Past & Present

by Judy Penz Sheluk

  Chantelle’s charcoal eyes narrowed. “You don’t have to sound so snippy about it. I know you and Arabella have been friends since high school, but it’s not like we don’t know each other. Besides, I really was in Lount’s Landing on another matter. A potential client, if you must know.”

  “Sorry, I’m being ridiculous. Asking Arabella was a great idea. I should have thought of it. What did she say?”

  “She agreed to take part on an as-needed basis. We’ll also list the Glass Dolphin antiques shop on our website, and she’ll reciprocate. If someone brings us something old and possibly antique, we can email her photos and ask for her opinion. If she thinks it warrants a visual appraisal, we’ll take the object to her shop in Lount’s Landing.”

  “That sounds good for us, but how does it benefit Arabella?”

  “She does quick email appraisals now, but she covers herself by saying she can’t guarantee her appraisal without seeing the object in person. Arabella said ninety percent of the stuff emailed to her doesn’t have any significant monetary value, and is often not antique or vintage. If she thinks there’s a possibility of value or historical interest, she’ll set up an appointment for an appraisal. Her rates vary based on how much research she needs to do. Occasionally, when someone brings an item in for appraisal, they’ll want to sell it to her, or leave it with her on consignment.”

  “How would we pay her?”

  “We would bill her fee back to our client. With their permission, of course.”

  “It sounds as if you two have everything covered.” I heard the edge creeping back into my voice. So did Chantelle.

  “I was trying to be proactive, and you’re welcome. Besides, it’s not like you haven’t consulted Arabella in the past. Or have you forgotten about the locket and poster already?”

  I hadn’t forgotten. Both had played a significant role in last year’s search, and as much as it pained me to admit it, Chantelle was right about all of it.

  And that’s how Past & Present Investigations ended up with a team. Now all we needed was a client.

  4

  With plenty of paint, cleaning supplies, and Royce’s vision and muscle, Chantelle and I were able to transform 300 Edward Street into a multifunctional space. The main floor was an office space, the upper level was mine alone, complete with tiny master bedroom and minuscule guest bedroom, not that I was expecting any guests. The basement was reserved for storage, filing, a client bathroom, and laundry.

  Our first team meeting started out very sis boom bah minus the plaid skirts and pompoms. Chantelle was clearly pumped, and Misty seemed to share her enthusiasm. I was a little more apprehensive, likely because I was the one paying the bills. I’d never owned a business before, and I didn’t want to fail. I also didn’t know where to start, where to advertise, or how to generate traffic to the website.

  “Social media,” Chantelle said. “That’s our first step. A Facebook business page is a must. We can consider rolling out Twitter, Pinterest, and other platforms later. For now, let’s focus our attention on Facebook and try to build a following.”

  “How do we build a following?” I asked.

  “I think it’s important that we grow it organically,” Misty said, fluttering silver-sparkled blue fingernails. “It’s better to have ten bona fide followers who might be interested than one hundred who could care less.”

  I nodded. It made sense. “No argument from me. What about Chantelle’s Misty’s Messages idea, where you pull a tarot card once a week or so?”

  “I love the idea,” Misty said. “I can also set up a page that explains tarot. It’s important to have content people can get behind to draw them to the site. Any other ideas?”

  I suppose I could mention looking into my father’s death, but posting that quest online seemed far too personal.

  Chantelle came to the rescue. “Maybe if we pull a card today it will inspire us, Misty. Did you bring your tarot cards with you?”

  Misty had. She pulled the deck out of her purse, shuffled the cards, and asked me to split the pile in three. “Select one card from any pile.”

  I flipped over the top card in the middle pile. It was the King of Pentacles in reverse. “What does it mean?”

  Misty reached over and patted my arm lightly. “It means you’re worried about money. That what you have isn’t enough.”

  Maybe Misty was psychic after all.

  Chantelle and Misty had just left when my phone rang. I checked the call display. Arabella Carpenter.

  “What’s up?”

  “I just referred a potential customer to Past & Present Investigations. Her name is Louisa Frankow. She lives in Lakeside. She brought some paperwork into the shop, hoping to get some information.”

  A potential customer. “What sort of paperwork?”

  “Her grandmother’s immigration card to Canada in nineteen fifty-two, her passport, postcards, photographs, and letters. Nothing of monetary or historic value.”

  Nothing of monetary or historic value. My earlier optimism was waning. “What brought her to the Glass Dolphin?”

  “Louisa’s grandmother came to Canada from England by ocean liner. That’s how everyone emigrated in those days. The ship’s name is included on her immigration card.”

  “How does that translate to antiques?”

  “We have a fair bit of ocean liner memorabilia at the shop, along with several vintage posters promoting travel by air, rail, and sea. Emily started posting photos of the posters and related items on our website and Facebook page, along with some trivia to add interest. The campaign has been so successful that I’ve created a special travel corner inside the store. Maps, posters, vintage jewelry and memorabilia, an old train case from the 1950s.”

  Emily was Emily Garland, Arabella’s partner at the Glass Dolphin. Arabella’s heart was in the past and she had a gift for bringing the past into the present. Emily was a true millennial and social media was in her blood. As a former journalist, she was also adept at research. They seemed as unalike as two people could be, but they were terrific partners.

  “So Louisa found the ocean liner posts on Facebook and thought you might have something from her grandmother’s ship.”

  “Actually, the Facebook posts brought her to the Glass Dolphin, but it was the train case that really seemed to resonate with her.” Arabella chuckled. “It’s funny. I added that as an afterthought, something that would make the travel corner seem more authentic, but it’s the item customers want to talk about. It seems everyone’s mom or granny had a case like it and I could’ve sold a dozen train cases if I’d had them. Anyway, Louisa looked at the train case for a bit, left without saying anything, and came back two days later with the documents.”

  “Did you have anything that tied into her mom’s ship?”

  “Unfortunately, no. That’s when I thought of you and Chantelle.”

  “Hmmm. I suppose we could do some research on the ship, but I’m not sure how we could help her do something she should be able to do herself.”

  Arabella laughed. “There’s a winning attitude.”

  I felt myself blush. “Point taken. How can we help?”

  “Here’s what I know. Louisa’s grandmother died long before she was born. Her mother was raised in foster care from the age of three. Unfortunately, she died of cancer a couple of weeks ago, one month shy of her sixty-fifth birthday. Louisa found a train case in her mother’s closet, similar to the one we have in the store. Inside were her grandmother’s documents, letters, and photographs.”

  “And now she wants to find out everything she can about her grandmother.”

  “Exactly. Louisa also intimated there was some mystery surrounding the grandmother’s death, although she didn’t provide any specifics. I have no idea if there is or was a grandfather in the picture.”

  It was starting to sound intriguing. Whether it paid a bill or two remained to be seen, but I wasn’t about to turn down a client.

  “Thanks, Arabella. I appreciate it.
”

  “I know what it’s like to start a business, and I want to support you, but I’ll be honest. I debated contacting you about this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re still not ready to face what you’ve learned about your parents. Sooner or later you’ll have to come to terms with…everything. This digging into the past, it might be painful for you.”

  Well, well. It appeared that Past & Present wasn’t the only thing Chantelle and Arabella had discussed. “I’m perfectly capable of separating business from my personal life. As for my mother, I much prefer later to sooner, but thanks for your concern.”

  “That’s good news, because I’ve already given her your coordinates,” Arabella said, ignoring the sarcasm in my tone. “Just keep me posted, okay?”

  The promise extracted, I hung up, too excited at the thought of an actual job to stay annoyed. Besides, the rational side of me knew that Chantelle and Arabella only had my best interests at heart.

  I went upstairs and pulled a file folder labeled “Dad” from under the bed.

  That’s when the doorbell rang.

  5

  Louisa Frankow was a slender woman, about five foot two, with brown eyes the color of milk chocolate, and golden hair that fell in soft waves to her shoulders. I wondered if her hair color was natural and decided it had to be. I’ve never seen a shade of honey gold like that come out of a bottle. Why was it everyone’s hair was always nicer than mine?

  She was dressed conservatively in black slacks and a blazer, a white silk blouse open at the neck. Diamond studs in tiny earlobes. No rings. I pegged her to be in her mid-thirties, about my age, give or take a year on either side.

  She was carrying a small blue leather suitcase with cream trim, an ivory plastic handle, and brass locks. It was the right size to be a train case, used for toiletries and intimate essentials back in the day. I’ve learned quite a lot about luggage over the past year. It’s the sort of thing people like to keep their secrets hidden in.

  “I probably should have called and made an appointment,” Louisa said, staring at the file folder in my hand. “I can leave if you’re busy and make an appointment to come back another day.”

  I shook my head. “This can wait. Arabella told me you were coming.” Not entirely true, since Arabella hadn’t mentioned a specific date or time, but Louisa looked as if she was ready to jump out of her skin. “Come on in and have a seat. Wherever you’re most comfortable.”

  I’d set up the office space to include a six-foot long mission table and eight wooden chairs that could best be described as an eclectic mix. The table weighed a ton, and it had cost more than I’d wanted to spend, but it had plenty of drawers, allowing it to work as conference table, dining table, and desk. Arabella had given me a healthy discount on the lot. I’d also created a small, but intimate, seating area underneath the kitchen pass-through, with two reproduction mission oak recliners upholstered in an abstract fabric of hunter green, gold, and burgundy. Those I’d found on Craigslist for a song, and the extra-wide wooden arms meant I didn’t need end tables, which was just as well, given the lack of space.

  Louisa stared at the table. “It’s probably best to sit at the table so I can show you what’s in the suitcase.”

  “Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Sparkling water?”

  “Sparkling water would be great. Lemon if you have it.”

  I did. I went into the kitchen, took out a serving tray, then poured two glasses of water, sliced some lemon, opened a box of assorted chocolates, and put a few on a glass plate, along with some fresh strawberries, and cocktail napkins. Pleased with my presentation, I took everything into the office and placed it on the table. Louisa had taken a seat, the suitcase in her lap, as if she wasn’t quite ready to share the contents with me. I needed to make her feel comfortable.

  “Here you go. Help yourself, and tell me what brings you to Past & Present Investigations.”

  Louisa took a sip of water. “May I rest the suitcase on the table?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you.” She popped open the brass locks. Inside the case were several plastic storage bags, the kind you used at the airport to store your liquids. “I didn’t even know my mom owned this. It belonged to my maternal grandmother, not that I ever met her. My mom was raised in foster care. She aged out at sixteen, shoved out of the system without any support. The experience soured her.”

  “What about your father?”

  “Not in the picture. My mom got pregnant at eighteen. I don’t know whether it was a one-night stand or she fell for the wrong guy. She never elaborated. I do know that whoever he was, he didn’t contribute a dime of support. I’ve certainly never met him. Nor do I care to.”

  “Did your mom ever marry?”

  “Never even dated anyone again, or if she did, she certainly never brought him home. We weren’t rich, but I didn’t want for anything.” Louisa grimaced. “Well, that may not be entirely accurate. I longed for affection. My mom had a hard time displaying any emotion. Every feeling she ever had was neatly compartmentalized. Not surprising considering her upbringing and my deadbeat dad. But she did her best. We did our best.”

  I wondered if Louisa had ever been married, or if she’d followed in her mother’s footsteps.

  “You’re probably wondering if I ever married,” she said, reading my mind. “The answer is, yes, three times. Husband number one when I was barely legal age to tie the knot. He turned out to be a gambler. He lost our toy poodle in a poker game, if you can imagine that. Husband number two was a drinker who couldn’t hold down a job when he went to the trouble of finding one. Husband number three was a serial cheater who didn’t even try to hide his infidelity. I left him two years ago and swore off men. I earn a decent living as a credit manager. It helps that I’m bilingual, especially if I’m traveling in Quebec.” She named a national automotive glass company. I knew they owned a couple hundred windshield replacement retail stores across Canada.

  “What’s in the train case that makes you want to dig into the past?”

  Louisa removed one of the plastic bags, pulled out a photograph and handed it to me. “This is my grandmother. Her name was Anneliese Prei.”

  The resemblance to Louisa was uncanny. Despite the sepia tones of the old photo, it was obvious that her hair had the same honey-gold soft waves, and that her eyes were the color of milk chocolate. Even the mouth, full lipped and pouty, was identical. But it was the tilt of her nose, the slightly haughty way she held herself, which took her from look-alike to doppelgänger.

  “She was beautiful. You look like her. You’re older, of course, and she has an edge about her that you don’t seem to possess, but overall, the resemblance is uncanny.”

  “I always assumed that I took after my father. I certainly don’t look anything like my mom. When I saw this picture, it was as if my grandmother was calling out to me from the grave.”

  Maybe she was and maybe she wasn’t. Either way, I understood. I’d felt the same way the first time I saw a photograph of my mother.

  “And now you want to find out everything you can about her.”

  Louisa nodded, her brown eyes serious. “My mom always believed that my grandmother had come to a bad end.”

  “What sort of bad end?”

  “I honestly don’t know. My mom was only three when her mother died, and I’m guessing there wasn’t any other family, including a responsible father figure. If there were, she wouldn’t have wound up in foster care, would she? But my mom used to experience terrible nightmares. She’d wake up screaming ‘bad man, bad man.’ Might have stemmed from a repressed memory.”

  The repressed memories of a three-year-old child and nightmares of a bad man weren’t much to go on, especially since the holder of the memories was dead. Once again, Louisa seemed to read my mind.

  “My mom had a manila envelope with some photographs from when she was in foster care. There aren’t many, but they might help. I’ll drop it
off later this week.” Louisa managed a rueful smile. “One manila envelope, for a child who lived in foster care for thirteen years. It’s beyond sad, when you think about it. Anyway, I don’t know why I didn’t bring the envelope with me. I’m afraid I’m not thinking clearly these days.”

  “Not thinking clearly goes with the territory after you lose someone you love, especially your mother, no matter how complicated or strained the relationship was. But yes, anything you might have of your mom’s could prove helpful. Are there any other photos?”

  “A few photographs, along with some birthday cards she gave me over the years, all stored in an old Laura Secord chocolate box. I can’t imagine anything in the box will be much help. The cards, what could they tell you beyond the fact that she was a proud mother? As for pictures, she didn’t take many. She worked as a receptionist for an office furniture company, not exactly a lucrative career choice, but there weren’t a lot of opportunities for someone with a grade ten education, even back then. Money was always tight. Food, rent, and bus fare came first, though she would always spring for my annual school photo.” Louisa attempted another smile. “I don’t think she wanted me to feel left out.”

  “Could you take a look at the photos? I’m interested in any that include other people.”

  Louisa nodded. “I can do that.”

  “Can you think of anything else?”

  “There’s a jewelry box, but I don’t think there’s anything in there of any real value.”

  I thought about the Art Deco locket I’d discovered in the house, and how important it had become in finding out more about her past. “You could be right, but I’d still like to see it, if you don’t mind.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Perfect.” I pulled the train case toward me. “What can you tell me about the contents?”

  “What you see is what you get. Some old postcards from the ship my grandmother came over on, a handful of black and white photographs. I’ve stared at them for hours. I even tried to do some research on my own, but I’ve never been good at solving puzzles, and my job is quite demanding. Time is the one thing I don’t have to spare. I do, however, have some money, thanks to my mom’s estate. It turns out she was quite a miser.” Louisa laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. “All those years of scrimping and saving, for what? To die alone at sixty-four?”