Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Warsh, Sylvia Maultash

  “Oh, God,” Rebecca whispered. Iris’ large legs stretched out below her skirt, which bunched around her thighs. She lay face down on the grey carpet.

  “Oh, God,” Rebecca murmured at the blood on the coiffed blonde hair. Please be alright, she thought, her stomach lurching in her mouth. She thought of David, who had died despite her; she thought of her medical degree on the wall, a blind piece of parchment that guaranteed nothing, especially not the safety of loved ones.

  Do something, she screamed at her paralyzed body. What was the order? Think! Breathing, Bleeding, Brain, Bladder, Bone. It would all come back automatically if she could only lose the panic. She knew what to do; she just had to do it. She forced herself to move, almost watched from a distance as that other Rebecca rolled Iris gently onto her side and listened for her breathing. She brought her face close to Iris’ and watched her chest: slight but steady movement. Rebecca smiled. Okay, she thought. Okay. The pulse at her neck was weak but rapid. She lifted Iris’ eyelids: her pupils responded to light. Good. Iris’ hands were cold. She was in shock.

  She ran to a small cabinet for gauze and pads. Crouching over Iris she applied pressure to the back of her head with a pad, wrapping long pieces of gauze around to keep it tight. That was when she noticed the wooden stool lying on its side behind her. It was kept in one of the examining rooms for her to sit on when she spoke to patients. It could have landed a crushing blow. Taking a closer look at one side, she could see blood on the wooden seat. She ran to one of the examining rooms for a blood pressure cuff and a scalpel.

  “Sorry, Iris,” she murmured under her breath and carefully pushed the scalpel through the sleeve of Iris’ tailored jacket. She tore off the heavier fabric, then the silk of the blouse. Wrapping the blood pressure cuff around Iris’ upper arm, she listened for her pulse through the stethoscope. Too low. She found a blanket to cover her with, then called 911. It would probably take them ten minutes to respond to the call.

  Meanwhile she went to her emergency supplies and found a prepackaged intravenous preparation that would combat shock. Pumping a dextrose solution through her constricted blood vessels would increase volume, keep the network going. It was so simple, yet so essential. Such a little thing. She found Iris’ vein and injected the syringe into her arm. Since she had no IV stand, Rebecca had to hold the bag of liquid above Iris until the paramedics came.

  What had he wanted, she thought, looking around. There were files on the counter; had Iris taken those out? Or was he already here, looking for whatever, when Iris arrived? It was Goldie’s file, she thought with a start. Goldie had told her about a man who had followed her. No names had been mentioned, but he didn’t know that. He was looking for Rebecca’s notes to see if Goldie had given him away. How could he know that she hadn’t put Goldie’s file back after Wanless had returned it? It was still in her house.

  She sat down on the floor and brought her face close to Iris’. The larger woman’s breathing was shallow and irregular, her colour grey. Rebecca knew that the brain could survive interruption of its blood supply for only a few minutes. A neuron, once destroyed, was lost forever. How much damage had there been? Was Iris going to be Iris when she awoke? If she awoke?

  She stroked Iris’ exposed arm softly with her free hand. “Hold on, Iris,” she whispered in her ear. “Hold on.”

  Rebecca rode in the ambulance with Iris. Once she had explained to the paramedic her treatment thus far, there was nothing further to say and they rode the rest of the way in silence. She hoped none of her patients had arrived with emergencies that morning. She had taped a note to her office door announcing that all appointments were cancelled.

  Toronto General was the hospital of choice for trauma, though it didn’t look the part. Small dingy windows poked out of a dun-coloured brick facade that rambled along a city block. Compared to the modern Mount Sinai Hospital across the street, where she had admitting privileges, it might have been mistaken on the outside for a nineteenth-century factory. The surgical resident on call looked barely old enough to shave. None of the surgeons were available and the resident — he had to be over twenty-one, didn’t he? — assured her that he had handled head trauma in the O.R. and he would do everything he could for Iris. What he was more worried about was the extra bulk she was carrying.

  “I don’t have to tell you that overweight patients are more at risk under the knife. How old is she? Fifty-one, fifty-two? Her heart should be okay. And this anaesthetist knows his business.”

  The chairs in the surgical waiting room were dark green vinyl but roomy and not uncomfortable. Rebecca sat down in the empty room, suddenly numb. More at risk under the knife. She had always found surgical specialists cold. Maybe they had to make themselves aloof from patients who might die on the table. There was also the theory that they were sublimating their fierce aggression into the positive act of cutting up people. Whatever it was, this young pup resident hadn’t made her feel confident about his skill or Iris’ chances.

  She was surprised at how little she wanted to know about what was happening to Iris on the operating table. She didn’t want to imagine her beautiful blonde hair shaved in a large shape around the wound. She didn’t want to picture any of it, the cleaning of fractured bone and debris, the drilling of burr-holes, maybe two centimetres in diameter, to locate the damage. The procedure was too frightening to consider when the brain inside that skull was Iris’.

  All she could think of was the lovely blonde hair gone. She pushed from her mind all the various possibilities of brain damage. All the many ways things could go wrong. She sank further into the skin-warm vinyl chair and wondered if it was worth trying to sleep, considering the dreams she would have.

  By 12:40 she wandered out of the room to stretch her legs. The kitchen staff, their hair in spidery nets, were collecting patients’ trays after lunch and stacking them in high-wheeled metal stands. They looked as if they wanted to be doing anything else.

  The young resident, still in green gown, found her down the hall. “We’ve done everything we can for her. All we can do now is wait. She’ll be in recovery for a while before you can see her.”

  “How much damage is there?” she asked.

  “Hard to tell. We stopped the bleeding. Blood pressure’s still low, but I’m hoping she’ll stabilize.”

  Rebecca used the phone at the nurses’ station to call her answering service. Two patients had called with pressing medical problems. Nesha had left several messages with a number where he could be reached. Her heart lifted a little.

  She called the mother of a feverish little patient, told her to sponge her daughter with lukewarm water, give her Tylenol, and call Dr. Romanov. The second patient was suffering menstrual cramps and needed a renewal of a prescription for painkillers. Then she called Nesha.

  He arrived at the nurses’ station in twenty minutes, wearing his antique leather jacket, a gym bag on his shoulder. His eyes softened when he caught sight of her. He presented such a mask to strangers but she had seen beneath it. “I’m so sorry about your friend,” he said, embracing her. He smelled of soap and leather.

  He told her he had gone to Feldberg’s early in the morning in an attempt to catch him, but the door had been open just as they had left it and no one appeared to have visited in between. Then he’d gone to the hotel to shower and change and tried in vain to reach her.

  “I’ve got something to show you,” he said lifting the bag. “Is there anywhere we can talk?”

  The waiting-room was occupied by a family whose grandfather was being operated on. She led him down the hall to the doctor’s lounge. It was empty.

  After they sat down on one of the brown leather couches, Nesha pulled Feldberg’s books from the gym bag. “The ledger seems straightforward, based on my limited knowledge,” he said. “But the bankbooks. I took these two, but he had at least four others with similar figures in them. Look at the numbers. He’s constantly depositing and withdrawing large sums of money, but each under $10,000. That’s t
he magic number the banks have to report. As long as he keeps moving sums of money under $10,000 — that’s why he’s got so many bank accounts — he won’t be investigated.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “He’s got illicit money that he’s probably brought from out of the country.”

  “Argentina,” she said. “It’s an Argentine club.”

  “He’s operating some shady business. It could be anything.”

  “Art,” she said, surprising herself.

  “Art?”

  “Those paintings we saw at his place. The photos of paintings in the catalogue. They’re real. They have to be. It’s the only explanation. I don’t know quite how, but I think Feldberg is dealing in stolen art.”

  Nesha stared at her a moment, thinking, then continued. “They have to bring in the money without reporting it, maybe get it wired to different banks in relatively small amounts. But they can’t bring in a huge sum into any one bank, so Feldberg distributes it among six. Or eight. Then it’s invested in a legitimate business.”

  “Let me see that ledger,” she said.

  In an upper corner of the first page were written the initials E.D. El Dorado. Expenses starting January, 1979, listed tickets of admission, liquor receipts, and restaurant receipts. She flipped to the end for the latest entry, Thursday, April 5; two days before. The business had taken in one hundred and eighty tickets of admission, grossing $1,800, $3,800 worth of liquor from the bar, and $6,500 from the restaurant. Did Feldberg have another club? Thursday was the evening she had stopped in. There were maybe forty people there, in a generous estimate. By no stretch of the imagination could another hundred and forty have stampeded in after she’d left. And when she’d arrived downstairs, the restaurant had been nearly empty.

  “This is all wrong,” she said. “I was there just on Thursday and the numbers here don’t add up.”

  “You were there?”

  “Feldberg’s inflating his numbers, inventing customers he doesn’t have.”

  “It’s a front,” he said. “Classic money laundering operation.”

  “Where does Goldie fit into all this?” She glanced down the list of businesses that supplied the club. Suddenly her eye was caught by a familiar name. Blue Danube Fish. Another connection to Vogel. He was the one who’d sent her to the club. It seemed he was selling El Dorado enough fish to start their own school, lots more than they could ever hope to fry up. She had a lot of questions to ask him.

  They heard sudden male voices outside in the hall. Rebecca opened the door and saw two men in trench coats speaking to a nurse at the station. One of them was Wanless. She turned back to Nesha.

  “The police are here.”

  He jumped up and shut the door in her face, but quietly. “Don’t tell them anything!”

  She hung back, flabbergasted. “But they can help. I was on their backs before to stay on the case.”

  “If they start, we’ll lose control. If they find him first — it’ll be in the courts for years. Canada doesn’t punish war criminals. He’ll have three meals a day, TV, he’ll be laughing at us. At them. I won’t let that happen.”

  “But if he killed Goldie, surely....”

  “The system doesn’t work. How many times have you seen evil rewarded? There is no justice.”

  She had nothing to counter with. She could call Wanless later.

  He listened at the door. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  She opened the door a crack and saw the nurse lead the two men to the door of the recovery room. The nurse was strict and did not allow them in, but let them examine Iris from the distance. Then the nurse said something to them and turned to guide them toward the surgical waiting-room. Probably in search of her.

  As soon as their backs were turned she pulled Nesha into the hall toward the rear exit. She tread quietly in her loafers not to make any sound. She dared not turn around, knowing the group would need only to open the door of the waiting-room to see she wasn’t there. Time was short. They turned the corner and rushed out a side entrance of the building.

  University Avenue was cold in the windy shade of the hospitals and government buildings that lined the street. The sun was struggling to assert itself this April, making Rebecca shiver in her gabardine jacket. Nesha took her elbow and led her down the street like an old-fashioned man at a dance. She managed to steer him west along Elm toward Kensington Market. They were two blocks away from her office, then another two blocks to Spadina. The rain the night before had soaked the lawns and trees along Baldwin Street, leaving a damp earthy fragrance in the air.

  They reached the rushing torrent of Spadina Avenue, that line of demarcation between the calm east side, reaching back to Beverley Street, and the chaotic west side which slid into the market. She felt awkward in the hand-on-elbow position and had taken his arm. He seemed content to have her lead.

  The street light turned red before they finished crossing. Saturday shoppers filled the sidewalks of the market as far as she could see. She hated crowds. On Baldwin Street, a few stores past Spadina, she stopped. He said nothing. The ancient Blue Danube Fish sign reflected the paltry afternoon light. In the window lay a greying fish with hard dull eyes, possibly once a trout, displayed on a newspaper.

  She took a deep breath, braced herself against the smell. He followed her hesitant step through the door of the shop. Any hint of spring vanished inside the shadows of the store. The awful smell of old fish washed over her. Mona stood behind the counter, wrapping fish for a woman customer.

  Beneath the same bloodied apron, Mona wore a brilliant red cotton top. Rebecca thought she would’ve had enough of the colour in the shop without adding it to her wardrobe. Mona’s black-pencilled eyes showed a spark of recognition when they turned to Rebecca. Noticing Nesha, her cheeks lifted in an attempt at a smile. A few bangs wisped down from her widow’s peak.

  She nodded. “Can I help you?”

  “I’d like to ask you some more questions,” Rebecca said.

  “I don’t know anything.”

  Rebecca held out the news photo over the loathsome counter. “You know this man?”

  Mona squinted at the photo. “Fuzzy picture. Oh, it’s our store! And this is one of our customers. Mr. Feldberg. He has a restaurant.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Not for a while. He usually phones to order.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  Mona tilted her head observing her. “He’s a good customer.”

  “Do you know anything about him personally?”

  Mona shrugged beneath the blood-red sweater. “He’s a good dresser. Classy looking, you know? But what a ladies’ man. Always flirting.” Her hand whisked a loose strand of hair off her face. She peeked at Nesha, who was playing coy near the carp basin. “His wife came once. Probably checking on him.”

  Chana had been there. Rebecca made a mental note of that. “What do you know about his restaurant?”

  “Not much. It’s on College Street somewhere.”

  “It’s a Spanish club called El Dorado. It’s a front for money laundering.”

  Mona stood there, absently wiping her hands on her apron. “I don’t know anything about that. We just sell them fish.”

  “Max said you’re the one who takes care of the store.”

  Her face went blotchy red. “I know fish!” she cried. “I don’t know business. He does the business!”

  Rebecca pulled back. She made a point of looking around at the shabby walls, the rickety carp tank. “How is business?”

  She looked at Nesha, who was no longer pretending disinterest. “We get by.”

  “According to Feldberg’s books, you’re selling him enough fish to restock Lake Ontario. You’re making an awful lot of money.”

  Mona’s black-limned eyes grew wide. “What are you talking about?” she rasped. “Look at this place. Does it look like we’re making money?”

  Either Mona was a good actress, or she was bein
g duped. Rebecca glanced toward the door of the partition. There was a muffled sound in the back, someone moving.

  “Let me put it this way. If you’d actually sold Feldberg all the fish he shows on his books, you’d have retired to Florida long ago. But you are getting a cut for being involved.”

  Mona stared at her, bewildered. “A cut?”

  Her eyes turned toward the partition. “Max and Mr. Feldberg knew each other from before. I didn’t tell you but — they were in the same camp during the war. Max told me.”

  Nesha snapped to attention. He shuffled closer.

  “I’d better talk to him,” Rebecca said, edging toward the side counter.

  All at once an invisible door slammed. Rebecca knew just which one. She remembered a rear door leading outside from the study into a laneway. She pictured Vogel running down the alley and disappearing into the market.

  Before the women could move, Nesha swung open the door to the study. While he was orienting himself, Rebecca pushed past him and quickly opened the back door that led to the alley. Nothing. He would disappear quickly in the market.

  Nesha stepped out and peered around. “Who am I looking for?”

  “He never mentioned being in a camp,” Rebecca said.

  Nesha came back in and closed the door.

  Mona stared at the empty chair. “He told me he was making passports for Jews and some guy found out and turned him in. He was sent to a camp.”

  “Then, how did he keep his collection?”

  “Hmm?”

  “He must’ve been given these things before he ended up in the camp. He couldn’t take them with him.”

  Mona shrugged. “Maybe he hid them.”

  Rebecca pushed past Mona toward the display of antiques, the filigreed spice box, the delicately wrought menorah. Her eyes swiftly scanned the bookcase. Did he? Didn’t he? He did. She yanked out a slender volume on Raphael and flipped through. A full-page photo of the right Portrait of a Young Man made her catch her breath. The face was alive, the coy expression in the eyes, the careless self-confidence of youth that cannot foresee death.