Chapter Twenty–Two
It’s not a stretch to say that on Monday morning, I am thoroughly distracted, thinking about Rosie and the Dominion, wondering who she was and where she’d gone.
Walking through the lobby, I decide to follow one of the lesser-used corridors to the subbasement and the maids’ locker room.
The floor is lined by a recently replaced red carpet.
I read somewhere that if all of the red carpet in this place was laid out end to end, it would reach Hamilton, almost fifty miles away. Imagine the poor guys who laid it all.
The corridor has been changed over the years, of course, but as I walk, I picture the old walls, the original light fixtures, and the small wooden lockers the young women would have used back then.
In the photo I’d seen, they had to be under twenty years old, and I imagine them gossiping as they pulled on their crisp black-and-white uniforms, maybe talking about a special guest arriving that day.
I wish there was a way… I wish I could feel Rosie Ryan there, in spirit.
I can’t stop smiling, enjoying an unexpected connection to this little room.
My great-grandmother stood here. Walked here. Worked here.
I am also distracted by the fact that the Montey Series Industries crates are not what they appear to be. My greatest fear is that somebody might suspect that I know. So that’s a little disturbing, to say the least.
I go to the ballroom, where I hope to find Paul. I have questions, and he’s the one I trust. But Gary is the only person there, and he tells me Paul still hasn’t shown up for work.
“Is he at the Sixes?”
He turns his back to me. “Got me.”
“I was just wondering because—”
“Listen, I got enough to do without having to babysit him and report to you.”
Again he stomps out of the room, loaded down with big, heavy crates.
Feeling a little dazed by his dismissal, I head up to the fourteenth floor.
The Dominion’s rooftop garden, with its four thousand square feet of raised gardens and the new addition of seven beehives, is usually closed off unless you request a tour or there is a special event.
I’m lucky because I need to check a few things today, like drainage and some of the electrical work.
I step outside and am greeted by dazzling sunshine.
I soak it all in, listening to the hum of the bees and inhaling the scents of fresh basil, sage, tarragon, mint, and lemon balm.
As they have for a century, the hotel’s chefs come up here daily and take what they need so they can serve it on a plate.
Or in a cocktail drink. Imagine the four hundred and fifty pounds of honey made annually by their six hundred thousand bees.
A rooftop garden like this would have been relatively unheard-of in the old days, but now it appears what was old is new again: the city recently put in a law mandating green spaces on the tops of towers, just like this one.
I can’t think of a better, more aromatic way to contribute to sustainability.
Fourteen storeys down, I hear the noises of the city and take advantage of the moment to peer over the edge of the balcony, admiring the view. So much construction, so many people. It never stops. Not like a hundred years ago, when construction was just beginning.
Back then, there had been a large neighbourhood a few blocks east of where I’m standing, called The Ward.
I actually know a lot about the area, despite it being a little-known part of our history, because history is my thing.
The Ward spread out within the boundaries of College Street, Queen Street, Yonge Street, and University Avenue.
Bay Street, which was Terauley Street back then, ran right through the middle.
I can’t see it from here, but there wouldn’t be much to see anyway.
Most of the buildings there now were actually built on top of what used to be there.
During its heyday in the mid-nineteenth century, the area was considered a regular working-class neighbourhood.
It was started by a fugitive slave, Thornton Blackburn, in the 1830s.
After escaping slavery via the Underground Railroad, he bought up multiple properties and filled the area with more fugitive slaves and other Black families.
A few decades later, they were joined by Jewish, Chinese, and Italian immigrant families, then refugees from Ireland, Eastern Europe, Russia, and other countries. Toronto’s first Chinatown began there.
Over time, the once pleasant area became overwhelmed and overcrowded.
A workhouse was built. The row houses, which sometimes housed six people to a room, decayed.
People added smaller buildings in their backyards just to make space for their families.
In the end, the area became the epitome of a slum: filthy, poor, and falling apart.
Exactly what the growing city of Toronto did not want.
The city began expropriating parts of The Ward just after the turn of the century, and the area was pretty much gone by the 1960s.
When plans were made to build Nathan Phillips Square right where Chinatown was, the Chinese community moved to the Spadina and Dundas region, where much of it remains today.
These days, the area where The Ward once stood is called the Discovery District, and it’s full of glass skyscrapers, government buildings including the city hall, cutting-edge research hospitals, and the very popular tourist attraction and commercial landmark, the Toronto Eaton Centre.
It strikes me that Rosie Ryan might have lived in The Ward.
Maybe my very own roots grew through that soil.
The idea curls through me and warms me inside.
I complete my inspection of the garden, noting some loose floor tiles and suggesting that someone examine the garden wall, since there are a few vertical cracks breaking through.
As I’m finishing up, police cars arrive with sirens screaming.
They park directly beneath me, on Front Street, by the hotel’s entrance.
There’s an ambulance as well. I hop into the elevator and go straight to the lobby, where everything seems fine, though guests are milling around, curious.
I work my way around them, heading toward a policeman.
Hoping to get the inside scoop, I flash my name and credentials, but he’s not interested, just tells me to stand back, please.
Gary suddenly appears, having rushed out of the service elevator. He is pale and distraught. Before he can leave, I stop him and ask what’s going on. This time he doesn’t have a snarky response for me.
“They found Paul,” he says hoarsely. “He’s dead. Crushed under a pile of crates in the basement.”
I feel like I’ve been slapped. “What?!”
“They say his body’s been there a couple of days.”
I back up a step, covering my mouth with my hand and trying to breathe normally.
Was he lying here dead on Friday night when I was surreptitiously exploring another part of the basement?
I can picture Paul clearly, so proud to show me all those family photos.
I hear him laughing about the ghosts in the pipes. And I hear him whispering:
These Montey parts are crap… I probably shouldn’t have told you any of this, Miss Kelly. Forget I told you. If you get into it, you’ll be digging into some dangerous dirt.
“I gotta go. Police wanna talk to me at the station,” Gary says. He regards me with huge, frightened eyes. “Tell me honestly, Miss Kelly. Did Paul say anything to you about… I mean, did he…”
I know what’s coming. I concentrate on keeping a very straight face, revealing nothing.
“Did he ever talk with you about those, uh, those crates you keep asking about?”
“No. Neither of you told me anything. What about them?”
He scans the lobby, obviously nervous. “It’s nothing. Never mind. Gotta go. Take care of yourself.”
He’s gone, and I am officially terrified.
And yet, I need to see. The service elevator door is right there, so I slip inside and push the button for the subbasement before anyone can see me.
When the door opens again, I am a little alarmed to see so many people standing in the corridor, since it’s usually pretty empty.
But I’m here now. I assume the expression of someone who belongs here, marching purposefully through the loitering crowd of police.
I used a different entrance last time I was down here, so it’s like I’m seeing it from a different angle now.
Still, I feel a jolt as I step inside the big area where Paul had first mentioned the ghosts in the pipes to me.
I hardly recognize the place. Pieces of busted wooden crates are piled on top of each other and cover the floor, like the fallout of an avalanche.
All of them are marked MSI. The little white boxes that had filled the crates have spilled out.
Scattered nails and screws shine under the lights.
I shudder, thinking of Paul trapped under all that.
It sounds awful, but I hope he died quickly.
I hope he didn’t suffer. Then I spot one of the crates, still in one piece on the other side of the room, and I can’t help wondering.
Have the police found the packets of white powder yet?
There aren’t as many people in here, but the half dozen or so are busy taking photographs, dusting things for prints, all those things you see on TV.
There are also three men hunched over a body.
Paul’s body. I walk resolutely toward the unaffected crate, about fifteen feet away, amazed I’ve gotten this far.
Why am I bothering? Even if I get to that crate, I can’t open it, because I don’t have any tools with me.
I hadn’t planned ahead for illegally investigating a crime scene.