“Can I help you?” one of the men asked.
She reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out the photo she had taken from Rosie. “I’m trying to find my aunt,” she said, showing him the picture. “The one on the left. She may’ve come in here on Tuesday. She was wearing a beige trenchcoat and polyester pants. She had ... she has an accent.”
The man reached across the counter and took the photo, showing it to his partner. “I don’t know, lady. Lots of people come in here. I don’t know if I’d remember. Why don’t you go to the police?”
Rebecca looked at their faces. There was no guile; they didn’t know and they didn’t care. “Are there any other fish stores in the market?”
“You kidding?” he said, handing her back the photo. “Probably five on every street.”
Outside Rebecca squeezed by sidewalks that shrank around stalls of fresh fruit and vegetables and spices by the pound. A skinny cat slunk into an alley to forage through the garbage. She passed stores that sold schmatas and handbags and gifts from the Orient. Lucky for her, the other fish stores bore names like Joe’s Fish, Kensington Fish, and Ontario Seafood.
Down the street a truck was being unloaded. As little room as there was on the sidewalks, at least people could move through. The same couldn’t be said for the road where cars parked along one side left a single lane for the one-way traffic. The delivery truck was parked half on the road, half on the sidewalk, effectively blocking the only lane open. A line-up of cars that had turned down the market street could go nowhere, their exhausts humming with poison. Pedestrians managed to squeeze by single file. As Rebecca approached, a man inside the elevated back gate of the truck flipped a huge side of beef onto the waiting shoulders of another, standing on the road. Sinew-red with the leg still on, it looked alive, as if it would jump down and walk away if the man let go. He started toward her, carrying it slung between his head and shoulder the way one carries a child high above a crowd. She stopped and gasped as he carried the thing toward her. Pale cushions of fat bloated the surface of the meat; blood from the flesh grazed his hair, his collar. In her panic she retreated into some shoppers, then swung across the street between the cars.
Standing on the opposite sidewalk she stared across at the butcher’s. The morning sun glanced off the metal of the sign. In the window David hung by his feet upside down, his back to her. She began to run. The cold wind chilled the sweat off her neck and she thought of Goldie. She imagined Goldie running, running through the streets just as Rebecca was running now. From what? From herself? Shoppers moved aside from her as if she were crazy. As if she were Goldie. Rebecca was nearly back to Spadina again when she realized the shops had ended abruptly, giving way to the sudden high grey wall of George Brown College, a building wildly out of place here, too linear, too simply rendered in the complex spring sun.
Then she saw it. The noise from the cars on Spadina was suddenly deafening. She had found her river and it flowed loud. Not more than three shops in from Spadina stood Blue Danube Fish.
Then came water and quenched the fire
That burned the stick that beat the dog
That bit the cat that ate the goat
That Father bought for two zuzim.
One little goat, one little goat.
chapter eighteen
Standing at the window Rebecca could see a darkened hovel of a room whose green-grey walls did not reflect light but absorbed it. A solitary fish lay on the newspaper-clad counter just inside the window, a feeble attempt at advertisement. Behind the heavy wooden counter to the left, a woman lurked in the shadows.
The smell overpowered Rebecca as soon as she opened the door. She stood on the threshold to let her eyes and nose adjust. The place reeked. A woman stood behind an ancient, crusted counter, filleting a fish as if she could do it with her eyes closed, slow but steady. The back of her black hair hung down to her shoulders; the rest was gathered off her face into an elastic at the crown, revealing a widow’s peak. Despite the teenage hairstyle, the woman was middleaged. Her eyes were badly pencilled, her prominent cheekbones ruddy.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
A handmade wooden tub filled with water stood off to one side. Nearby a makeshift partition of plywood painted the same green-grey. In the corner was a closed door.
Moving closer, Rebecca noticed the woman’s apron was muddy with old blood. She held up the photo of Goldie. “Did you see this woman on Tuesday?”
The fishmonger stared at the photo. Her arms were plump, waiting, as she held the knife. “Why d’you wanna know?”
“I’m trying to trace her movements.”
The woman had outlined her eyes in black pencil as if they were circles. She pursed her lips while examining the picture. “She missing?”
Rebecca barely paused. “Something like that.”
“She was just coming in when I went for lunch,” said the woman, starting to work the knife again. “I didn’t talk to her or nothing. Max must’ve served her.”
“What time was that?”
“Twelve. Maybe twelve-thirty.”
“Did she seem upset?”
The woman shrugged. “Only saw her for a second. Didn’t really notice.” Her eyes dulled; as far as she was concerned, the conversation was finished.
Rebecca heard a shuffling behind the partition door. “Could I speak to Max?” she asked.
The woman’s head came up. She eyed Rebecca up and down, half turned her head toward the closed door. “He’s not here.”
“Could I have his number? It’s important that I speak to him.”
“Look, Max is busy. He’s always busy.” The woman’s forehead had turned as red as her cheeks. “If it’s your mother or something, maybe you should go to the cops.”
“Actually, it’s my aunt...,” Rebecca began.
“Well, leave me a number. Maybe he’ll call you.”
Without warning, a tall man emerged from the back door. His dark greying hair curled at the nape of his neck. He wore a navy blue turtleneck that sharpened the blue of his eyes. He was not young, but had aged gracefully.
“What’s all the commotion, Mona?” he said, irritated. His accent was German.
Mona’s body turned stiff, awkward, almost angry. “I didn’t want to bother you, Maxie.” She pointed her thumb at Rebecca.
He turned to look at Rebecca and his handsome face rearranged itself. His high forehead relaxed beneath the wavy hair; the lines moved up instead of down. His eyes became the colour of calm water. She was both puzzled and flattered by the frank stare.
Mona cleared her throat abruptly. “She wants to ask about her aunt.”
“How can I help you?” His accent had softened.
“I need some information,” Rebecca said holding up the photo. “This woman came in here on Tuesday.”
He stepped forward, not taking his eyes off Rebecca, then delicately took the picture from her hand. He looked briefly at it. “I’m afraid I don’t recall her.”
Rebecca glanced at the woman with the pencilled eyes. “I was told she came in here and that you served her.”
They both turned to Mona, who flushed. “I musta made a mistake. I’m not sure it was her. Maybe it was somebody else.”
Max shook his head at her feeble attempts. “Never mind,” he said. Then turning to Rebecca, “We better straighten this out. Won’t you come in the back?”
Mona’s jaw was set as Rebecca followed Max behind the wall. He walked self-consciously in front, a well-built man whose age was not quite definable, shoulders wide beneath the cotton turtleneck.
The room behind the wall ran the width of the store. To the left, a door exited into a laneway that was visible through a window. Wooden crates were stacked against the opposite wall. Max turned right on entering, leading her to a desk covered with papers and several books left open face up on their hardcover spines.
Across from the desk and chair stood four-foothigh bookcases stuffed with oversized art books. Red velvet draped the tops of the cas
es at eye level. Set in a row on the cloth were finely wrought objects that surprised Rebecca: a filigreed spice box in the shape of a miniature house; a brass Chanukkah menorah whose row of nine tiny candle holders Rebecca recognized from her childhood when her mother lit the candles on the holiday. A large silver goblet. And of all things, a Seder plate.
He pulled his own chair out from behind the desk and motioned her to sit down. Clearing a space on the desk, he perched on the edge of it.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” he said. “I know this woman is dead. Mona may not read the paper, but I do. Who are you, and why did you come here?”
“My name is Rebecca Temple. I was the dead woman’s physician. I seem to be the only one interested in her murder. The police think she was killed during a robbery.”
“You don’t.”
“I think someone meant to kill her. I just don’t know why. You are...?”
“Max Vogel. I’m afraid I can’t help you. She was barely coherent when she came here.”
“What did she want?”
“Information. I couldn’t give it.”
“What information?”
“Just some questions about someone I know. It was nothing.”
“Who was it?”
His eyes went blank. “I wouldn’t like to say. The man is blameless except for raising the suspicions of a disturbed woman.”
“But the woman is now dead. Perhaps her suspicions were not unfounded.”
“Nevertheless, I will not say.”
“I think the police might be interested in you after all,” she said.
Something behind his eyes shifted. “You are a strong-willed woman. Alright. I will speak to this person today. I’ll get any information I can and tell you. Is that satisfactory?”
“I’d like to know his name.”
“I can’t take responsibility for maligning an innocent man. If he is agreeable, I will tell you his name, but first I must speak to him.”
She could see he wasn’t going to budge.
Leaning over, she picked up a remarkable silver goblet. The stem was fashioned to look like a fish leaping out of water. Four little silver fish heads were arrayed around the bowl of the goblet. “You have some extraordinary things here. Are they for fun or profit?”
His brow relaxed at the turn in the conversation. “This is a very good piece you have in your hand. German, eighteenth-century, probably Nurenberg. It’s one of a kind. I’m afraid I don’t keep up with the market value.”
“You’re a collector,” she said.
His lips turned up in a charming, self-deprecating smile. “I’m far too humble to be called a collector. I merely seek knowledge about the artifacts entrusted to me.”
He selected his words carefully, speaking them in a voice both nasal and throaty, a not unappealing combination.
“What was the cup used for?” she asked.
“Now you’ve asked the right question. The decoration is exquisite, no? But the true value of the cup lies in its history. It was used by some Jewish neighbours of mine during Passover as Elijah’s cup. You know the story?”
Rebecca smiled. “The cup is filled with wine and left in the middle of the table while everyone eats. At the end of the Seder someone gets up to open the front door. Usually my sister and I went. We were letting in the prophet Elijah so he could come in to drink from the cup. We all watched the wine to see if it moved.”
The memory tugged at her heart. Her family was so scattered now.
“These are all exceptional pieces. Where did you get them?”
“I will tell you everything. But it’s a sad story. Would you like some coffee meanwhile?” He motioned to the filter coffee maker on a small table behind the desk.
The ironic intelligence in his eyes intrigued her. She had forty minutes before her patients started arriving. “I’d love some,” she said.
While the coffee dripped through the filter, she asked, “How long have you and your wife had the store?”
“Mona?” He pursed his lips together. “Mona’s not my wife. I bought the shop from her parents years ago and she decided to stay on. She knows the business better than I do.” His blue eyes sparkled with humour. “I can see why you would get that impression though. She behaves like a wife.” His mouth curved up in a little smile. “Poor Mona.”
“She handles customers in the store while you work in the back?”
He handed her a mug of hot coffee then sat back down on the desk with a mug of his own. His darkly greying hair rose in a delicate wave from his high forehead. “I was not, I think, meant to be a fishmonger.”
“How did your collection start?”
He adjusted himself on the edge of the desk. “I like to think that it chose me rather than the other way around. You see, without wanting to, I benefited from the misfortune of others. These treasures were given to me in gratitude by the wealthy Jews who owned them. For my help. They couldn’t take all their possessions with them, you understand, though I didn’t want to accept them under the circumstances. I finally did, otherwise they would’ve been lost or destroyed.”
“You’re German,” she said.
“Swiss.”
“From...?”
“One of the smaller towns not far from Zurich. You wouldn’t know it. My parents had a fish market.”
“Wasn’t Switzerland neutral during the war?”
“Ah. Well, you see I travelled often to Germany for the business. To keep in touch with our suppliers and so on. There was an apartment in Hamburg I stayed in when I was there. It belonged to Jews. I saw what was happening there. I offered my help. I had some connections because of the business. I knew people. I knew where to get a forged passport. I knew who could falsify documents so I arranged phony papers for the Jews who owned the apartment. A family with three children. They left the city and took only what they could carry. They insisted on giving me what they left behind. I never heard from them again. I don’t think they survived. But through them I met others. All the Jews were scared. I couldn’t help everyone, of course. The Gestapo would’ve caught on. But I did what I could. These people were running for their lives. They couldn’t worry about their candelabra. So, instead of leaving everything for the Nazis who inherited their apartments, they gave me tokens of their gratitude. It would have been churlish of me to refuse, don’t you think?”
“You’re not Jewish,” she said, struck by the irony that this gentile man collected Jewish artifacts while she, a Jew, had never given them a thought. His head tilted on an angle observing her; he seemed amused at her reaction.
She looked at her watch. “I’m afraid I have to go.” She stood up. “Here is my card. If I haven’t heard from you by tomorrow about your mystery man, I’m afraid I’ll have to call the police.”
His eyes fixed on her. “You will hear from me.”
She made her way back to the partition door where Max took his leave of her. She nodded politely at Mona who busied herself cleaning the counter and studiously ignored Rebecca as she headed out the front door.
She stood on the sidewalk taking deep breaths of the fresh air. Several cars pulled into the covered parking lot across the street. Near one of the pillars a man stood watching her. Grey sweat pants, sweatshirt, blue baseball cap. Beneath his visor he’d watched her emerge from the store. As if he’d been waiting for her. Was this the shadow in her office? He seemed smaller than the killer she expected. He was nervy, out in the light like this. She wasn’t going to run from him in broad daylight.
She looked him in the eye — at least into the darkness beneath the visor — and made to cross the street. Suddenly he jumped into the parking lot behind some partition or car. Gone into the tumult of the market. Some killer.
Maybe she was getting jumpy. Maybe the poor guy was just a jogger and she was getting paranoid. She wasn’t going to turn into Goldie.
chapter nineteen
Nesha watched the store with unflagging attention. He had found some steps to sit
on nearby and pretended to read the paper. The barrel of the gun felt hard and bulky in the small of his back. He was dizzy with hatred, but what had he expected? The news photo was dated 1978. He’d gone into the store and recognized no one. He’d tried the adjoining store — nothing. He couldn’t just show the storekeepers the photo of the bastard. They could be friends, or relatives. They’d open their mouths and the pig would be long gone. But then, anything could’ve happened in a year. He could have retired.
Maybe he was puttering around in his garden after a respectable business career, having lived a quiet life for thirty-five years, unmolested, when he had buried so many. He had helped bury a civilization. They were all gone, Nesha’s own family was gone, and only an archaeologist could investigate the ruins. This was what he had become. A scholar fascinated by the extinct. A gravedigger sifting through rubbish heaps. The problem with such scrutiny was that it required a constant examination of the heart and that was a part of him he kept under wraps for self-preservation. Some memories, like the one of his mother’s pinched face turned and searching for him, needing to call to him yet not daring to, were wounds his heart had grown a callous over, thicker with each year till one wall of his heart was quite immobile. So that now, when he thought of her, he could touch the petrified skin instead of her face. This was the way he had intended to live out the rest of his life, a callous in his chest under his ribcage; it was the least painful way. How long could one live with a sword through the heart?
That was before he’d found the news photo. Everything changed then. All the pain suddenly crystallized into rage and, to his shock, it felt good. He felt more alive at this moment than he had for decades. Even sitting on the cement stair, he was aware of the milky April sun trying to warm the air. His blood sang through his veins.
The chill of the morning reminded him of spring in Poland, though he hadn’t thought of that for a very long time. Since last week, the discovery of the file, he could think of nothing else: visions of that frosty morning had returned with a vengeance, a swooping of the scythe that he had taken pains to forget. Sometimes he could almost make himself believe he had imagined it. The years of working in a reasonable grey office with columns of numbers that never refused him, never disappointed him, made him forget he was an orphan. A branch of a tree of Israel, only the tree had been cut down and burned to ashes. So how had the branch survived? By rooting itself in the ground of another place, somewhere the earth didn’t smell of blood. It had been the most natural of things, to forget. But in his heart, his painfully ledgered accountant’s heart, he had always known there would be a day of reckoning. It was a matter of checks and balances, credit and liability. He had played with numbers long enough to know they were the only things you could count on. Now he had to dip into the real world and hope he could find his prey without losing himself.
Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle Page 11