Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Warsh, Sylvia Maultash

  Teams of women fencers march in. All of them wear heavy white jackets over white breeches and white knee-high stockings.

  Wolfie leans over to Hanni. “There’s Helene Mayer,” he whispers. “She won the gold medal in 1928 in Amsterdam. She’s the only Jew competing for Germany.” Giving Hanni a meaningful look, he adds, “In any event.” He turns back toward the players. “And she’s only half-Jewish. Most of the Hungarian team are half-Jewish too.”

  Frieda looks at the German team and Helene Mayer. She’s tall and icy-calm, her blonde hair coiled in braids around her ears. The most Aryan-looking of all of them.

  The first two fencers, an Italian and a Hungarian, salute each other, lifting the handle of their foils close to their mouths, then sweeping the foil down to the ground. With their free hand, they each pull the large wire mesh mask over their heads.

  An official says, “Êtes-vous prêtes? Êtes-vous prêtes? En garde! Allez!”

  The bout begins. Frieda cannot follow the action, it goes so fast.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispers to Leopold.

  He points to the four men hovering near the two fencers as they move back and forth. “There are two judges on either side of each fencer. The objective is to hit your opponent’s chest with the tip of your blade. Only the chest, nowhere else. When a judge sees a hit, he raises his hand and the president calls out to halt. The first player to score five hits against her opponent wins the bout.”

  Suddenly the spectators around them jump up and cheer. The Hungarian fencer has scored the fifth hit on her opponent. The bout is over. A new bout begins.

  Three bouts go by before Frieda begins to recognize the players on the different teams. Finally Helene Mayer steps up, a blonde Amazon. Her opponent is American.

  Wolfie bends over. “I’ve heard Helene doesn’t wear a chest protector beneath her jacket like the other women. Interferes with her movement.”

  Hanni rolls her eyes. Frieda sees her embarrassment and wonders how long Wolfie’s infatuation with this young girl will last.

  The two fencers salute each other. After that it’s all downhill for the American. Helene Mayer shouts with exuberance at each lunge she makes toward her hapless opponent. Within short order she has scored five hits. The crowd jumps to their feet, applauding and shouting their approval.

  After everyone has sat down, Frieda’s eye is drawn to a figure still half-standing off to the side below them. The man in the Nazi uniform is staring at her, his hand touching his cap in greeting. Her heart drops in her chest. Is he really looking at her? The dark, familiar eyes ... She catches her breath. It’s Hans Brenner. She hasn’t seen him since that day in his office. Though she has thought of him often.

  She nods, then turns away. No one else has noticed. The next bout has begun and Leopold is engrossed in it.

  She avoids looking in Brenner’s direction for a few minutes, but when the bout is finished and the audience is clapping, she glances over and finds him watching her. She feels warm, too warm.

  After watching a dozen bouts, Frieda can sometimes spot when a fencer touches her opponent for a hit. Usually they move too quickly for her to follow, but she strives to concentrate. She turns her body toward Leopold, away from Brenner. Every now and then, when the audience is applauding, she turns slightly to find Brenner in her peripheral vision. For the moment his attention has been captured by the fencers.

  After several hours, all of the Italian, French, and American fencers have been eliminated. The three women left — among them Helene Mayer — are medallists, but now they must play each other to see who wins the gold, silver, and bronze. The audience, whose attention has been flagging after the hours of competition, comes back to life.

  The official announces, “The next players are Ilona Elek of Hungary and Ellen Preiss of Austria.

  Wolfie leans closer to Frieda and whispers, “Both half-Jews.”

  Everything depends on these final bouts. Excitement hangs in the air. The spectators follow every move and murmur at every hit called out. The scoreboard rises quickly from 1 to 4 under each name. Otherwise the great hall is silent except for the thin, ringing sounds of metal upon metal and the shuffling of the fencers’ feet. Ilona Elek scores a final hit against her opponent. The crowd jumps to their feet, applauding. When she returns to her place, the Hungarian coach, a middle-aged man in a brown suit, pats her on the arm with glee.

  Wolfie leans over and says, “This means the Hungarian can win the gold but the Austrian can’t go higher than the silver. It all depends on the next two rounds.”

  The official calls out, “The next players will be Helene Mayer of Germany and Ellen Preiss of Austria.”

  The two women step to the centre strip and salute each other. Merely by her size and majestic bearing, the blonde braids wound over her ears, Helene must be a daunting opponent. The brown-haired Preiss is of medium height and ordinary appearance in comparison. They pull on their masks and start.

  “Whoever loses this round gets the bronze,” Wolfie whispers.

  Foil clangs against foil. Preiss holds her own against the Amazon, but just barely. Helene cries out with vigour at each hit, both for her and against her. The audience loves her and claps each time she scores a hit against Preiss. When the score is 4–4, the spectators lean forward with rapt attention.

  Though Frieda watches closely, she misses the winning hit. When the official declares the hit against Preiss, the crowd stands up and cheers. Helene’s teammates pat her on the back while the German coach, all smiles, shakes her hand vigorously.

  Wolfie’s eyes shine with excitement. “This is it. Preiss gets the bronze. Now what everyone’s been waiting for. These two will fight for the gold.”

  During a short break one of Helene’s teammates massages her shoulders. Another hands her a glass of water. Her coach leans beside her, lips moving silently close to her ear.

  Finally the official calls into the microphone, “In the final bout the players are Ilona Elek of Hungary and Helene Mayer of Germany.”

  The two women salute each other. Helene Mayer has met her match in the Hungarian fencer, who is nearly as tall, if not as handsome. They both must be nervous, Frieda thinks, yet their faces show no emotion. They pull on their masks and stand en garde.

  “Êtes-vous prêtes? Êtes-vous prêtes? En garde! Allez!” The audience leans forward to catch every move. Wolfie is beside himself with excitement, fidgeting in his seat.

  They dance back and forth at each other, lunging, feinting, their foils aimed to strike. The two best players in the world manage to avoid each other’s foils for a time, then suddenly a hit from one side, and in quick succession a hit from the other side. The audience claps loudly with each strike.

  Frieda finally realizes why she is so ambivalent about Helene Mayer. She’s a Jewish athlete who is playing for a country that hates Jews. Why should Frieda want her country to win when it is no longer her country?

  The audience begins to clap: she has missed another hit. In two more minutes, the score reaches 4–4. The one who scores next will win the gold medal.

  Frieda holds her breath. Everyone in the audience, it seems, is holding their breath. The two fencers are sparring back and forth, foils clashing, when a judge’s hand goes up. Frieda has missed it again, but she sees who the strike is against: Helene Mayer. There’s a flurry of activity between the judges and the president, their heads bobbing together.

  Finally the official announces, “The gold medal goes to Ilona Elek of Hungary!”

  The spectators leap to their feet. A roar rises up from them, a tumult, as if they had wanted the Hungarian to win all the time. The Hungarian team dances around the winner, embracing her left and right. Two of them lift her into the air. Their coach is weeping tears of joy.

  “Damn!” says Wolfie, clapping and scowling at the same time. “I could’ve made a lot of money if Helene’d won.” He has to shout to be heard above the cheers.

  “You made a bet on this?” Frieda hi
sses. She shakes her head with disgust. Hanni, however, is smiling at him.

  Frieda stands up, glad to be able to stretch her feet. She looks for Brenner but has lost sight of him in the crowd. People have begun to leave, and three or four men in Nazi uniform move along the aisle of the row ahead; without warning one of them breaks away and stops in front of her.

  “Fräulein Eisenbaum,” says Hans Brenner directly before her, touching his cap. “It’s nice to see you again.” His companions watch her from ten feet away, their faces blank. “My friends and I are going out to celebrate. Would you care to join us?” He glances back at the group of men, whose faces have turned stony. “No, no, of course not.”

  He observes her as if they are alone, his eyes wandering to her breasts and legs. He can’t take his eyes off her, and she is thrilled. “Do you see patients?” he asks. “Are you practising?”

  Leopold sits stiffly beside her, staring into the distance.

  “I work at a hospital, covering for some physicians.” One of his friends is clearing his throat, trying to get Brenner’s attention. They’ve had enough of this illicit interchange between the Aryan and the Jewess. She lowers her voice. “I never thanked you for your help with my certificate.”

  He stares at her, and she can see in his eyes the image of her body lying on his examining table, his hand on her breast. But he waves the suggestion away — which one, she wonders, her thanks or the memory? “Not necessary ...” he mumbles.

  “Nevertheless,” she says softly.

  He gives a slight nod, then walks away, followed by his companions, who stare straight ahead without giving them a glance.

  Once they’re out of earshot, Wolfie mutters, “You surprise me, little sister. Maybe you could arrange a little game for us. I could make a bundle there.”

  She silences him with a nasty look.

  chapter fifteen

  Early Thursday morning Rebecca trudged up the stairs to her office. She was exhausted. Despite the ordeal of the previous night, she’d kept up her routine of visiting patients at the hospital before her office hours. She tried to shut out the picture, but she kept seeing the man jumping past her in the yard, the woman covered in blood. Her medical training had kicked in while they waited for help, but she was unprepared to deal with violent death. Or the helplessness of watching someone die.

  She was getting out her keys when footsteps sounded behind her. She jumped, still on edge, hurrying to unlock the door. While she fidgeted, two neatly groomed men in dark wool coats headed up the stairs after her, one tall and bulky, the other average size.

  “We’re looking for Dr. Rebecca Temple,” the bulky one said. He held up his police identity badge for her to examine. His sparse black hair was combed forward, his bulbous nose a patchy red.

  She was glad he was on her side. “Come in.” She led them into the empty waiting room and stopped in the middle.

  “I’m Detective Fitzroy and this is Detective Bellwood. Would you mind answering some questions about what happened last night?”

  They sat down in the waiting room while she repeated what she had told the constable the evening before in the hospital. Fitzroy listened intently, taking notes in a small pad, while Bellwood looked around at the office.

  “So you think the dead woman knew this man who looked like a vagrant?” Fitzroy asked.

  “He called her Birdie. Said he’d brought her something. He was trying to please her.”

  Bellwood suddenly came to life. “Did she call him Stanley?”

  “I left when he went into the yard. I didn’t hear anything after that.”

  “If it’s who we’re thinking,” Fitzroy said, “we’ve had trouble with him before. He’s a tough guy. Not usually with women. But he’s been known to hit out when he’s not happy. Maybe Birdie did something he didn’t like.”

  The morning flew by, with no time for a break between patients. A few minutes before noon, Iris knocked on the door of Rebecca’s examining room. “Phone call for you. A Dr. Sentry.”

  Rebecca was just handing over a requisition form for physiotherapy to a woman with a whiplash injury.

  “I’ll be right there,” she said. Maybe he had some news about the murder.

  She stepped into her private office and picked up the receiver. “Rebecca Temple.”

  “It’s Erich Sentry here. I hope you don’t mind me calling your office.”

  “It’s fine. We break for lunch at noon.”

  “That’s what I was hoping. I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner tonight.”

  She sank into her leather chair and stared out the window at the tops of the spruce trees across the street. His mother’s German accent echoed in her head. Should she blame the son?

  “Um, certainly. That would be nice.” Would it be?

  “What time do you finish at the office?” he asked.

  “Around six-thirty.”

  “How about I pick you up at seven? You’re in the white brick building on the corner across from my parents’ house?”

  Iris had already left when Rebecca heard Erich climbing the stairs in the empty building. She gave her dark mass of hair a last brush in the mirror of the small bathroom. A touch of lipstick. She was going on a date? What would Nesha think? It was just dinner. He would want her to eat.

  When she stepped out into the waiting room, Erich was standing in the middle in his pea jacket, surveying the office. He was a bit taller than average, handsome in a boyish way. A strand of brown hair fell over his forehead. He smiled when she appeared, intelligent eyes taking her in.

  “I always wondered what it would be like to have live patients.”

  She grinned. “They’re more trouble when they’re alive. The trick is to keep them that way.”

  He took her coat from her arm and helped her on with it. A light whiff of aftershave as he stood behind her. What did she expect? Formaldehyde?

  She turned off the lights and locked the office door behind them. Leading him down the stairs, she asked, “Did you have a place in mind for dinner?”

  They stood inside the front door of the building. She had her hand on the switch to turn off the hall light when he said, “I’m sorry if I didn’t make myself clear.” He was suddenly embarrassed. “We’re going to my parents’ house. They wanted you to come for dinner.”

  “Oh,” she said, hiding her disappointment in her sweep out the front door.

  He took her elbow when they crossed Beverley Street. The Sentry house stood on the opposite corner, its entrance actually on Beverley; only the backyard faced D’Arcy. They had the requisite scrap of front lawn typical of houses downtown. The porch needed painting but was at least clean and uncluttered, unlike its attached neighbour, whose veranda contained bikes, old lawn chairs, and newspapers piled in a box.

  Erich opened the door and led her inside. The fragrance of roast chicken softened her regret. She followed him into the living room on the right, where the clean lines of the Scandinavian sofa and chairs vied for space with bookcases, hi-fi equipment, a shelf full of audio-tapes, and a floor lamp wearing a fringed orange shade. Above the fireplace hung a long, tarnished sword that looked antique. A striped orange and cream rug lay on top of the brown broadloom. A long leather gear bag leaned into a corner. There were no religious symbols. No swastikas.

  A slight archway separated the dining from the living room. The table was set for four on off-white linen beneath a simple chandelier of translucent glass globes. She spied movement in the kitchen, which led off the dining room.

  “What can I get you to drink? Wine?”

  “Thanks.” She smiled weakly. What had she gotten herself into? An evening with the dour mother. Would the father be equally dour?

  On the wooden mantel over the fireplace stood several photos, most of Erich when he was younger. One, however, was a more formal photo taken with a much younger Mr. and Mrs. Sentry standing behind a chair where a pretty woman sat holding a young child on her lap. Erich resembled his father when he was y
oung. His mother was slightly taller than his father and not much changed over the years, though her short hair was darker and more abundant then. The wide-eyed child must have been Erich. None of them looked happy, but the couple half-smiled for the camera. The small-boned, pretty woman in front made no effort to smile; her eyes emanated pain.

  Erich returned with two glasses of white wine, an older, much shorter man on his heels.

  “This is my father, Will Sentry. This is Rebecca Temple.”

  The older Sentry put out his hand and smiled with confidence at her.

  She proffered her hand, speechless, staring at the face she had seen the previous Saturday in the Royal York. The windblown man who had crashed the conference and engaged Dr. Salim in an acrimonious exchange after lunch. In German.

  “Delighted to meet you,” he said, his German accent nasal but not unpleasant. He was perfectly polite now, his dark, greying hair combed neatly.

  “Erich tells me you’re a doctor, too?”

  She nodded, trying to make sense of things. It would be rude to bring up the incident.

  Mrs. Sentry appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Hello, doctor. Glad you could make it. Come sit down.”

  Her face had softened since last evening, almost aglow in her husband’s presence. Rebecca recognized it with a pang: the difference love made.

  On her way into the dining room Rebecca noticed some framed photos propped up on a teak sideboard. In one, a dashing Will Sentry stood dressed in white protective fencing gear, a sword held jauntily in front, his mask under an arm. Rebecca’s mind plunged back fifteen years to her first year in university when she had chosen fencing as her athletic option. All undergrads had to spend a year mastering the sports activity of their choice. Not especially athletic, she’d avoided team sports like volleyball. That year she’d learned to fence with a foil, surprised at the sport’s complexity and energy level. But her main problem had been her lack of aggression, an insurmountable defect in fencing, since, during a bout with an opponent, the first fencer to establish a threat had priority and any hit from the fencer with priority took precedence over a hit from the other. It was called right of way. She’d rarely won a bout. The next year she’d met David and other interests had taken hold.