Past & Present Page 9

  I clicked on the link and was taken to the archives page for Forensic Sciences. I felt a faint flutter of hope when I saw the date range available: 1932-1961.

  The flutter quickly faded.

  Case files between 1931 to 1951 are arranged in alphabetical order. Case files between 1951 and 1961 are arranged by case file number. No list or finding aid is available for this series.

  I might have had a chance of requesting the correct file using an alphabetical search, but I had no hope of knowing the case file number. Would it be possible to request files by date, and weed through them looking for the Frankow murder? I pulled a yellow legal pad out of a drawer and made a notation. There might be more questions than answers. Making a list would make those questions manageable.

  The Investigation Records category exhausted, I went to the next category on the PDF, Prosecution and Indictment Records, and reviewed the available options. The Crown Attorney Prosecution Case Files 1865-1984 seemed to be a fit. I reread the description.

  These files were compiled by the Crown Attorney while prosecuting a criminal case before the General Sessions of the Peace, the County Court Judge’s Criminal Court, High Court of Ontario, or Supreme Court of Ontario. Each case file lists name of the accused, charge and plea, dates of court appearances, trial notes, names of witnesses, verdict and sentence. The file also contains a copy of the initial crime report and a summary of the police investigation. For more information, search the Archives Descriptive Database using the phrase Crown Attorney and the name of the county or district of interest.

  I clicked the link for the descriptive database and entered “Crown Attorney, York County, Toronto,” and after a moment’s thought, added “1956” to refine the search. This still netted me a list of fifty-one entries, with the keywords highlighted. Only one entry ticked all three boxes: the York County Summary Conviction Criminal Appeal Files. The York County part wasn’t a problem since Toronto had been part of York County before it seceded. The appeal files part, however, was a problem. As the prosecutor, the Crown had won the case. There would have been no need for the prosecution to appeal. And Horst had been killed in prison before he had the opportunity to appeal.

  I stood up and stretched, trying to release the tension that had built up in my neck and shoulders. Court Records, the next major category on the PDF, could wait for a half hour. It was time to burn off some stress. It was time for a three-mile run.

  One of my favorite things about Marketville was the twelve-mile paved trail system that ran through the center of town and followed the Dutch River through parks and green space, past wetlands and historic cultural sites. In short, a runner’s paradise. Even better, the trail system was just steps away from my new digs on Edward Street.

  There were other runners, couples holding hands, and moms with babies in strollers also enjoying the trail. I smiled as I ran by them, getting nods, waves, and the occasional high five. With the Around the Bay race on the horizon, albeit several months away, most of my runs were training focused: speed work drills to make me faster, time and distance to build endurance, hill repeats for strength and stamina. Today’s run was all about clearing my head of the clutter so that I could focus on the task at hand. I owed that much to Louisa Frankow.

  I owed that much to Anneliese.

  Fortified by the run, a quick lunch of a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup, and an even quicker shower, I poured myself a cup of cinnamon rooibos tea and got ready to tackle the rest of the Archives of Ontario available options.

  Now that I was relaxed and ready, the task ahead of me wasn’t as formidable as I’d first thought. Of the four remaining categories, only Court Records seemed applicable. Correctional Records were limited to those sentenced to a prison term of less than two years and most young offenders. Probation and Parole Records clearly didn’t apply, and Judges’ Benchbooks and Judgments was meant for cases more than seventy-five years old, with the added requirement of knowing the judge’s name.

  Okay, then, Court Records it was. A directive to search the Archives Descriptive Database using the phrase “criminal files” and the name of the county or district of interest prompted me to click on yet another link. I entered “criminal files, Toronto, 1956” in the keyword search. Of the one hundred and fifteen entries, not a single one had all three common denominators. It appeared that 1956 had been a very bad year when it came to archiving records. More bad luck.

  My last hope under the Court Records archives were the assorted Books associated with criminal trials. These included Minute Books, a brief chronological outline of cases heard before a criminal court, Docket Books for trials held on a particular day, and Procedure Books, which acted as a master day planner. There were also Judgment Books, title self-explanatory, and Order Books, a numerically arranged and bound record of all orders issued by the court.

  A search of the database using the recommended keyword, “book” yielded five entries, all for land grants in the nineteenth century. I pounded my fist on the table in frustration. We could archive the warrants for land grants in 1819, but the records from a murder case in 1956 had been destroyed.

  Or had they? Maybe I just wasn’t looking in the right place. There was a Contact Page at the end, with email and telephone numbers.

  Although unable to do your criminal records research for you, our reference archivists are waiting to assist you. You may telephone or write to them by mail or email or—best of all—visit the Archives of Ontario.

  I wasn’t up to a visit unless I knew the trip would be worthwhile. I picked up the phone and dialed.

  After listening to an automated greeting in English and French, and selecting English communication going forward, I was offered the option to speak to a reference archivist. A woman answered, her tone bright and cheerful. Encouraged, I told her that I was looking into a murder that occurred in Toronto in 1956, and hoped that Archives of Ontario could help.

  “Have you tried our online database?” she asked.

  “Yes, but I’m not sure I’ve done everything right. I couldn’t find any records.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s possible that the records were destroyed. Not everything made the transfer.”

  I didn’t ask the transfer from where. It didn’t matter where the documents came from if they no longer existed. “But it is possible that I missed something, isn’t it?”

  “Let me walk you through it to be sure you haven’t. Go back to the page with the Archives Descriptive Database.”

  “Done.”

  “In the Keyword Search, enter ‘Toronto, York County, Criminal, 1956,’ and then press Search. I’ll do it at the same time.”

  I was pretty sure I’d done that already, but I did it again. And once again, the records I was looking for weren’t there.

  “Hmmm,” the woman said. “Nothing in this batch. Let’s try a different approach. Go back to the database, clear the keyword field, and select the Advanced Search option.”

  I went back and followed her instructions. “Done.”

  “You’ll see three green tabs on the left. Select the central tab Search Groups of Archival Records. Enter ‘Criminal Records, York, and Supreme Criminal’ in the keywords.”

  I came up with a list of eight results. Only one included 1956, and I’d seen it before. Why hadn’t Horst Frankow lived long enough to appeal his case? At least then there might have been a record.

  “I’m sorry, there aren’t any other places to search,” the cheerful voice on the other end of the phone said. “We don’t have those records.”

  I was just about to hang up when another thought crossed my mind. “Would you have details of an occupational accident?”

  “We might if there was an autopsy. When was the accident?”

  “Last year.”

  “That would be too soon for archives. You might try the Office of the Chief Coroner. I’m not really sure what the process would be, or if they share those reports.”

  I’d already read the coroner’
s report. The details of my father’s broken body had been difficult enough to read the first time. I’d also read and reread the reports from the Workplace Safety & Insurance Board and the Ministry of Labor. My father’s fall from the thirtieth floor of a condo under construction had been blamed on his safety harness failing, either because it had been faulty or buckled incorrectly. There was nothing in either report that would help me prove he’d been murdered, let alone implicate my grandfather.

  I hung up feeling deflated and more than a little defeated, the glow from my earlier run a distant memory. I needed something or someone to cheer me up.

  I could have called Chantelle and had her commiserate with me over a glass of wine while we discussed the case, but I just wasn’t up to rehashing everything I hadn’t learned. I could have invited Arabella over for dinner and a long overdue visit, but since she referred Louisa to Past & Present, she’d likely want an update. I could have gone shopping for a new outfit, but I’ve never been a believer in retail therapy. I could have done a lot of things, some of them even involving copious amounts of chocolate or butter pecan ice cream.

  I called Royce.

  16

  Royce answered on the first ring. “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey back,” he said, his voice warm. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

  Warm voice or not, thinking wasn’t the same as calling. For a moment I felt embarrassed. I didn’t want Royce to think I was chasing him. Then again, we’d become friends, hadn’t we? Friends didn’t need an excuse to call each other. Besides, this was the twenty-first century. It was perfectly acceptable for women to call men.

  “I’ve been thinking about you, as well. I find myself in need of company that has nothing to do with Past & Present Investigations, or the case we’re investigating. It seems everyone I know is involved in some way. Except you, of course.”

  Royce chuckled softly. “Well, don’t I feel special. And here I was, planning to call and invite you to a play.”

  “A play? As in the theater?”

  “One and the same. Even contractors can enjoy the theater.”

  He said it in a teasing tone, but thanks to his stockbroker father’s dismissal of Royce Contracting, I knew that he could be sensitive when it came to stereotypical views of his profession. I decided to let the comment pass. Whatever response I had was bound to be the wrong one.

  “I haven’t been to the theater in ages. I’d love to go.”

  “Before you get too excited, it’s not exactly Kinky Boots at the Royal Alexandra.”

  “I love the Royal Alex, but I take it this is local theatre?”

  “Not local, as in Marketville, but yes, we’re talking regional theater. Porsche has decided to take up acting. She’s in a repertory group in Muskoka. They’re putting on Pygmalion. She’s playing the part of Eliza Doolittle.”

  Porsche was Royce’s younger sister. Her woven pillows, and more recently, tapestries, sold for nosebleed money at upscale boutiques in Muskoka’s affluent cottage country and Toronto’s Yorkville shopping district. “I had no idea Porsche could sing, let alone act.”

  “None of us did, but then again, Porsche never fails to surprise. She’s reserved five tickets for the opening matinee, which happens to be at the end of this month.”

  Five tickets. “Does that mean—”

  “I’m afraid it does. My aunt and both my parents will be there. You know how they feel about Porsche, she’s always been their favorite. Porsche just assumed I’d want to bring a date, and for some reason, she thought that date would be you. To be honest, I hesitated about inviting you. I know there will be tension after…well, after this past year.”

  Royce was right. There was no love lost on either side. Searching for the truth about my mother had seen to that. But I liked Porsche, and if I wanted to have a relationship with Royce, I’d have to make peace with his family. The question was, did I want to have a relationship with Royce, or did I want to keep him as a platonic friend, which wouldn’t necessitate getting tangled up with his family. My heart said relationship. My head said don’t get hurt again. I always seemed to screw things up, or get screwed trying not to. My father had called it the Barnstable family curse. I called it loser radar. But Royce wasn’t a loser. Maybe this time would be different.

  “What do you say?” Royce asked, interrupting my thoughts. “Are you up for it? We’ll be in public, so my dysfunctional family will be at their most gracious. And it really would mean a lot to Porsche.”

  “Let me think about it, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I heard the note of disappointment in his voice, and attempted to put things back on track. “Hey, I called you, remember? I wanted to see if you’d be interested in dinner. I know it’s Monday night, but I have a homemade lasagna in the freezer begging to be reheated, and all the fixings for a salad as long as you’re good with balsamic dressing.”

  “I’m good with balsamic. As for your lasagna, why didn’t you open with that? I’ll bring the wine. What time do you want me to come over?”

  “Any time. I’ll be here.”

  “Then I’ll see you at six. And Callie?”

  “Yes?”

  “I know my family has hurt you in the past, and there’s nothing I can do to change that. But Porsche had it right when she assumed I’d want to invite you to her play. I very much want to be a part of your present, whatever form that takes, friendship or something more, although full disclosure here, I am hoping for the something more. I hope you are, too.”

  Royce hung up before I could answer, which was just as well. I didn’t have an answer to give him.

  I had three hours before Royce came for dinner, which left me plenty of time to get things ready and spruce up a little. Okay, who was I trying to kid? I planned to spruce up more than a little. Still, even at my most narcissistic, a half hour of primping would do, and the lasagna wouldn’t go in the oven until after Royce arrived. Making the salad when he was here would give me something to do while we sipped wine and avoided the subject of “us,” whatever that meant.

  I had time to check our Facebook page and my post on train schedules from Quebec City to Toronto in 1952. There were several Likes and five Comments. The first three were generic, and while I appreciated the feedback, they weren’t particularly helpful:

  I traveled by train from Toronto to Moncton, New Brunswick in 1955 and had to change trains in Montreal.

  Sorry no information, I wasn’t born yet, but what a marvelous way to get some research. This is how Facebook should be used.

  My dad was a CN conductor on the Toronto to Montreal line. Have no idea how long the trip was but he always stayed over and worked the return trip.

  The last two comments provided a bit more information:

  Presumably the Canberra docked at Quebec City in the morning for Customs and Immigration. A mid-day Canadian Pacific train would take about 3.5 hours to reach Windsor Station in Montreal.

  The traveler would need an hour or two to transfer to the CN Central Station a few blocks away. (This was in the days before CN-CP pool train operations.) Then the fast CN train would take about six hours (3:30 to 9:30 p.m.) to reach Union Station in Toronto.

  That would have been part of the Quebec Windsor corridor, and certainly a trip to Toronto would have stopped at Montreal. It might have been a transfer at, or even between, one of the two rail stations in Montreal, Windsor (CPR) or Central (CNR).

  There was a link to a Wikipedia page on Windsor Station. I clicked on the link and scanned the entry. It offered a history on the station, now a historical site that housed offices, a hotel, and restaurants. It was interesting, but not particularly relevant to the case at hand.

  The fifth and final comment recommended a website called Old Time Trains. I checked out the site and knew I’d hit pay dirt. There were links to dozens of articles, stories, photographs, and archives. I found the Contact Us page and drafted an email.

  Hello. I am searching for information on a German i
mmigrant who lived in Nottingham, England, after WWII, and later immigrated to Canada via the T.S.S. Canberra, arriving July 7, 1952, in Quebec City, and settling in Toronto. What train would she have taken from Quebec City to Toronto—I am assuming a stopover/transfer in Montreal—and how long would the journey have taken? Would it have been on the same day the ship came in? Are passenger lists available? Thank you in advance for any information you might be able to provide.

  Sincerely,

  Calamity Barnstable, Past & Present Investigations

  I reread the email, and satisfied with what I’d written, hit Send. I got ready for Royce’s visit: a half hour of fussing and fidgeting with my hair and make-up, and another twenty minutes of trying on and taking off clothes. I ended up in black jeans and a moss-toned sweater that brought out the green in my black-rimmed hazel eyes. I surveyed myself in the full-length mirror, satisfied with my selection. Even so, I might have changed another dozen times if the doorbell hadn’t chimed.

  Say what you would about Royce, he was always punctual. I like that in a person.

  Let’s face it. I liked him. And apparently he liked me. It’s amazing how a reasonably confident thirty-seven-year-old adult can turn into a sixteen-year-old teenager filled with angst at the sound of a doorbell. I wiped my palms against my jeans and went to answer the door.

  Royce had brought a bouquet of mixed flowers—a supermarket special, but pretty nonetheless—a baguette, and two bottles of Australian wine: one white, one red. He followed me into the kitchen, where I pulled out a vase and two wine glasses. While not nearly as elaborate, the vase brought to mind the one in Olivia’s room. I forced the thought out of my head. There would be no thinking of the case tonight.