, as if trying to block out the memory. “It was ironic, really. March 23 also happened to be our wedding anniversary. Of course, I didn’t know about Sophie, at least not then. It would be another three years before her mother darkened my door. And I do mean darkened. The day Anneliese Frankow came knocking was the worst day of my life.”

  The admission seemed to cost Olivia because she slumped back in her chair, looking every moment of her ninety-one years and then some. I worried that she’d send me away again, but instead she asked if I’d make her another cup of tea while I cleaned up the dishes and got out the cookies.

  “There’s brandy in the bottom cupboard,” Olivia said as I took care of things. “I don’t imbibe often, but I could use a generous dollop in my tea. Feel free to join me.”

  I found the brandy and poured a shot into one of the bone china mugs. I planned to abstain, nothing against brandy, which I quite enjoy, especially straight up in a snifter, but I was driving. Besides, I needed to keep my wits about me. This might well be the last time Olivia allowed me to visit, and I didn’t intend to miss a thing.

  Two cups of fortified tea and three chocolate-coated cookies appeared to revive Olivia. By the time she pushed her mug and plate aside, the color was back in her cheeks, no doubt heightened by the brandy.

  “Where was I? Before we stopped for tea?”

  “You were telling me about the day Anneliese came to your house.”

  Olivia nodded, her lips pressed together in a tight line. “It was the Tuesday before our wedding anniversary, about ten o’clock in the morning. I was just getting ready to go to the market. I’ve always believed in shopping fresh every day, or at the very least, every other day, none of this stockpiling of groceries for me. Anton was out of town, something of a regular occurrence, especially in the 1950s and early ’60s. He was a buyer for Eaton’s, fine china and glassware.”

  Family owned and operated since being founded in the nineteenth century, Eaton’s Department Store had once been a household name across Canada, employing thousands. Unfortunately, alleged mismanagement by the last two generations of the Eaton family had resulted in the chain’s bankruptcy in 1999, sending shock waves throughout Canada. But working as a buyer for Eaton’s in the 1950s would have been a coveted position.

  It also explained why Anton had been traveling on the T.S.S. Canberra. While there were importers of china and glass at the time, a company the size of Eaton’s would have a buyer meet directly with manufacturers like Royal Doulton, Royal Albert, and Waterford Crystal, and that buyer would almost certainly be wined and dined. I couldn’t wait to tell Chantelle. “It sounds like a great job.”

  “It was both well paid and prestigious,” Olivia said, a note of pride in her voice. “In 1956 the average wage ranged from seventy to a hundred dollars a week. Anton made considerably more, and he invested it wisely. Corbin likes to pretend that his wealth is all about his business acumen, but the reality is he had a considerable financial cushion with which to start Osgoode Construction. But I digress.”

  Digress? As interesting as Anton’s backstory was, at this rate I’d be staying for supper. I gave Olivia what I hoped was an encouraging smile. It seemed to do the trick, because she got back on track.

  “As soon as I saw the woman at my front door, I knew she’d bee
n involved with Anton. She was his type. Blonde, brown doe eyes, pouty mouth, nice legs, trim figure, tiny waist. She reminded me of Vera-Ellen. Anton was infatuated with Vera-Ellen.”

  I must have looked a bit lost, because Olivia smiled ever so slightly.

  “You have no idea who Vera-Ellen was, do you? She was a dancer and a movie star. She co-starred in a few musicals in the late forties and fifties. Her best-known role was in White Christmas. The movie also starred Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, and Rosemary Clooney, who, by the way, is George Clooney’s aunt.”

  I tended to avoid Christmas movies, with the exception of the Alastair Sim version of Scrooge, finding them maudlin at best, and mind-numbingly dull at worst, especially the ones that reminded me of a cheesy romance novel. But I vaguely remembered White Christmas. I’d seen it years ago as a kid. There had been a lot of singing and dancing. Had I watched it with my mother? I knew now that she loved old musicals, had in fact named me Calamity Doris after Doris Day’s musical portrayal of Wild West frontierswoman, Calamity Jane.

  “I sort of remember White Christmas,” I said, knowing that I’d be googling Vera-Ellen the minute I got home. “It was a long time ago.”

  “It’s been a long time for me as well,” Olivia said. “As you can imagine, the thought of watching Vera-Ellen in anything was quite unappealing after Anneliese came to visit. Which brings me to the day that changed my life forever.”

  12

  The day that changed her life forever. I held my breath, worried that the slightest sound would discourage Olivia from continuing. I exhaled softly when she began.

  “She came to the door with a young girl dressed in a pink and white snowsuit,” Olivia said, a slight tremor in her voice. “She introduced herself as Mrs. Anneliese Frankow, a friend of Anton’s, and the girl as her daughter, Sophie. She emphasized Mrs., not that it mattered. The girl didn’t have Anneliese’s coloring, though I could have overlooked that. I could even have overlooked her black hair with eyes to match. What I couldn’t overlook was the girl’s obvious resemblance to Anton. She wasn’t much more than three, if that, but Anton Osgoode was stamped all over her face.”

  I tried to imagine what it would have been like. I’ve dated a two-timing triathlete, as well as a guy who’d dumped me for someone else on Valentine’s Day, but to the best of my knowledge neither of them had fathered a child while we were seeing one another. “It must have been a shock.”

  “Not as much as you might think. By then, I’d figured out that Anton’s business trips frequently included a fling or two. He tried to be discreet, but there were always signs. A faint trace of perfume lingering on his shirt, lipstick on his handkerchief, a matchbook in his coat pocket with a cabin number scrawled inside the cover. I chose to turn a blind eye. In return, Anton rewarded me with expensive souvenirs, silk scarves, and jewelry. It was easier for both of us that way. At least it was until I met Anneliese and saw Sophie. That, as they say, was a game changer.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I invited them in.”

  “You invited them in?”

  Olivia smiled. “You seem surprised.”

  “I’m not sure I would have been so accommodating.”

  “It had nothing to do with being accommodating. I had to find out why she’d come to our house three years after Sophie’s birth, and the last thing I needed was one of the neighbors listening in. There was enough gossip among the bored housewives on our street.” Olivia laughed. “As you can imagine, the thrill of cleaning, cooking, and laundry only went so far as a means of entertainment.”

  I found myself laughing with her. And liking her. I hoped she felt the same way about me. “What happened next?”

  Olivia stopped laughing. “Corbin had been playing in his room. He was eleven by then, and very much into building model airplanes. He came wandering out to see who was at the door. Anneliese’s face lost all color, and for a moment I thought she might faint. It was clear from her expression, or lack thereof, that she’d been unaware of Corbin’s existence.”

  I nodded and tried to think of something appropriate to say, but Olivia kept talking.

  “I was confident that Anton kept his infidelities confined to shipboard romances, another reason I was able to tolerate them. Anneliese’s reaction seemed to confirm that belief, but it was more than that. Despite his philandering ways, Anton was an honorable man. He wouldn’t have walked away from the responsibility of a child. Not if he knew about her.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Anneliese apologized for the intrusion, saying she’d made a mistake, and left, Sophie in tow.”

  I felt the crush of disappointment. I had naively believed that Olivia would have the answer to all my questions. Instead she’d led me to Anneliese and left me hanging. “Did you tell Anton about her visit? About your suspicions about Sophie?”

  “Yes, and I’ve been haunted by that decision every day since.”

  “Why haunted?”

  “Because two weeks after Anneliese came to my house, little Sophie knocked on her neighbor’s door. She was crying and babbling something about a bad man and her mommy. The neighbor tried the front door and found it unlocked. Anneliese was inside, lying face down on the kitchen floor. The medical examiner determined that she’d been struck on the back of the head with a blunt object. Death was instantaneous. Anneliese’s husband, Horst Frankow, was the prime suspect. It’s always the spouse or the lover, isn’t it?”

  “I can’t claim to be an expert. It certainly seems that way in books and on TV.”

  Olivia acknowledged the truth of that.

  “What happened to Horst Frankow?”

  “According to the newspaper, neighbors and friends claimed that Horst often flew into a jealous rage without provocation. There was also evidence of abuse, bruises and whatnot.”

  It went a long way to explain why Sophie ended up in foster care. It also reminded me that I needed to make searching newspaper archives more of a priority. “Sophie said something about a bad man. Surely she wouldn’t refer to her father that way.”

  “You wouldn’t think so, but I doubt the word of a three-year-old was given much weight, especially back then. Regardless, there must have been enough evidence against Horst for the police to make an arrest. He was charged with murder and convicted of manslaughter. The sentence was life imprisonment to be served at Kingston Penitentiary. He died three weeks after being incarcerated, stabbed in the shower by another inmate. Never even had a chance to file a formal appeal.” Olivia gave a grim smile. “Apparently wife killers don’t last long in prison.”

  Horst Frankow’s trial and death was also one more thing for Past & Present to delve into. “There is one thing I still don’t understand.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You said you were haunted by the decision to tell Anton about Anneliese’s visit. You didn’t say why.”

  Olivia’s eyes flickered toward the intricately etched crystal vase, filled with the red and white carnations I’d brought yesterday. It was a furtive glance, so quick that I wasn’t entirely sure I’d seen it. And then Olivia said the words that had haunted her for five decades.

  “The police never found the blunt object that killed Anneliese.”

  13

  We were sitting on the back patio, sipping white wine, and nibbling on hummus, pita, and assorted raw veggies. I’d just finished getting Chantelle up to speed on my visits with Olivia.

  “How are we supposed to tell Louisa that Anneliese was murdered by her husband?” Chantelle asked. “I know she suspected her grandmother had come to a bad end, but not like this.”

  I hadn’t told Chantelle everything. While I’d shared Olivia’s confidences, including Anton Osgoode’s position as a buyer for Eaton’s, his involvement with Anneliese, and his ongoing infidelity, I’d stopped short of telling her about the crystal vase. It wasn’t as if Olivia had come right out and said she suspected her husband of bashing in Anneliese’s head. It could be that her glan
ce at the vase had been nothing more than a glance, and I was reading more into it than there was.

  But my gut told me that Olivia believed Anton was the bad man little Sophie had seen kill her mother. That she’d carried the guilt of her belief throughout the rest of her life.

  I had wanted to ask Olivia about the vase. The etching on it was so intricate, a cornflower, along with two birds holding a ribbon in their beaks, an envelope beneath one of the birds. Was it a gift for Anneliese, something Anton would have brought back from England as a buyer for Eaton’s? If so, how did the vase come into Olivia’s possession?

  It had been the wrong time to ask. If I pushed Olivia too soon, she may have stopped talking, or worse, never invited me back. And I very much wanted to be invited back.

  I had taken my cue from her subtle yawn, offering to take her out for lunch on my next visit. The haste in which she accepted made me realize just how much she craved company, and an outing. I’d promised to call her in a couple of days to set a date, time, and place.

  “Earth calling Callie, come in Callie,” Chantelle said, laughing.

  I forced myself back to the present. “I’m sorry, I was thinking about Olivia. I like her. Incredible, isn’t it, that I might actually like a member of the Osgoode family? Anyway, in answer to your question, we don’t tell Louisa. Not until we have all the facts we can find. Three-year-old Sophie babbled something about a bad man when she ran to the neighbor’s house. She suffered from nightmares about it her entire life. I don’t believe she would have referred to Horst, the man she knew as her father, as a bad man. She would have said something like, ‘My daddy hit my mommy,’ or something along those lines.”