Chapter Twenty–One
The morning after my Dominion basement adventure is a Saturday. I thought I’d never fall sleep last night, but the adrenaline finally wore itself out, and I crashed hard.
Matthew, my humble saviour, said nothing about my hysterics as we stood there on Front Street, though I did hear him reassure a few passersby that I was all right.
Neither did he scold me nor rub in the fact that he’d tried to dissuade me from visiting the basement.
Especially alone. In fact, he only asked two questions.
First, was I all right? Second, had I found what I went for?
“More than I imagined,” I said.
I started to say more, but he very gently advised that I should get ahold of myself before I relived it all. Maybe get some rest so I could think straight. A bath, he suggested. I nodded, not speaking, so he held up his arm and hailed a taxi, which took me home.
Usually, my Saturday mornings are relaxing.
Today is anything but. First thing, I head to the police station, my head full of questions.
What would that man have done if he’d found me in the storage room last night?
Where would I be if it weren’t for Matthew?
What about those crates? Was that really cocaine?
If so, I’ve stumbled upon a major operation.
I’ve seen dozens of crates, in both the hotel and the Sixes.
And that’s exactly what I report to the bored, middle-aged police detective when I arrive.
I give Detective Jones everything he needs to know: my job, my reason for being at the hotel, and even my daring escapade last night.
I finish in the basement storage room, the one that’s not on the hotel blueprints, the one packed with those crates full of white dust and the mysterious door at the other end.
The door that just might lead to a tunnel.
“Claudia Vale?” he mutters when he finally picks up a pen to take notes.
“Yes, she is my boss. Vale’s—”
“We know who she is,” he says. “She’s under investigation already.”
My heart jumps. “She is? For what?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you, miss.”
“Is it for being a shoddy inspector, or for smuggling cocaine?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Why is he unimpressed? I’ve just handed him an amazing case, pretty much tied up with a bow. “Detective Jones, I don’t—”
“Miss Kelly,” he says, setting his pen to the side and lacing his fingers together.
I hear condescension and brace for it. “Thank you for coming in today. As I said, Miss Vale is under investigation, but I am not at liberty to tell you the nature of that investigation. Trust me, we are already aware of most of what you just told me.”
I frown. They already know? How is it still going on, then? “Will you question her based on my information? Are you investigating Montey Series, too?”
He sighs.
Why hasn’t she been arrested? She should at least be questioned about all those crates of powder, shouldn’t she? And what am I supposed to do?
“Should I keep working for her? Am I supposed to just go on about my business and pretend I don’t know?” I point at his pad of paper. “You didn’t even write down what I said.”
He groans slightly as he gets to his feet and gestures for me to do the same. “That’s because we already have it. We now have your name and information to add to what we know. Thank you for being a good citizen and coming to see me about this. Have a good day.”
That is not how I expected this to go. I don’t understand the police officer’s indifference to my story.
His casual assurances that they will “get to it.” I hug my purse against my chest and walk quickly home, oddly nervous.
I have a terrible feeling rumbling through me, as if I need to protect myself.
Maybe it’s just a lingering fear after last night’s close call, but I keep seeking out threats between doorways, alleys, and across the street.
My step slows while I think. I wonder if I should go back to the station and report all this again, but to a different detective.
But that would be a waste of time, wouldn’t it?
I know how this works. Jones has opened a file on me, so he is in charge of anything going forward.
Just like I take care of my own file in my business.
But I don’t trust him.
My pulse is racing. I need to get home and curl up in a safe little ball. I’m almost there when I change my mind. There’s one place in my life that feels even safer than my apartment. I pull out my phone.
BK: It’s your favourite granddaughter. Up for a little brunch?
Grandma: I was hoping you would come see me!
By brunch, I mean donuts, and Grandma knows that.
For us, brunch can happen at any time of the day or night, but it always involves donuts.
Right now, I have a craving for Tim Hortons and the security of my grandmother’s soothing presence.
I grab the pastries and call an Uber. I’m probably overreacting, but I don’t feel safe riding a bus this morning.
“Oh! You’re so quick today!” Grandma exclaims as she opens the door.
“I was hungry,” I say, giving her a careful hug.
“Come in, come in! Did you bring the—”
“Honey glazed? Of course! How could I come without that?”
I smell the English breakfast tea she always drinks, and I know the teapot and cups are waiting in the other room. She’s set it up like that forever, but I am aware that it’s a much bigger job these days. She has enough trouble walking, let alone carrying a heavy, boiling-hot teapot and two cups.
Grandma and I settle into our regular seats, and I frown. “You said you’d let me carry the tea in this time.”
“I couldn’t wait.” She claps her hands together. “What a treat, to see you twice in a week!”
She insists on doing as many things as she can, which impresses me. I want to be that resilient when I’m her age, if I live that long. But I worry she’ll overexert herself because of her stubborn nature.
I pour the tea as she picks up the old remote and turns down the volume of the TV.
She never turns it off when I’m there, just lets it drone quietly in the background.
I wonder if it ever gets turned off. I don’t ask, because I am afraid she’ll tell me it’s her only company until I visit.
Her friends are dropping like flies lately, so that might be the truth. I hope not.
Then again, sometimes I do the same. I leave the TV on, or music, to keep me company when I’m lonely.
“How is that very smart, very handsome man you were going to see last time? Mr. Sullivan? Thompson?”
She is like clockwork with the order of her questions. I’m pleased to be able to give her a positive update. “Mr. Buchanan. He’s still very smart and very handsome.”
She beams. “Wonderful! Tell me everything. Is he taking you out for dinner and to a show and walking you home afterward?”
“Not exactly,” I admit. “Yes to the dinner, but mostly we’re talking business.”
“Did he kiss you yet?”
“Grandma!”
“All right,” she surrenders. “At least tell me what you talk about. What’s this business that’s so important?”
“I told you he works in the archives, right? He’s a terrific researcher, and it ends up he knows a lot of history about where I’m working right now.” I pause. “Actually, you might be interested in this.”
I tell her how thrilled I am to be working at the Dominion, but I leave out all my suspicions and concerns about MSI and my basement adventure. I don’t want her to worry about anything.
“The Dominion,” she says wistfully. “What a lovely place. I was there when I was, oh, about seventy years younger.”
I picture Grandma in her twenties, with her pale orange curls and dancing green eyes. I would have loved to have been around then.
“There are so many great stories about the hotel,” I agree, relaxing in my chair. The steam from my tea fogs my glasses, and I take a careful sip. “And Matthew—”
“Is he the very handsome man?”
I grin. “He is indeed.”
Her teasing smile is adorable. I test the tea again, but it’s still way too hot. I put it down for now and grab a donut instead.
“Anyway,” I say, “Matthew and I have talked a lot about the hotel. He’s been telling me about former celebrity guests and the clock, and oh! Ghosts!”
“Ooh, ghosts.” She shivers dramatically. “I remember some rich and famous people who stayed there. Imagine what that was like. Seems like that hotel has been there forever.”
“Almost a hundred years. I’ve been reading all about its construction. I have access to some amazing photos and records, and Matthew has shown me even more. The photos really give an inside view of how it was, with the gala opening, the chambermaids in their uniforms—”
“I have a photograph like that,” Grandma says. She places her teacup on the table with a soft clink. “I think my mother was a chambermaid in a hotel.”
I can’t believe she just volunteered this. “Your mother? Eileen Davis?” I press gently. “May I see?”
She exhales, then curls her hands around the arms of her chair, about to push herself to her feet. “No, no, dear. My biological mother.”
I jump up. “Just tell me where. I’ll get it.”
“It’s in the old tin,” she tells me, pointing up at her tall bookshelf. “It’s all the chambermaids together. I don’t know which one is her.”
I follow her gaze and spot the ancient cookie tin.
I had thought that was where she stored old sewing notions, like needles and bits of thread.
This is so much more interesting. As I reach for it, I wonder if I’ll be able to pick out my great-grandmother by her features.
My fingers land on a fine layer of dust covering the lid, which tells me how long it’s been since the tin has been touched.
Grandma tries to dust things once a week, and this one has missed out.
Almost as if she avoided it on purpose. I swipe my hand over the lid to clean it, then I place the box in front of her, beside the teapot.
Her gnarled fingers have trouble removing the lid, so I do it for her.
We both lean forward and peer within. With one crooked finger she moves things around, then she plucks out a faded old photograph. “Here it is. I don’t know why I’ve kept it, since I don’t even know which one is her or where it was taken. Anyhow, here you go.”
I’ve seen this photograph before, I realize with shock.
It was one of the first photos Matthew showed me when he opened his binder on the day we met.
After that, he flipped through the photographs of celebrity and political guests, but I clearly recall seeing about a dozen maids standing primly in two rows, straight and proud in their Dominion Hotel uniforms. I am positive this is the same group.
Shocked, I scan the black-and-white photo, but I cannot see anything familiar in the young faces.
“Grandma, this picture was taken at the Dominion in 1929.”
She squints harder at the photo. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve seen it before. Matthew showed it to me.”
“That’s very interesting,” she says with a hint of a smile. “Just think of that. You and me and my mother were in the same building at different times.”
She stirs through the contents of the cookie tin again. After a moment, she sighs deeply and pulls out a folded piece of paper that has yellowed with age. Without a word, she unfolds it, reaches for my hand, and places the paper within it.
“This was with the photo,” she says, then she averts her gaze.
Please take care of my baby. I love her so much, but I cannot give her a good life.
God bless you. Rosie Ryan
I gasp. “Grandma!”
Never in my life have I seen this letter. It’s written in my great-grandmother’s simple handwriting, and it’s crushing.
“You know your mother’s name! Rosie Ryan!
What a wonderful name. And now you know where she worked.
This is amazing. I wish we knew which one was her in the photograph.
” I scowl at Grandma. “I can’t believe you’ve kept this hidden away for so long.
Tell me more! No one knows anything about her?
Where she went? What happened? Did you ever try to find her? ”
Grandma takes the paper back, folds it again, and drops it into the tin. “No. Rosie Ryan abandoned me at a church, then disappeared. And once the Davises adopted me, what was the use in searching? It always felt wrong to look into it when I had two perfectly wonderful parents.”
“But…” I can’t believe I’m learning all this. “But did you try?”
She gives me a sharp glare. “I did. I went to the orphanage where they adopted me from, and they sent me to the church, all the way up in North Bay. Nobody knew anything about her. She was long gone.” Her tiny shoulder lifts, then drops.
She sets the lid onto the tin and shoves it down securely.
“Now put this away and let’s talk about something else. Anything else.”
As soon as I’ve left my grandmother’s apartment, I whip out my phone.
BK: I need a favour
MB: Of course. Ask away.
BK: In your research of the hotel, can you please look up a chambermaid named Rosie Ryan? She worked there in 1929.
MB: Sure. May I ask why? Something specific?
BK: She is in that group pic of the chambermaids that you showed me, but I don’t know which one. I just found out that Rosie Ryan is my great-grandmother!