Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Warsh, Sylvia Maultash

  Rebecca had tried to help her mother and sister with the preparations for dinner, but her arm still hurt and the bandages cut down on her mobility. She ended up sitting at the kitchen table happily entertaining four-year-old Jonathan. They both watched Flo and Susan from the rear as they chopped, stirred, and blended food on the counter.

  “Who’s that?” Rebecca asked the little boy, pointing at Flo.

  “That’s Bubbie,” he said, his brown eyes shining.

  Flo turned and gave them both a radiant smile.

  “That’s right,” Rebecca said. “And who’s that?” She pointed at Susan’s back.

  “That’s my mommy!” he shrieked with delight.

  “Right!” she said. “And guess what? Your bubbie is my mommy.”

  His eyes widened, the little face grew puzzled. “You’re too old to have a mommy.”

  Rebecca grinned. “You’re never too old to have a mommy.”

  “I’m tired,” he said. “Aunt Rebecca, can I sit in your lap?”

  She stroked his downy blonde hair. “I’d love for you to sit in my lap, sweetie, but my leg is injured.”

  “She has a boo-boo on her leg,” Susan said, turning around to smile at them. “Show him, so he understands.”

  Rebecca had worn a light crinkly skirt because it was loose and comfortable on the wounds. She lifted the fabric up to reveal her thigh swathed in bandage.

  “Ooohh,” he said with delight.

  Sarah and Natalka arrived after eight o’clock. When Natalka stepped into view, Rebecca’s heart skipped a beat. She had been waiting. Natalka’s white hair was twisted into a smooth funnel at the back, elongating the line of her swan neck. She looked the same as before, only now Rebecca was searching for something else: David. She found him in the shape of Natalka’s brow, the direct green eyes.

  Sarah handed Flo a large round honey cake on a covered plate. “Natalka helped me make it. It’s her first honey cake.”

  “Sweet things for a sweet year,” Natalka said, looking to Sarah for approval.

  Sarah nodded at her and beamed.

  Natalka seemed to have warmed up to her newly discovered mother after a week, thought Rebecca. A week and a cake.

  Natalka took in the cathedral entranceway to the Temple home, the flowered damask furnishings that echoed the ochre in the thick broadloom, the wall tapestry that Flo had brought back from Amsterdam. Rebecca didn’t take her eyes off her: the angle of Natalka’s shoulders, the tentative smile in public, brought back David in a rush.

  Rebecca admired the sea green jacket that Natalka wore over a matching dress. It didn’t look like it had come out of the suitcase from Poland. Sarah must have taken her shopping. The colour brought roses to her complexion and reflected the green in her eyes. She would have been the image of grace if not for her illness. She held her new beige purse over the swollen area around her spleen.

  Rebecca greeted Sarah with a kiss on the cheek. When she embraced Natalka, Rebecca whispered, “I have some news for you.”

  Before Natalka could respond, Sarah began introducing her to Flo, Mitch, Susan, and Uncle Henry. Rebecca wondered how much had been resolved between the two women. Though Sarah glowed in her presence, she didn’t say “This is my daughter.” She said, “This is Natalka.”

  “We’re in for a treat later,” said Flo. “I’ve asked Sarah and Natalka to play something for us tonight.”

  Rebecca observed her mother with surprise. She had engineered another opportunity for rapprochement — rehearsal.

  Mitch took everyone’s drink orders and disappeared into the dining room. Flo, Susan, and Uncle Henry retreated to the kitchen to finish the food preparations.

  Rebecca led Sarah and Natalka to the far end of the living room near the upright piano, where a corner table held old pictures of the family. Natalka picked up a photo of Rebecca when she was six, wearing a frilly plaid dress.

  “This is you?” Natalka asked, smiling, showing the picture to Sarah.

  Rebecca nodded.

  “So serious. You looked already like a doctor.”

  David had said the same thing about her childhood photos, that she had looked so solemn, like she was ready to take on the problems of humanity.

  At least she had good news for Natalka. Lowering her voice, she said, “I have a message from Halina.”

  “She called you?” Natalka asked, glancing nervously at Sarah. “Where she is?”

  “She went back to the convent downtown. She called this afternoon. I think she was too embarrassed to call Sarah’s house.”

  Sarah stared at Natalka with wary eyes, looked away.

  “She wants you to know she’s going back to Poland. She’s going to arrange for your daughter to come for a visit here.”

  Natalka’s face lit up. “Anya? Coming here? This is wonderful.” Her eyes quickly clouded over. “But how they will do it? Government will not let her go.”

  “Halina will tell them you’re very sick and want to see your daughter once more. Before the end…”

  Both Natalka and Sarah took in a sharp breath.

  “No, no, you’re fine. It’s just to persuade them,” Rebecca said, placing a steadying hand on Natalka’s arm. “But it’s a good plan. She’ll convince them that, once you’re gone, the girl will have to come back to Poland to her father, the only parent she has left. Only once Anya’s here, she won’t go back to Poland. She’ll stay here with her mother. And grandmother. Halina knows you’ll both have a better life here.”

  Natalka’s pale eyebrows curved together. “But she will lose job. Maybe worse.”

  “This is her idea. It’s her choice.”

  Natalka bit her lip. “When she is going?”

  “Sunday.”

  “This Sunday?”

  Natalka turned to Sarah. “I don’t want to upset you, but I must see her. I must… thank her.”

  Sarah sighed and nodded. “We’ll go down there tomorrow.”

  Mitch approached with their Dubonnet and the subject was changed.

  Everyone sat down to dinner. Flo Temple served the gefullte fish first.

  Natalka stared at the white oval lump on her plate. “No, thank you,” she said. “I never had sweet fish. I don’t really like fish at all.”

  “I should tell you,” said Mitch, “I put a prize into one of the pieces of fish. But you have to cut into it to see if you’re the winner.”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes at Flo, who didn’t seem to notice.

  Everyone watched Natalka push her fork warily into the ball of fish. “I think you’re playing trick on me…” She broke the fish into half, then quarters.

  “Nothing inside?” Mitch said, disappointed. “Well, now that it’s all in pieces, you may as well taste it. If you don’t like it, we won’t charge you.”

  Natalka smiled weakly and put a tiny piece in her mouth. She chewed. Then she stopped and smiled. “It’s good.”

  A cheer went up around the table while she finished the rest of the fish.

  When they had finished the beef brisket, Mitch raised his hand in the air to quiet the general tumult of conversation.

  “Let’s raise a glass to the chef. To Flo — a wonderful dinner, as usual.”

  Her mother grinned and basked in the attention.

  “And to our beautiful and brilliant daughter, the doctor. Who managed to stay calm when confronted by a homicidal professor who gave a whole new meaning to the term ‘publish or perish.’” Mitch threw her an apologetic kiss and everyone around the table tittered.

  Served her right for telling him the story, Rebecca thought. Despite her struggle with the black humour, she felt surrounded by warmth.

  Her mother leaned over and put her arms around her. “Thank God,” Flo whispered.

  Later, on her way to the kitchen with some dirty dishes, Flo said, “This would be a perfect time for some music, Sarah. We can digest while we listen.”

  The dishes were scraped and piled in the sink and on the counter. Everyone drifted into
the living room. Rebecca sat on the sofa between her mother and her sister.

  Natalka set her music down on the piano then arranged herself carefully on the bench. For a moment she sat still, watching Sarah, who stood nearby, her back straight, taking in deep breaths.

  “We picked the Song of Songs from the Bible,” Sarah said, “because tonight we’re celebrating a religious holiday, the beginning of a new year. And people have interpreted this poetry as a love song to God, but it is also clearly just a love song. So we wanted to sing our praises to God, and to each other.”

  The two women exchanged intimate looks that surprised and warmed Rebecca. Natalka played a note. Sarah aimed at it, held it. Then she nodded at Natalka.

  The younger woman stroked the keys softly while Sarah began to sing. Her throaty mezzo voice thrilled and soothed at the same time. Rebecca heard something she hardly recognized in it: joy.

  My beloved spake, and said unto me,

  Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.

  For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;

  Rebecca watched her new sister-in-law with awe, searched for David there. Her white hair had been orange once. Like David’s. Rebecca had to make an effort now, to picture his hair orange, the fine hair on his arms impossibly orange. If he had lived longer it would have turned white, like his sister’s. It was extraordinary — for the first time she could see a resemblance between mother and daughter, the delicate nose, the line of the chin. If she were Sarah, she would grasp Natalka with all her might and never let her go. Now that she had found her again.

  So that you can always find me again. That was what Rebecca needed: a compass to show her the way. But a compass wouldn’t help her find David again. Or Michael. Nothing could do that. But a compass might help her find something else. What was it she was looking for? A compass could only point north. And where was that? Was it someplace knowable?

  The flowers appear on the earth; the time of

  the singing of birds is come,

  and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;

  The fig tree putteth forth her green figs,

  and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell.

  Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.

  Flo’s arm rested on the back of the sofa behind Rebecca, touching her shoulders. Susan quietly put her arm through Rebecca’s. A wave of something inexplicable washed over her: warmth, intimacy, safety. It was true that a compass only pointed north. But north was a fixed position. It was stable and never moved. So once you knew where north was, all the rest fell into place.

  Rebecca closed her eyes to listen to Sarah’s rich dark voice, to savour the words.

  O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock,

  in the secret places of the stairs,

  let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice;

  for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely.

  Acknowledgements

  I am grateful to many people: my husband, Jerry Warsh, for his support, as well as his medical expertise; my mother, Gena Maultash, for her memories of wartime Poland; my children, Nathaniel and Jessica, for their help in many ways; Dr. Herb Batt, for his enthusiastic creative help with the manuscript; my writing groups, for their constructive criticism and support, specifically Lynne Murphy, Rosemary McCracken, Joan O’Callaghan, Madeleine Harris, Cecilia Kennedy, Heather Kirk, Priscilla Galloway, Lorraine Williams, Vancy Kaspar, Barbara Kerslake, and Caroline Andrews. Thanks also to Dr. Ray Steinman for helping to unravel some medical questions, Neil Puype for architectural information, my editor, Barry Jowett, my marketing director, Beth Bruder, and my publisher, Kirk Howard, for their continued support.

  The characters in the eighteenth-century “manuscript” are authentic historical figures. Though I have taken the liberty of putting my words into their mouths, I have tried to be faithful to actual events, with the exception of the “contradiction of written history” noted in the story.

  chapter one

  Rebecca

  Toronto, November 1979

  People look different in hospitals. Quite apart from the illness. Even the self-confident ones become cowed in a hospital bed, frightened by their IVs, by the unequivocal nurses coming around to prod them in intimate places, by the specialists and students who discuss the ailment as if it were a gnome sitting on the patient’s chest, a third party, utterly separate and deaf.

  Rebecca understood their distress at their loss of control and did her best to reassure them when they went into hospital. Always felt duplicitous because she so keenly loved Mount Sinai. She had to suppress a frisson of excitement whenever she walked through the doors. Magically, the tragic part of her life fell away. The black moods, the sleeplessness. She had trained here, an eager sponge absorbing knowledge, and now she was doing her part to make life better for people.

  She stood near Mrs. Fiori’s bed. More than a year had passed since Rebecca had seen her patient. She recalled the robust energy of the stout but handsome woman, her thick dark hair sprayed into place. That person was hiding inside this pale rendition, the usual bloom of her skin now faded. Gently, she turned Mrs. Fiori’s hand palm up and, holding her wrist between thumb and fingers, took her pulse. No matter how she felt about a patient — not all were as pleasant as Mrs. Fiori — this somehow intimate gesture never failed to rouse in her a protective affection. Maybe it was the measure of their vulnerability, a reminder of her own, that struck her so tenderly. Mrs. Fiori smiled at Rebecca, her eyes still sparkling. This was not the time to tell her again to stop smoking. That could wait. She was fifty-three and had just suffered a stroke.

  “How are you feeling?” Rebecca asked.

  “Not so bad. Just tired. Can’t even do my hair.”

  “It’ll take time.” Recovery depended on so many factors that she knew better than to promise anything. “I’ll come by tonight to check on you on my way home.”

  Mrs. Fiori smiled feebly and nodded.

  Rebecca picked up her Jaguar coupe from the staff lot behind the hospital and drove back to her office on Beverley Street. The rest of the day she spent dealing with the usual ear infections, stomach upsets, and women who were terrified they might be pregnant.

  After office hours she wasn’t in the same hurry and usually walked the four blocks back to Mount Sinai. She could air her brain and get some exercise at the same time.

  She realized later that she had barely given Mrs. Fiori a thought all day. Was that why it hit her so hard when she walked to the nurses’ station that evening? She felt it as soon as the nurse looked up at her. The eyes gave people away. Some unintentional message written on the underside. The way the muscles of the face realigned themselves.

  She wanted to be anywhere but here because she sensed the nightmare playing out in the room down the hall. No, she heard the keening of the nightmare, a barely human voice. The wailing that rose up from that part of you that lay quiet most of your life if you were lucky. That part of you that understood the real world viscerally, the careless cruelty and unfairness of it, and only surfaced when summoned by your own tragedy. Not others’, only your own. Otherwise how could you live?

  Rebecca stopped in front of the nurse, trying to wrap herself in a layer of professionalism. A doctor didn’t fall apart. A doctor helped others cope. A doctor ...

  “What happened?” Rebecca asked.

  The nurse, a tall middle-aged woman, handed her Mrs. Fiori’s chart. “I tried to phone your office. She just had another stroke.” Her cheeks sagged from effort.

  Rebecca stared at the file, but the writing wavered before her eyes. When the words stopped moving, she read that the internist had seen Mrs. Fiori within the last hour. Right in the hospital. Still nothing they could do for her. Blood clot in the brain. Such a small thing to stop a life.

  Still in her wool coat, she walked down the hall toward the frantic weeping. She hovered in the doorway, hating her own cowardice. Mrs. Fiori lay facing the ceil
ing, her once lovely face white, dark hair splayed on the pillow, mouth open.

  David. A flashbulb went off and everything stood still in an instant. David lying in the hospital, the same hospital. The same white. The same gone. Gone.

  The moment passed. Rebecca saw a nurse in the room, speaking in a low voice to the husband and teenage son. Rebecca had met the family when Mrs. Fiori had been admitted four days ago. It was the daughter, maybe twenty, who keened shrilly, slumped over her mother’s body. The daughter, who resembled her mother so much, with her dark hair and wide cheekbones, she might have been mourning for herself.

  Rebecca watched the nurse approach her, gently but firmly lift her from the bed, murmuring words of comfort that slid right past the face swollen with tears.

  “Nobody said she would die!” cried the young woman. “She can’t die!”

  The nurse looked up and saw Rebecca in the doorway. Now she had to go in. Try to console a family who would be inconsolable. As was their right. She had been through it all herself. She understood only too well. People try to comfort, but there’s really nothing anyone can say. Nobody found the magic words when she was inconsolable.

  She stepped into the room. It was airless. She could barely breathe, but she placed her hand on Mr. Fiori’s arm. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect it.”

  He shifted damp brown eyes to her and nodded. The boy had his arm around his father’s shoulder and seemed to be protecting him from her.

  The daughter noticed her entrance. “I don’t understand! She wasn’t supposed to die! I don’t understand!”

  “I’m so sorry,” Rebecca said. “There’s always a risk, but she seemed to be doing so well ...”