Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Warsh, Sylvia Maultash

  Following Salim, they climbed up into the bleachers and sat down in an unoccupied row, Rebecca in the middle. When she began to wiggle out of her wool jacket, both men gave her a hand. Salim pulled his arms out of the sleeves of his coat, revealing a thick white cotton shirt, presumably Egyptian. Erich wore a black T-shirt beneath his pea jacket. Along with the jeans he looked like a teenager.

  “So what is your occupation, Mr. Sentry?” Salim bent forward to ask.

  Rebecca noted his wide creased forehead, the substantial but refined nose.

  “I’m a pathologist.”

  “A physician?” Erich nodded. “Dr. Sentry. So the three of us are doctors. What a happy coincidence.” Then he seemed satisfied to let the subject drop while the next bout began.

  In short order Pawel scored a hit against Laszlo’s opponent. Sentry’s face relaxed a little, then he looked up and waved imperiously at them. Rebecca was mystified by the gesture, but Erich understood that his father required his presence. He excused himself and stepped down through the bleachers. Sentry pulled him aside and seemed to be giving him instructions. She could tell Erich was controlling himself, his face a mask.

  “Have you and the young man known each other long?” Salim asked, glancing at her with a casual suggestiveness.

  “We only met a few days ago,” Rebecca said. “Under unfortunate circumstances, I’m afraid. My office is across from the Sentrys’ house. I found a woman injured in their yard. I met Erich’s mother then.”

  Salim stared at her, nodding. She couldn’t help feeling he wasn’t really interested, just making conversation.

  “Lucky for the woman you found her. What was wrong with her?”

  “She had a fractured skull. I’m afraid she died in hospital.”

  “I’m sorry. Did you know her?”

  “I’d spoken to her before. She was a street person. They let her stay in the backyard.” It wasn’t her place to divulge the woman’s relationship to the family.

  He arched up one prominent eyebrow. “Charitable. Then how did she fracture her skull?”

  “Someone hit her.”

  “Ghastly. I can’t imagine that such a thing is common in Toronto?”

  “No.” She saw Erich heading back, his jaw set. “Was she able to tell you anything before she died?” Salim asked.

  “She was unconscious. But before when we spoke, what she said made no sense, so I’m not sure it would’ve made any difference. I think she was schizophrenic. It was always hard to tell what she meant or what she wanted.”

  Without speaking, Erich edged past them to sit down.

  “A problem?” Salim asked politely.

  “Family matters.”

  “We were just speaking about the woman who was killed in your yard.”

  “My parents’ yard.”

  “Ah. I was just going to say it’s very complicated trying to have a conversation with a schizophrenic. I come across many in my country. There’s usually no rhyme or reason to them.”

  Rebecca winced. Now that Erich had returned, they were no longer speaking about the murder of a stranger. “That may be true,” she said, “but sometimes I felt that I understood. The last time I saw her, I think she was trying to tell me something. I just can’t figure out what it was. Maybe it’ll come to me one day. She pushed a shopping bag into my hands and I knew she wanted me to take it. She was very frightened about something.”

  Salim stared at her, now engrossed in her story. “Extraordinary. What was in the bag?”

  “Nothing important. Just an old doll. It’s still in the trunk of my car — I forgot about it.”

  He shook his head morosely, as if pondering the fragility of life. They turned back to the fencing. Pawel had scored two hits against his opponent.

  “Are you staying in Toronto long?” she asked.

  “A little while longer.” Salim watched the fencers below, pensive.

  “Dr. Salim is from Egypt,” she said to Erich on her other side.

  “Are you here for business or pleasure?” Erich asked.

  “I’m giving some talks on a pain medication my company’s developing.”

  “From snake venom,” Rebecca added.

  “You went to the lecture,” Erich said, nodding. “I guess there’s always room for a new drug for pain. But I wouldn’t know, since people are beyond pain by the time they reach me.”

  Salim bent forward to address Erich. “Then the corpses in your country have something in common with the impoverished people in my country: neither will get relief from the pain medications available now. Most Egyptians can’t afford drugs — they barely have enough money to eat. They’ve learned to bear their suffering and thank Allah for it. At the free clinics for the poor, they’re lucky to get Aspirin. But our company is planning to give a portion of the new drug to the poor for free, once, God willing, it’s out on the market. My brother-in-law is deeply affected by the misery they suffer in our country.”

  “Your brother-in-law?” Rebecca said.

  “Mohammed Hassan, the founder of Hassan Pharmaceuticals.”

  One of the sponsors of the medical conference she had attended.

  “I married the boss’s sister.”

  “Good career move,” Erich said.

  “Yes, I’ve done well,” he said, smiling modestly.

  “Isn’t he the one involved in the peace accord with Israel?” Rebecca asked.

  “As in Camp David and Jimmy Carter?” Erich said.

  “Yes, he went to Camp David. He’s an advisor to Anwar Sadat.”

  “Have you met Sadat?” she asked.

  “Several times. A remarkable man. Great presence. And he’s very brave pushing for peace with Israel. There are Egyptians who want to kill him for it.”

  “The news on TV shows people demonstrating in the streets,” Rebecca said.

  “There’s a large group of angry people who feel Sadat has betrayed Islam. That he cares only about ancient Egypt and the pharaohs, but nothing for the poor, or for solving today’s problems.”

  She remembered her conversation with Nesha. “Is that the Muslim Brotherhood?”

  Salim observed her with interest. “You know something about my country, I see.”

  “Very little, I’m afraid. If he’s in danger, what drives him to make peace?”

  “He wants the Sinai Peninsula back, which the Israelis have promised to return. But also, he’s a forward thinker. He looks toward the West. He hopes the Americans will fill the aid gap left by Britain and, more lately, Russia. He’s practical. He knows the Americans can give more than the Russians.”

  “But there will be a price,” said Erich.

  “There’s always a price.”

  “What do the Americans want in return for their support?” Erich asked.

  “You should go into foreign service, doctor. Mostly they want influence. An Arab country they can trust and work through. Most Arab countries are anti-Western. To a devout Muslim, the American way of life is corrupt and immoral. The idea of accepting help from such a country is anathema.”

  “Is Egypt different, then?”

  Salim shrugged. “Much of Egypt wants to embrace the West. Perhaps it’s a carryover from British rule. The irony is that while they resented British influence, at the same time they imbibed the culture. A dominant culture seeps through one’s pores, whether one wishes it to or not. The Brotherhood is extremely opposed to all outside influence. They want to turn the country into an Islamic state. It will be a struggle, of that there is no doubt.” Pressing his lips together in mock distress, he said, “They’re very angry with Canadians at the moment. That business of your inexperienced new prime minister — I’m sorry, I don’t remember his name — he promised to move your embassy in Israel to Jerusalem. That would give legitimacy to Israel’s claim on it when the Palestinians are claiming it as their own. The Brotherhood couldn’t have found Canada on the map before. Now they know where you are.”

  “Joe Clark,” Rebecca said. “The ne
w prime minister.” She had heard him pledge to move the embassy during his campaign, but hadn’t given it any thought.

  The bell rang, signalling the end of the bout. Pawel had won five to four. While Sentry patted his cheek, grinning, his teammates slapped him on the back.

  For the next ninety minutes, Rebecca sat flanked by her new companions, watching the final stages of the tournament. Each team was down to three players, one in foil, one in epée, and one in saber — a total of nine men left. The three fencers in each category fought each other in consecutive matches. By this point they were all tired, their faces high-coloured with exertion. After each bout, the players removed their masks and wiped their brows with the backs of their hands.

  Western was leading with four bouts. U of T had won three, while Queens lagged behind with one. Tension mounted. The Western team clapped with enthusiasm every time one of theirs scored. The two other teams were more subdued. If Western won the next bout, the games were over. If U of T won and tied with Western, then there would be some last-minute calculations, according to Erich, and the winner would be determined by the total number of hits scored minus the total number of touches against. There was still hope.

  Sentry was whispering in the ear of a lanky young man before sending him out on the piste. The two fencers saluted each other, then the officials. Everyone in the room stopped talking.

  Rebecca tried to follow but missed the first three hits each fencer delivered against the other. Sentry stood rigid, one hand on a hip, his face a mask of apprehension. The Western fencer landed another hit against U of T. The score was 4–3 for Western. The next hit was crucial. The clashing of swords was the only sound in the room. Then even Rebecca saw the Western fencer’s foil bend into a curve against the University of Toronto chest. The president called out “Halte!” and conferred with the judges to determine if the last hit was valid. There seemed to be some disagreement about who had the right of way.

  Will Sentry stood among his team, arms locked against his chest, waiting.

  “I don’t know about you two,” Salim said under his breath, “but I prefer a more straightforward game. Like cricket, or soccer, where there’s no question of who’s won.”

  “That’s very British,” said Rebecca. “But your accent isn’t British. I’ve been trying to place it.”

  Salim smiled sideways, disarming her with his charm. “I’m a citizen of the world,” he said, stretching out the O in “world,” suggesting undreamt-of expanse. “We have a villa in Spain. Perhaps I’ve picked up some of their pronunciations.”

  After a minute, the president returned. He spoke into the microphone. “The hit against the University of Toronto is valid. The score is five to three in favour of the University of Western Ontario.”

  Cheers rose from the Western side of the salle. Some students whistled, but on the whole, the ovation was subdued compared to the excitement she imagined on the football field or hockey rink.

  The official waited for silence. “I’d like to congratulate the University of Western Ontario on their win in today’s tournament.”

  This time the whole room applauded, including the U of T team. Polite, rather than enthusiastic. The official waited.

  “The score was very close. All teams were worthy opponents and played exceedingly well.”

  This time the U of T side cheered more eagerly.

  “As you all know, this is our last fencing event in Hart House. Next semester we move to the Benson Building in the new Athletic Centre at Harbord and Spadina. The Physical Education Department would like to invite everyone to an informal reception in the lounge upstairs to bid Hart House a fond farewell. We celebrate those years and at the same time look forward to the future in a new, state-of-the-art facility. Refreshments will be served.”

  People stood up and started filing out of the bleachers.

  “Well,” said Salim. “Shall we drown our sorrows in some wine?” He was closest to the aisle and stood up.

  He led them down the stairs of the bleachers, heading for the gloomy U of T team, which was gathering together its gear. Will Sentry was gesticulating a fencing move with one of his team — perhaps some correction of an error in technique — when he saw them approach.

  The head with the theatrical mass of hair tilted at them. “Of course, all the preparation in the world won’t help if you get jinxed,” he said to the fencer, raising his voice for them to hear. “We were winning up to the quarter-finals. And then something changed. Like an evil presence.” He was staring at Salim.

  “That’s very petulant,” said Salim, blinking his eyelids down slowly. “What happened to ‘It’s not who wins but how you play the game’?”

  Sentry’s jaw fell. “Game! It’s an art, not a game.”

  “You know what I mean. It’s not the end of the world, man. Get some perspective.”

  Erich turned his face away from his father, hiding a smile.

  Salim led their escape out of the auditorium, muttering, “Don’t they have those little rubber tips on the ends of their swords?”

  They joined a small crowd in the reception room, hovering around three round tables that held platters of finger sandwiches surrounded by vegetable sticks. Small slices of rye bread and pumpernickel were spread with liver pâté, semi-ripe cheese, or cream cheese. A fruit tray held chunks of melon, pineapple, and clusters of grapes.

  Rebecca and Erich waited politely in line, placing a few canapés on their respective Styrofoam plates. They stood patiently at another table to retrieve some fruit. When they emerged from the crowds around the tables, Rebecca saw Salim standing off to one side busily chewing through the rich assortment of canapés and fruit he had assembled on his plate.

  “You’re good at this,” she said, stopping beside him.

  He swallowed before answering. “In my position I’ve been invited to a lot of these things. I’ve had to develop survival skills. You’d be surprised at what you can learn. For example, I know there’s a coffee urn behind that cluster of people in the corner. But, alas, no wine. Perhaps you won’t miss the wine, if you brought your car and have to drive home?”

  “I walked,” she said.

  He gave her a brief nod, then looked at Erich. “Subway,” said Erich.

  “Then it’s certainly a pity about the wine, because I took a cab.”

  Despite his patter, she realized he had positioned himself to face the large entryway of the room and kept it in view while chatting to them. A cheer went up when the three fencing teams entered. They all headed for the food. All but Sentry. Rebecca saw him spot Salim through the crowd. Each fixed his eyes on the other.

  Salim put a half-eaten canapé back on his plate and said, “Excuse me. I’m going to find some coffee.”

  He headed for the reputed coffee corner, then turned abruptly to make his way toward Sentry. They both disappeared outside the room.

  “Would you like me to get you some coffee?” she asked Erich.

  He looked mildly surprised, but said, “Thanks.”

  She moved in the direction of the coffee, then veered off toward the doorway. Peeking out, she saw the two men at the end of the long hall. They were arguing. Sentry leaned aggressively toward Salim with his hands on his hips, while the taller, stately Salim raised his hands palm up, reasonable by comparison. What could these two ever have had in common? Where could they have been old friends, as Salim had implied? The noise in the lounge behind her drowned out their dialogue, keeping the distant tableau a pantomime. But Sentry’s posture as he straightened up, his hands dropping to his sides, told her that Salim was mollifying him, convincing him of something.

  Then Salim shrugged. Sentry folded his arms across his chest, unappeased. Nothing appeared settled, only postponed. She was curious in an abstract way, but she didn’t really want to know. She sensed a darkness between them, some unholy connection in the past.

  All at once Salim turned away from Sentry and marched back toward the lounge. Before she could pull away from the d
oor, he swerved down a stairwell and disappeared. He must have been upset to leave without saying goodbye to her.

  By the time she found the coffee urn, Sentry had joined his team in the lounge. She could feel his eyes on her as she made her way back to Erich, balancing two cups of coffee on their saucers.

  chapter twenty-four

  November 1938

  For the next few days, the Eisenbaums sweep away the broken shards of dishes, mirrors, windows, and lamps. Frieda and Mutti do most of the work while Oma sits down every ten minutes holding her head in her hands. Every now and then Frieda hears her whispering, “Ernst” as she rocks back and forth. Luise sits beside her on one of the salvaged kitchen chairs, her arm around Oma’s shoulder.

  “Poor Oma-mouse,” she says. “Don’t cry.”

  All their chairs were smashed apart, but Oma has managed to lash some legs and seats together with strips of torn fabric, so that three of them can be sat upon with care.

  In the bedroom Frieda collects the shattered bits of her medical instruments. Tears slide down her cheeks as she deposits the precious debris into a paper bag.

  One day when the post comes, a package is delivered for Frieda: a narrow foot-long box wrapped in brown paper with no return address. Oma and Mutti watch as she rips off the paper and opens the plain cardboard box beneath. Inside lie a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff, used, but in good condition. She unfolds the accompanying note.

  My dearest Frieda,

  If I had a daughter I would want her to be just like you. Sorry to hear about your instruments. Perhaps you can use these. They have served me well. I wish I had more to offer you. Even hope is not in my power to give you. Warm regards to your family.

  R. Kochmann

  How had he managed to save them? He is obviously cleverer about hiding things than she is. She puts one instrument in each of her coat pockets. Then she goes out.

  People are cleaning up everywhere. Broken glass has been swept into heaps in front of buildings. Unrecognizable pieces of wood and upholstery that used to be furniture have been moved to one side.