Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Warsh, Sylvia Maultash

  Nesha shrugged. “A lot of people changed their names. What is he calling himself?”

  The man shook his head slowly.

  “Will I see him if I come back tomorrow night? Or Saturday?”

  He shook his head again. “He makes appointments. Business appointments.”

  Bingo. Adrenaline shot through Nesha’s chest. “What kind of business?”

  “He buys, he sells.”

  “Well, give me his number and I’ll make an appointment.”

  “You give me your number and I will pass it to him.”

  “Fine,” Nesha said. “Only I’m staying at a hotel and I don’t know the number. I’ll call you tomorrow and give it to you.”

  chapter twenty

  That afternoon Rebecca focused all her concentration on attending to her patients. It was therapeutic to solve other people’s problems, feel she was really helping someone. More than once she became gratefully lost in the puzzle of a patient’s illness. At the end of the day, though, her own predicament awaited her.

  Soon after the last patient had closed the door, Iris threw on her jacket. “I gotta get going. My kids are coming for dinner tonight. Kids! They’re both over thirty and I’m still calling them kids.” She turned to Rebecca. “Why don’t you come over for dinner? I’m cooking up a storm.” She stood a moment, watching Rebecca, her hazel eyes concerned. “You all right?”

  Rebecca glanced up from the file she was reading. It was a question Iris had asked many times over the past six months. Rebecca must have had a grim expression on her face.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “Dinner?” Iris repeated.

  Rebecca smiled sheepishly. “Thanks, Iris, I’ll take a rain check.”

  Iris hovered near the door, the perfect waves of blonde hair blurred in Rebecca’s peripheral vision. “Really, Iris, I’m fine. Have a nice dinner.”

  Rebecca heard the door close, then sat a moment, mesmerized by the evening silence. Dr. Lila Arons, from downstairs, had gone home on time tonight. Rebecca was alone in the building. She wondered what Iris was making for dinner. Rebecca had been over a few times but always felt awkward with Iris’ grown children, who were too polite to refer to David’s death except obliquely, and then an embarrassed pause would hang in the air till Rebecca or Iris broke the silence.

  Suddenly she was aware that the present silence, the silence in the building, had been broken. Footsteps sounded downstairs. No, someone was coming up the stairs. The noise echoed in the empty building. Rebecca stiffened. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Should she lock the door? She jumped up, realizing she couldn’t get to the door in time to lock it before the man — she was sure it was a man — reached it. She flew into her inner office, adrenaline pumping. What were the chances the killer would be so brazen? She stood by the phone, hating her own vulnerability. If she screamed, would someone hear?

  “Dr. Temple?” A man’s voice rose in uncertainty.

  Her breathing was shallow. She listened, but wasn’t sure what she had heard.

  “Dr. Temple?”

  She recognized the accent then, and tried to still her heart. When was she going to stop panicking? She took a breath, then walked into the hall with a purposeful stride.

  “Mr. Vogel,” she said. “What a surprise. I thought you were going to phone.”

  He looked around the office. “I took the chance you would still be here. Are you alone?”

  She ignored the question, wishing Iris had stayed for a few more minutes. Or maybe he had waited for Iris to leave. She had to stop imagining monsters everywhere. The racing of her heart made that impossible. He looked very civilized, with his blue turtleneck tucked into navy wool pants.

  “I hope I didn’t frighten you when I came in.”

  Was it that obvious, she wondered. “What have you found out?”

  His pale blue eyes observed her. “Something reassuring,” he said. “The man’s innocent. He was occupied with something in a public place the night of the murder. He has witnesses. And he cannot explain the poor woman’s inquiries about him. You must admit she was a disturbed woman. You mustn’t take seriously what she said if she wasn’t quite right — here.” He pointed to his temple.

  “Then you can tell me the man’s name.”

  He glanced around the office. “I would think this would be good news. That the man is innocent. Perhaps you should move on. It may even be that the poor woman was killed by robbers.”

  “Mr. Vogel...”

  “Max. Please.”

  “I must speak to the man. If you won’t tell me who it is....”

  Vogel raised his palm in some sort of defeat. “There is a place you can find him. A club. I’ll give you the address, but I promised I wouldn’t give away his name. And, of course, you must not mention me.”

  Rebecca ate her dinner in the kitchen looking out the patio doors at the garden. It looked no different from last spring when David could still see enough to clear the dead leaves off the crocuses and grape hyacinths that would soon unfold their purple hearts. Tulips and tiger lilies came later. He had organized the garden so that something would always be blooming. There were the perennials that returned each year: yellow blackeyed Susans that spread in clumps, red hollyhocks against the fence, and forget-me-nots a heart-rending blue in unexpected corners. Near the end of May he would plant little annuals that would blossom and spread till the first frost. That was before he had gotten ill and lost his sight. Tears welled in her eyes at the irony: the garden he had created would come alive each year while he was gone forever.

  She knew this was a road of thought she didn’t want to travel down again. She got dressed to go out.

  El Dorado glittered in the night of College Street, its marquee outlined by a necklace of flashing bulbs. Nothing subtle there. Rebecca parked at a meter several blocks away, locked her doors, and set off in the direction of the club. She passed small hardware stores, dress stores, and food shops closed for the night. As she opened the door to the club, she turned momentarily and in the distance caught sight of the man in the sweatsuit who had watched her in Kensington Market the day before. Stopping automatically, she peered into the milky haze born of too many light bulbs tearing the dark. The outline of the man flickered down the street then burned up in the volley of the flashing lights like a moth. She had to get hold of herself.

  She stepped into a dimly-lit hallway, aware of the music arriving in distorted echo through the ceiling. The restaurant on the first floor was nearly empty. A carpeted stairway straight ahead was flanked by a sign: “Upstairs, Thursday to Sunday, The Gauchos with Isabella Velasco.” Isabella Velasco. The black-edged card, the dead son in Buenos Aires. Interesting coincidence.

  Rebecca’s eyes adjusted to the light and she realized there was a balding, angular maitre d’ in a black suit standing in the restaurant, watching her. His sour face prodded her to follow the music.

  chapter twenty-one

  The stairs were carpeted in an orangey-red that reminded her of Spanish tiled roofs and the satin dresses of flamenco dancers. She stood in the doorway of the club, halted by the smoke and the noisy rhythm of the music that set the floor vibrating. Middle-aged couples clung to each other in the centre of the dance floor, gliding to some tango. The sultry beat was being produced on the opposite side of the room by a band of trumpet, guitar, and drums, and Isabella Velasco. Her voice insinuated itself along the melody of some song about rain, while her fingers punctuated the journey, her hands opening and closing to click her castanets like little clams. A long black dress, slit to the thigh on one side, hugged her bony figure. Her dark hair was pulled tightly off her face. She was not young. A well-preserved forty-nine, as she swayed to the rhythm.

  Rebecca took a moment to observe the room. It looked like a club for homesick Latins: a rigid toreador, with charging bull, had been painted across the wall behind the band. David would not have approved. The two figures were naively drawn and the colours flat and childish. Near the entran
ce hung several paintings of, presumably, the Spanish countryside, as well as the requisite rendering of a señiorita in lace mantilla. A set of bull’s horns and a sword were suspended in one corner.

  She couldn’t keep standing in the doorway. How was she going to find the man Vogel talked about? Rebecca took off her trenchcoat and hung it on the rack in the hall. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and was surprised to see how pale and unhealthy she looked even in the subdued light. Her dark hair was more unruly than usual after the run outside. She smoothed it down with a quick hand then applied some lipstick to give her at least a semblance of life.

  To the left of the entrance was a bar. Two men sat drinking at the far end, laughing over something. Rebecca took a deep breath, then entered the noise and smoke. She found herself a stool at the empty end of the bar. The noise, she realized, was loud music alone rather than a combination of music and chatter. There were not enough people in the room to make an appreciable noise but the band more than made up for it. She was surprised they would bother with a band on an evening when only four tables were occupied by maybe fifteen people.

  After ordering a glass of wine, she turned so she could see the band. Isabella Velasco’s voice caressed the room in a sensuous Spanish. Hay lluvia.... It was raining.

  After a minute a sleek dark man in his forties boldly sat down on the next stool, facing her. Maybe she should have expected this. It had been so long since she was single that she had quite forgotten the procedure. She was in no mood for it now. He lit up a cigarette, then offered her the package.

  “I don’t smoke,” she said.

  “Very smart.” Hispanic accent. Sure of himself. His angular features, his dark hair, salted with grey, gleamed in the reflected light of the bar.

  He turned his head to exhale a long column of smoke away from her. At least he was polite. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

  “I guess that’s because I haven’t been here before.”

  “And you are here alone? A beautiful woman like you?”

  He was going through the motions but she didn’t quite buy it. The attitude seemed more reflex than real intention. Despite the warm approach, there was something cold about him. His black eyes studied her as one hand played with a gold cigarette lighter on the counter. The barman placed a glass of whiskey in front of him without a word. A regular. A candidate for the mystery man.

  “She’s very good,” Rebecca said, glancing at the sultry, severe woman growling out her song.

  “You like our Spanish music?”

  “Its very moody.”

  He smirked. “For an English it is moody. For a Spanish it is passionate.”

  “Maybe it’s the singer who’s passionate.”

  Without looking at the stage he said, “All Spanish singers are passionate. It is in the blood.” He stared at Rebecca as if Spanish blood and passion were unimportant for the moment. Crushing his cigarette in an ashtray, he slid off his stool.

  “You would like to dance?” It wasn’t a question. He stood in front of her, his hand out, not tentative at all. There was a dangerous charm in the well-defined cheekbones, the sharp nose. His expensive suit clung sensually around his waist.

  A couple heading toward the dance floor turned toward them. “Buenos noches, Capitán” said the man, nodding with more than respect.

  Capitán. This must be her man.

  “Pardon my manners. I am Manuel Diaz.” He bowed his head slightly, very elegantly.

  “Capitán Diaz,” she smiled. “Rebecca Temple.”

  It had been a long time since she had danced and she gave herself credit for nerve. The straight calflength skirt she had worn gave little leeway for the strides that the tango required of her. He led her easily, holding her at a polite distance. His eyes half-closed in the rhythm of the dance, but he was alert, watching her under heavy lids. She hadn’t been held by a man since David and she wasn’t ready. Just the proximity was unnerving, the pressure of the man’s fingers on her back. Maybe a murderer’s fingers. The music died away. He led her back to the bar.

  “You’re a military man?” she said, in the lull between the music.

  He waved away the suggestion. “A title of respect. In South America, where I come from, soldiers have the most respect. So when I come here, they call me el Capitán.” He stretched his hand out like a priest indicating his flock. “This is my place. When you give orders, you must have a rank.” He motioned to the bartender for more drinks. Another glass of wine appeared before her.

  He was certainly in charge. But he seemed to have more power than ordering changes in the menu or setting the price of Tia Maria.

  “Then you know Isabella.”

  He lit up another cigarette. “I know everybody here.”

  “She was acquainted with a patient of mine. Goldie Kochinsky.” She watched his reaction.

  His eyelids rose slightly. “You are a doctor.” Then he shook his head, furrowing his brow in the appropriate response. “It is terrible what happened to the old woman. We were all shocked. It is what you expect in Argentina, where I come from; not here.”

  “Did you know each other in Argentina?”

  “The old woman? No.”

  “You know what happened to her there?”

  He blew out a long stream of smoke, observing her. “You mean her kidnapping. I heard something. It was a terrible time. It was bad for everybody.”

  “Did you know the men who tortured her?”

  He watched her for a moment. “I knew men in the junta. I didn’t ask them what they did. The trick was, not to know too much.”

  “So. You were not involved?” His waiting eyes prodded her to add, “In the junta?”

  He tapped impatiently on his cigarette. “I’m a businessman. I don’t kill people.”

  “What kind of business are you in?”

  “ Import-export.”

  “What do you import and export?”

  “Anything I can buy low and sell high. Nothing you would be interested in, Doctor.”

  “Then you managed to escape the terror when you were in Argentina.”

  “I was lucky. The old woman was not.” He shrugged.

  Rebecca wasn’t going to get any more information out of the Capitán than he wanted to give her. He turned toward the band where Isabella was purring out a suggestive version of “The Girl from Ipanema.” “What about Isabella?” she said. “She knew Goldie in Argentina.”

  “Isabella hated the old woman because she was weak. She told the junta where Isabella’s son was hiding and they killed him.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “I don’t blame the old woman. She didn’t want to die. So she gave up a name.” His tone was too casual for the information. He was accustomed to government-sponsored murder while it still appalled her.

  The song ended. Someone turned on a Latin version of canned muzak and the band headed toward the bar. Isabella held her head stiff, her gait self-consciously haughty. She looked even older close up, the lines around the edges of her mouth and darkly lined eyes visible through her pancake make-up.

  She smiled coyly at Diaz. “Buenos noches, Capitán.”

  He nodded formally. “Maravilloso, your performance, as always, Isabella.” There was no feeling in his voice, merely rote. He touched Rebecca’s arm lightly. “This is Dr. Temple. She was Doctor to Goldie Kochinsky.”

  Isabella turned to look at her for the first time.

  “Tell her that you forgive Goldie for what she did,” Diaz said, sipping another glass of whiskey that the bartender had automatically poured.

  He was toying with them both, thought Rebecca.

  The woman searched her face for a clue to the mystery, but found none.

  Rebecca jumped in. “I’m sorry if this brings up painful memories for you, but on Goldie’s desk there was a notice of your son’s death dated 1977. Do you have any idea why it was there?”

  Isabella turned toward the room. “Come, let’s sit,”
she said, motioning to an empty table. “I must get off my feet.”

  At the table, both the Capitán and Rebecca watched her, waiting. Her neck arched higher, the severe bun black against her skin; her eyelids drooped. “It was like an anniversary. I sent the card every year. So she wouldn’t forget.” Isabella took a gulp of what looked like vodka. “She killed my son, but now that she is dead, I must forgive her.”

  The Capitán smirked, every now and then nodding recognition toward those greeting him from a distance.

  “Why do you think she was responsible?” Rebecca asked, trying to ignore him.

  “Because he is dead and she knew where they were. My son, her son, together in a safe house. Only a few close friends knew where. She was the only one who was tortured. They grabbed her because she was weak and they can smell weak. The junta were afraid of their songs — the boys sang songs in protest. Here it would be nothing, nobody would notice. But there, they killed people who opposed them. When they tortured her, she gave in.”

  “Isn’t it possible someone else told?” said Rebecca. The Capitán smirked again. He was enjoying this.

  Isabella finished her drink. “It doesn’t matter anymore. She is dead. Why do you care?”

  “Someone killed her. I’d like to know why.”

  Isabella lifted her glass high, motioning to the bartender. “It was a robbery, I heard. These things happen.”

  “I believe it was something more.”

  The Capitán no longer smiled. “You shouldn’t get involved,” he said, crushing out his cigarette, pretending lack of interest. “This is not a job for a doctor. You must have more important things.”

  What was he hiding, she wondered. Who was he really?

  “I hope I haven’t upset you,” she said, pleased with his reaction.

  His nostrils flared but she couldn’t take complete credit for his displeasure since he stood up at that moment to greet someone at the door.

  Isabella stood up, both arms extended, her shoulder blades taut. “Leo,” she sang. The man embraced her, kissing her the European way, on both cheeks.