“I dreamt you stood in an opulent room with velvet draperies hung over the windows and gilded portraits on the walls. You were surrounded by documents — they fluttered around you like birds, pleading with you to let them go. Once, you would have. But now, you caught each one and signed it, and with your signature you took away the freedom of my people. With one stroke of your quill you punished a nation.”
I let out my breath, relieved. “But this cannot be true — I don’t know your people.”
“When you travel this week, look up into the night sky for a sign. You will know when you see it.”
I hear a gurgle from the direction of the fire and turn to see Fräulein Kayn sitting up, fixing huge eyes on the rabbi. The fräulein, with her nonsensical belief in spirits, will devour these stories whole.
By the time I awake the following morning, he has vanished. “Did you see the rabbi leave?” I ask Mama who is already up.
“What rabbi?”
“The old man in the black hat sitting in that corner last night.” We both look up to find the corner filled with straw and chickens strutting about.
Mama turns irritated eyes on me. “Between you and Fräulein Kayn I am surrounded by phantoms on this journey.”
“The fräulein will remember,” I say, puzzled.
The older woman watches the scowl on Mama’s face and shakes her head.
For the next few days we travel long miles north along the Latvian coast. Mist shrouds the luminous grey marshes that surround us on all sides. We pass a few godforsaken hamlets where the beggarly villagers come to their doors wrapped in layers of rags. At the sight of our three unlikely carriages rolling through the ice in this bitter January, they all cross themselves and mutter prayers as if we are dead already. Each night as outriders lead us to our next lodgings, Fräulein Kayn peers up at the sky through the window of the carriage. She must have a crick in her neck by now.
On the third night we must stop in a village since inns and post houses have long disappeared. I am bracing myself for another night of fighting for space with dogs and rats, when, on alighting from the carriage, Fräulein Kayn gasps. I follow her gaze toward the clear black sky. There, high above us, a ball of fire streaks across the bowl of the heavens, its blue trail of stars flashing behind it, electrifying the night. I cannot take my eyes off it, even when the blazing tail fades into the pale stars of the night sky.
“A portent of evil!” Fräulein Kayn whispers.
“It’s a comet!” I cry. “No more evil than the moon and stars.”
“The devil is behind this, I tell you.”
I don’t believe in signs, yet I am troubled at the memory of the rabbi and his people and a future that seems incomprehensible to me.
We have been travelling for nearly five weeks now and I have quite forgotten what it feels like to not be frozen or jostled for endless hours over icy ruts that the roads have become. My visions of the Duke have evaporated into the dreary pall that passes for day in these parts, and for the first time I begin, myself, to wonder whether I have lost my senses coming on this journey. Mama sits across from me with her scarf pulled over her nose and cheeks, red and swollen from the cold, her eyes painfully closed.
My eyes fix on the silver expanse of marsh and I fear my brain is frozen as well. I have not the energy to put two thoughts together. A movement in the distance coaxes my eyes to shift into focus. What a sight! A rider is galloping towards us. He exchanges words with one of the servants in the first carriage, then turns around and gallops back the way he came. My heart begins to beat again as if there is a possibility that I might thaw out.
Within the hour another rider approaches. Our coach stops and a Colonel Vokheikov introduces himself. He has been sent to escort us across the frontier and on to the city of Riga. Mama sits up straighter as the handsome young officer rides beside us, warm steam expanding from his horse’s nostrils. Blood begins to course through my body, slowly warming it from the inside out. I wonder if the ringing is in my ears, but Mama looks up at the same time. Yes, somewhere bells are pealing. And a sound like thunder. As we get closer I realize it is the sound of cannons. I am puzzled, but Mama’s shoulders lift and she lets the scarf fall around her neck. She nods at me with a tight smile.
I am astonished at the people lining the road as we pass through. The whole town has come out to wave at us and cheer. Mama’s smile loosens. Her neck becomes regal and bows benevolently to all admirers.
The empress has sent us warm sable coats with gold brocade and fur collars. But these are nothing compared to the apparition that lies before us: a fur-lined sleigh that contains not only a stove, but mattresses, and is so large a dozen horses must pull it. If this is a dream, I hope never to awaken. The comet was indeed an omen, but one of good. The rabbi’s story of tragedy comes rushing to mind, but I can no longer recall the anxiety I felt earlier; it has faded like the cold. All I can remember is the fortunate girl, the heights she flew to, the power of her signature.
chapter twelve
Rebecca crouched in front of the black-eyed Susans in the backyard. She yanked at the tall grass that had insinuated itself between the long, fuzzy stalks. The flowerbeds were shaggy with weeds; dandelions and thistle sprouted in the loamy soil David had nurtured before he went blind. No annuals had been planted the spring after he died. Last spring. Yesterday. But over here dazzling red and yellow snapdragons had seeded themselves from last year’s planting, and over there a lacy thread of alyssum, a reminder that eager life pushed its way through.
She stood up painfully and breathed the fresh September air. Her plan to spend the day weeding the garden was foolishly optimistic: her legs and back still ached from yesterday’s exertion. And the images of the day replayed themselves: Michael’s hair waving in the jewel-blue water, goggles tight against his face, the neighbour’s chubby hands cradling her face, wagging back and forth. “Poor Edek, poor poor Edek. All alone now.”
Edek. Edward. Rebecca had avoided thinking of him. The police would have notified him by now. Was he there, alone in the house? She knew what it was to lose someone. Like you’ve been punched in the stomach and all the breath’s gone out of you. Michael would’ve wanted someone to check on the boy.
And maybe he’d know something. The “Sophie” chapter she’d read in Michael’s manuscript last night answered nothing about the compass. She was drawn into the story of the high-born, clever young girl and the prophetic tale of the rabbi, but it raised more questions than it answered. Who was she? More to the point, who did she become? Because Rebecca could tell that the girl was heading toward some illustrious future. If Rebecca knew more history, she might have been able to guess. She would read the rest of the manuscript, but the end of it was missing. There would be no answers without those lost pages. Edward was her best lead.
By one-thirty she gave up on the garden and changed into khaki pants and a black cotton pullover. Driving down Avenue Road she headed toward the Gardiner Expressway. Traffic was light on a Sunday and she reached Baby Point Road in twenty minutes.
Michael’s house looked the same, but there was a dark green Ford Mustang parked in the driveway. It must be Edward’s. All at once she was reluctant to knock on the closed door. What if he were sleeping? What if she were invading his privacy?
Across the street the elderly neighbour who had run into Michael’s backyard yesterday stood at the screen door of a large, red brick, two-storey house, gazing out. Rebecca got out of the car and climbed the flagstone steps toward her. She opened the door on Rebecca’s approach.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Rebecca said, “but I wonder if I could speak to you for a few minutes.”
“Who you are?”
“I’m Rebecca Temple. We met yesterday in Michael Oginski’s backyard.”
The woman levelled her small eyes at her. No sign of recognition.
“I was a friend of his.”
The woman watched her with suspicion, her waist girded by a beige apron run amok with o
range flowers. “I don’t know nothing,” she said.
“I just want to know if anyone visited Michael before we arrived.” How was she going to convince this woman to talk to her? “I’m not sure it was an accident.”
The woman’s eyes grew large with alarm. She craned her neck to look behind herself, appeared to listen for something, then motioned to Rebecca that she was stepping outside. The door closed behind her. “We talk out here better.”
The woman sat down on the top step gracefully, considering her girth. Rebecca sat down beside her.
“I live with daughter, grandchildren. Kids taking nap. I still can’t believe about Pan Oginski. It is tragedy. He was great man. You were friend?”
Rebecca nodded.
“In Poland we would call him Jany Pan.”
“What does that mean?”
She shrugged her round shoulders. “Lord. Excellency. Sign of respect for important man. Why you think was no accident?”
“I hope I’m wrong. There were just a few things that don’t add up.” She wasn’t about to go into the story of Janek and the compass with this stranger.
“Mrs.…” Rebecca hesitated. The woman watched her but didn’t volunteer a name. “Yesterday you said you brought Michael some food. What time was that?”
Her blue eyes glanced away, the broad face with its flat cheeks turned toward Michael’s house. “Ten, I think.”
“Were there any visitors with him when you got there?”
“No,” she said. “He alone.” Her grey hair was pinned into an unruly bun at the nape of her neck. “But someone come after.”
“Who was it?”
Her large shoulder rose. “Don’t know. Didn’t see. But car parked in front later. Maybe hour.”
“What did it look like?”
“Black. Nice car. Big.”
“Was it a Cadillac?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know cars.” Her chin pointed to the house. “Maybe Edek know. He home now. Can ask him. Poor boy. To lose father. He alone now. Such a nice boy. I bring him supper later.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
The woman knit her grey eyebrows together. “Terrible tragedy. Can’t believe it.”
Rebecca gazed across the street at Michael’s English-cottage house with its stone facing and mullioned windows beneath all those gables. She wished she couldn’t believe he was gone. Right now that was all she knew — that he was gone.
She walked across the street under the watchful eye of the neighbour and knocked on Michael’s door. When it opened, she stood dumbfounded: a younger, thinner version of Michael in jeans and a black T-shirt wavered in the doorway. He was not as young as she expected. More middle twenties than late teens. Certainly no kid.
“You must be Edward,” she said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I wanted to give you my condolences. Your father and I were friends.”
The young man blinked into the light, his eyes red and swollen. “I’m a little dazed. What did you say your name was?”
“Rebecca Temple.”
“You’re the one who pulled him out of the pool?”
“How did…”
“The cop told me. But that’s all he said.” He opened the door wider. “Won’t you come in? I really want to know everything. If you don’t mind… could you stand going over it with me, exactly what happened?”
He led her into the study where yesterday she had lain sleeping. They sat down on the flowered sofa in front of the fireplace, their knees angled toward each other. He pushed some brown hair behind his ears nervously and watched her with solemn eyes.
“Your father said you’re going to school in Ottawa.”
He nodded.
“You’re in journalism?”
Another nod.
“Your father was very proud of you.”
He looked away, swallowing. “He was the one who persuaded me to go back. I dropped out for a few years.”
That explained his age. She changed the subject. “When did you get here?”
He faced her again. “Late last night. I drove down the 401 like a bat out of hell. Couldn’t see straight, nearly crashed up near Kingston. I kept hoping when I got here it wouldn’t be true.”
He was an astonishing likeness of his father, despite the pallor and the swollen eyes. He only needed filling out, some softening around the edges.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
How was she going to recount events without causing pain?
“I’m not sure what I can tell you,” she said, “that you don’t already know.”
He leaned over watching her, his arms resting on his thighs. She hated this.
“He was already at the bottom of the pool when we got here.”
He nodded, his eyes vacant. Was he really ready? She chose her words carefully.
“I jumped in and pulled him up to the surface. My mother-in-law and a friend were there and we got him out of the water to the side of the pool. I did CPR, I tried to resuscitate him…”
He glanced at her and she wondered if he knew that meant mouth-to-mouth.
“The firemen came and took over the CPR.”
“Firemen?”
“They’re usually the first ones to arrive on the scene because they’re close. You’ve probably got a local fire station near here.”
He nodded.
“Then the ambulance came and took him to the hospital.”
“Was he…?”
“I think he was gone when I pulled him out. It’s hard to tell if you don’t know how long someone’s been in the water. You don’t want to give up too soon. But I think he was gone.”
He stared into the air. “I thought he’d always be here. I can’t believe he’s…” His eyes moistened with tears, but he blinked them back.
“Is anyone else here with you?”
He shook his head.
“Your mother?”
He looked down, played with his fingers. “She’s in upstate New York. Got a new family. Step-kids to look after.”
She sighed. At least when David died she had had people around her for support. “If you need help to… arrange the funeral. Or anything.” She stuck her hand into her purse and retrieved a business card. “Here’s my home number.” She wrote it on the back and put the card on the coffee table.
He picked up the card and studied it. “You’re a doctor.” He observed her, his eyes the same blue as Michael’s. “Did you… were you… going out with him?”
“We just met last week. He made quite an impression on me. I know it doesn’t sound like much but… sometimes you meet someone and…”
He was still leaning on his thighs, looking up at her. “You’re a little young for him.”
She blushed. “He was very charming. I’d never met anyone like him.”
He blinked back a sudden tear. “There was no one like him. And now he’s gone. I went to the morgue this morning to see him.” He turned away. “But it wasn’t him. It was his body, but it wasn’t him.”
She remembered the empty shell that David’s body had become. The agony of the moment she realized she would never see him again.
“They said they’d call me when they release… release the body.” His head drooped forward.
She touched his shoulder softly and his face rose up, disfigured with grief. She put her arms around him and felt her own tears push at the corners of her eyes. For Michael. For David. He shook quietly for an instant, then loosened his arms around her, pulling away embarrassed.
“I can’t believe this whole thing,” he said. “I just don’t understand… how did it happen?”
He asked this as if she had an answer.
“I’ve been trying to figure that out,” she said. “So don’t take this the wrong way but — your father might have been drinking before he drowned.”
He shook his head. “That doesn’t sound like him. He was careful when he went swimming.”
She licked her lips. How to put it? “I smelle
d liquor on his breath when… I tried to resuscitate him.”
Edward frowned. “I used to have pool parties here and he’d tell us to swim first, drink after. Maybe you’re mistaken.”
She would wait to hear the autopsy results, but she kept this to herself.
“How’d he like working for John Baron?”
“Uncle Janek.” For the first time Edward smiled, if crookedly. “What a character. Miserable bastard. But he gave Dad a job as soon as he got here from Poland. Dad arrived with nothing, so he owed him. And Dad never forgot that. But he didn’t always like the way Uncle Janek operated. The company, I mean. He sure knows how to make money, though. Dad respected that. He respected his success.”
“Any idea why they would argue?”
“What do you mean? There was an argument?”
“Baron showed up here yesterday when we were leaving. He had a good bruise on his face.”
“So?”
“Your father had some minor bruising on his jaw. I’m wondering if they had a fight.”
“If he touched my father, I’ll…”
“I’m just speculating here. Was there something they might’ve been fighting about?”
“Uncle Janek was his boss. Dad always gave in, even if it was something he didn’t agree with. It was Janek’s business, after all. And he isn’t someone you want to argue with.” He examined her. “You think Janek was here yesterday?”
“Your neighbour saw a large black car parked in front yesterday morning.”
“Mrs. Woronska sees everything. Janek has a black Caddy.”
“When did you last talk to your dad?”
“He called me night before last. Friday night. He’d just gotten his manuscript back from the typist and he was excited. He said he was going out soon and we’d talk on the weekend. We only spoke for a few minutes. I was waiting for a pizza, some guys were over. I thought I’d talk to him tomorrow. Never heard from him again. Saturday the police called.” He put his hand up to his forehead, closed his eyes.
“You know, that book was so important to him,” he said. “I never really paid attention to it. He was always talking about it. And now when I want to look at it, I can’t find it. I’ve checked everywhere.”
Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle Page 37