Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Warsh, Sylvia Maultash

  “You didn’t see the car?”

  “It was long gone.”

  “You have any idea who was behind the wheel? Or why?”

  “You’d be the first person I’d tell.”

  He tapped his pencil on the table. “How well do you know Mrs. Sentry?”

  “I just met her the night the old woman was killed. Last week.”

  “So the connection is the old woman. What do you know about her?”

  “Probably the same thing the family told you. She was in a concentration camp with Mrs. Sentry, her cousin, during the war. She was too sensitive to forget what she saw there and had a breakdown after they came to Canada.”

  “Her cousin?”

  “Didn’t they tell you?”

  He nodded absently. “Would you mind taking a look at a box we found in the backyard? See if anything rings a bell?”

  He reached for a large paper bag on his desk, pulling out a gold-coloured cookie tin. The top was illustrated with a fairy-tale cottage surrounded by coral and green flower beds. He removed the lid. Inside lay a glossy little drawing of a mouse in a pink dress with a collar, her long, thin tail curved gracefully behind. Beatrix Potter, if Rebecca was right. A dainty cap sat between the mouse’s pink shell-like ears as she surveyed the tiny teacups with intelligent eyes. The fondness for mice, Rebecca recalled. Beneath the drawing lay a jumble of odds and ends: bottle caps, broken pencils, erasers, safety pins, a cork, and a corner of faded green cardboard that might have split off a notebook cover.

  “Nothing leaps out at me. Have you spoken to Sentry?”

  “Not getting a whole lot of information from him.” What a surprise, she thought. “Did he tell you their house was broken into today?”

  Fitzroy’s eyebrow shot up. “They didn’t call the cops?”

  “Mrs. Sentry said her husband knew it was a student of his and he would deal with it.”

  “Hmm. We’ll get to the bottom of that. Meanwhile we’ll find the driver of that car now that we have a licence plate. We’ll look for paint on the victim’s clothes and try to match the car. It’s just a matter of time.”

  A squad car dropped her off at Toronto General. She called Nesha from the lobby to tell him about Mrs. Sentry.

  “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you when I get back.”

  He offered to pick her up from the hospital when she was through. She didn’t mention the incident with Nigel. No use getting him all wrought up.

  Johanna Sentry was in surgery to relieve the pressure in her brain from the head injury. Rebecca found father and son in the surgery waiting room.

  Erich nodded a desultory greeting, but his father appeared stunned, staring vacantly into space with feverish eyes.

  “Any word?” she said, sitting down.

  “Still in surgery.” He looked at her as if appraising the bandage on her cheek, but didn’t ask. “It’ll be a while,” he continued. “Apart from her head injury, she has a fractured pelvis, a fractured radius and ulna, and her bladder is perforated.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Apparently the car didn’t have much space to pick up speed before he hit her. It could’ve been worse.”

  Yes, of course, she thought. His mother could be dead. “The coward!” Will Sentry spat. “If I ever get my hands on who did it ...” He ran his fingers through his unruly hair. “She’s a strong girl,” he said, quieter now. “She can come through this.”

  Erich looked at his father, his eyes suddenly desolate.

  She waited for ten minutes, then left. The surgery could go on for hours. She gave Erich her home number and asked him to call when he knew something.

  The cool open air was a relief after the closeness of the waiting room. She thought of Nesha at home, waiting for her to phone. Instead of calling, she crossed University Avenue and walked briskly toward her office. She wasn’t used to being chauffeured. She would rather drive herself home so that he wouldn’t have to bring her back in the morning. To play it safe, she stayed on busy University Avenue and walked south to Dundas. She could wave at the precinct from here. Then west to Beverley. Traffic always rolled along Dundas, though the small Chinese shops were closed now. The Art Gallery of Ontario lay quietly on the south side, lit up but empty.

  She felt more secure, now that the police were going after the driver with concrete information. So why was she so jumpy? She peered around herself in all directions, as she sprinted across Beverley. A dark sedan drove south toward her. Her heart pounded in her chest, but when the car drove past, she saw it wasn’t a Dodge.

  Her little Jag sat waiting patiently for her, shining beneath the street lamp on the corner behind the medical building.

  She walked in the door of her house at eight o’clock. The smell of home cooking wafted through the air.

  “How’s Mrs. Sentry?” asked Nesha, helping her off with her coat.

  “Won’t know till she’s out of surgery.”

  He put his arm around her waist and led her to the dining room He had set the table for two, candles lit in the middle.

  “This is a lovely surprise,” she said, somewhat embarrassed at the trouble he had gone to.

  He handed her a glass of red wine. “L’Chaim!” he said, clinking her glass.

  How appropriate. To life. She thought of all the newborns who hadn’t survived the camps. “L’Chaim.”

  He insisted she sit while he served the soup. Dainty pieces of mushroom and potato floated in a light broth.

  “I hope you can hold your liquor. There’s sherry in the soup, wine in the flank steak, and rum in the squash.”

  She smiled and tasted the soup. “It’s delicious. But you may have to carry me up to bed.”

  “Just say the word.”

  The flank steak was a bit overdone, but she supposed that was because she was late. He had baked two halves of an acorn squash with butter, sugar, and rum in the cavity.

  “You’re going to spoil me,” she said

  “That’s the plan.”

  “I didn’t know you could cook like this.” Sometimes he had made her eggs for breakfast on the weekends he visited, but they had always gone out for dinner.

  “I like to fool around in the kitchen. But I rarely have someone to cook for.”

  She was hungry and finished everything on her plate. His brown eyes had overcome the melancholy that usually lurked there and watched her with affection as she wiped the last bit of sauce from her dish with a piece of French bread.

  An overwhelming sense of warmth rose in her. “Can you carry me up to bed now?” she said.

  He grinned. He came around the table and stood in front of her. Taking her face in both hands, he bent to kiss her, his warm lips enveloping hers.

  “Now, we’ll see,” he said, placing one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back. He lifted her with effort, against her protests.

  “I didn’t mean literally!” she said, laughing. He used to be a competitive swimmer and he seemed fit, but she didn’t want to be responsible for any hernias.

  She led him up the stairs to her bedroom. Not turning on a lamp, she let the hall light guide them.

  He laid her down on the bed in the shadowy room and undressed her, kissing her body where each piece of clothing came off. He removed his own things and climbed into bed beside her. His warm skin tingled on hers, the strength of his arms, his firm shoulders. He was pulling her to him, she was disappearing, finally, the pressure of his body anchoring her, melding into hers.

  Beside her ear, the phone began to ring. She sighed in frustration. His head hung motionless in the dark a moment, then he pulled back from her.

  She sighed again and picked up the phone.

  “Dr. Temple? Fitzroy here. Thought you’d like to know we got the guy who’s registered to the car in the hit and run.”

  “That’s a relief. What’s his name?”

  “Ahmed Mansour. Ring any bells?”

  “No.”

  “We’re going to put him in a line
up tomorrow morning. I’d appreciate it if you could come down, see if you can identify him.”

  “I’ll try, but I just saw him for a second.”

  When she got off the phone, Nesha lay on his side propped up on an elbow. “They got him?”

  “Looks like.”

  “And I got you.”

  She smiled in the shadows.

  At eight-thirty the next morning, Rebecca sat behind a one-way mirror at Fifty-Two Division, waiting for the lineup. Detective Lapointe, a heavy bald man she hadn’t met before, sat beside her.

  “Okay.” He gave the signal to someone.

  Six men trudged into the enclosed room and turned to stand facing her in front of a wall marked off with black height lines. All the men had brown complexions and wore dark jackets with jeans. They all had dark hair and moustaches. She was impressed that the police had paid so much attention to detail.

  She tried to picture the man in the car that night. She had just jumped through the gate of the house on D’Arcy and fallen on the walk amid the leaves. She could still smell their mustiness. The car door had opened — she turned to see the man get out and stand near the hood, searching for her with relentless eyes. Her brain had taken a snapshot of the receding hairline, the thin moustache. Then the door of the house opened and the man jumped back into the car and drove off.

  “Number three,” she said, surprising herself.

  “Number three, step forward,” the detective said into a speaker.

  The man lowered his eyelids with disdain and took a step, anger spreading his nostrils.

  “Take your time,” said the detective.

  The man seemed to stare at her through the mirror. She knew that was impossible, but the elemental fear of seeing him again gripped her.

  “It’s him.”

  When she left the room, the two students from the night before were waiting to go in and take their turn.

  She had called Iris from home to tell her she was going to be late. When Rebecca arrived at her office, the waiting room was full of people.

  “Yay!” cried a little boy.

  “The doctor’s here!”

  His young mother shushed him, blushing.

  Rebecca smiled at them. “Sorry for the delay. It was unavoidable. We’ll get right to work.” She nodded at the familiar faces on her way to her inner office.

  At one o’clock, Rebecca was still up to her elbows in patients when Iris tapped on the exam room door. “Dr. Erich Sentry on the phone.”

  Rebecca excused herself from her patient, whose underarms had erupted in eczema.

  “Rebecca? I just wanted to let you know my mother will make it.”

  “That’s great news. I’m so glad. The surgery went well, then?”

  “The swelling in her brain is down. They put screws in to hold her pelvis together. She’s in good shape for her age, but it’ll be work getting back on her feet. And they repaired her bladder.”

  The woman was lucky to be alive. She might be incontinent, but only time would tell.

  “Give her my best. By the way, did Fitzroy tell you they got the guy?”

  “He brought a picture of him to the hospital to show me. I’ve never seen him before. You didn’t tell me the guy went after you first.”

  “It didn’t seem like the right time, with your mother in surgery.”

  “I’m going back to the hospital later,” he said. “Would you like to grab a bite to eat after work?”

  “Oh.” How could she phrase it? “I’d love to another time, but I have a friend visiting from the States this week.”

  “Another time, then.”

  chapter thirty

  Early Tuesday morning Rebecca brought Nesha to the hospital to meet Miriam. He had been reluctant but had let himself be persuaded. The baby needed all the attention she could get. The nurses took care of her physical needs but couldn’t give her the affection of family and friends. Flo and Mitch were coming in the afternoon, but till then Miriam would be alone. Rebecca could only stay for twenty minutes before leaving for her office.

  “I don’t know what to do with a baby,” he said, putting a hospital gown over his clothes in the preemie unit.

  After they had scrubbed their hands, she led him to Miriam’s incubator.

  “Oh, good morning, doctor!” nurse Alicia trilled in her East Indian accent. “Night nurse said baby slept very well last night, not much fussing. She’s awake now.”

  Nesha narrowed his eyes in concern. “What does she have on her head?”

  Miriam lay quietly on her back, an IV in her scalp held down by tape.

  “It’s an IV to keep up fluids. Sugar and electrolytes. I know it looks strange, but scalp veins are easy to find and she’s less likely to dislodge the IV there.”

  The baby’s dark blue eyes gazed into the air, unfocused. Rebecca checked the chart. The baby’s weight had gone up two ounces. Not great. Better than nothing.

  “Doctor said yesterday she can come out so you can hold her.”

  Rebecca grinned while the nurse opened the incubator and gingerly gathered Miriam in two hands, the monitor wires following.

  “Which one?” she said, looking from Rebecca to Nesha.

  He pointed to Rebecca.

  “Sit down,” Alicia said. “She’s going to lie on you.”

  “You’re next,” Rebecca said to him, thrilled when Alicia placed the baby on her chest.

  The nurse covered her with a little cotton blanket. For a second Rebecca saw the blanket Birdie had wrapped around her doll, the pathetic broken toy. To replace the doomed baby Mrs. Sentry had borne. Also premature, but with no chance of survival. How many babies had died that way? Silently, barely gulping down a breath before the tortured hand lovingly stopped the air and all the dangers that lurked within it. There would be no record except in the mother’s heart.

  Rebecca pressed the little weight to her chest. How vulnerable they were, these little ones. A tenderness rose in her she hadn’t expected, as she rubbed the warm tiny back.

  “How’s my little sweetheart today?” she murmured. “Did you solve all the problems of the world in your dreams? You’re going to have a fine day. I’ll try to come back later.”

  Turning to Nesha, she said, “I’ve got to go. How about it?”

  “I don’t want to break her.”

  “She’s stronger than that.” Rebecca stood up, holding the baby to her. “Things haven’t changed that much since you had yours.”

  “That was twenty years ago.”

  When he sat down warily, she deposited Miriam on his chest. At first he sat stiff and nervous, unmoving.

  “Relax,” she said. “I’ll tell Alicia to come get her in five minutes.” She bent and kissed him on the lips. “You look very handsome holding a baby.”

  “Don’t get any ideas,” he said with a crooked smile.

  On her way off the unit, when she turned around searching for him, he was peering down at the baby with curiosity. It was a start.

  Rebecca was filling out workmen’s compensation forms behind the counter when Iris came back from lunch. While removing her coat, Iris stepped to the window overlooking Beverley Street.

  “There’s a guy out there in a car in front of the building. In the No Parking zone.”

  “So?”

  “I bent my head when I was going by, to see if someone was sitting in the car. He gave me a dirty look.”

  “You haven’t gotten dirty looks from men before?”

  She made a wry face at Rebecca. “I’m nervous after what happened to Mrs. Sentry. And you.”

  “They caught the guy.”

  “Maybe he has friends.”

  Rebecca put down her pen and walked to the window. A dark blue Ford sat on their side of Beverley, facing south.

  “He’s not in front of the building.”

  Iris peered out the window. “He moved a little. I probably made him nervous.”

  “Did you see what he looked like?”

  “Thin guy. Ba
lding. Dark jacket.”

  “He’s probably waiting for someone.”

  “As long as it’s not you.”

  Partway through the afternoon, when Rebecca was bringing back a patient file, Iris said, “He’s gone. The guy in the car.”

  Rebecca smiled. “Sometimes a guy in a car is just a guy in a car.”

  At six-thirty, Iris finished up and left the office. Rebecca sat at the desk, checking the test results that had just come in. Her eyes began to blur and she sat back. What about her own family? She pulled out Jeff Herman’s number from her skirt pocket. She dialed and listened to it ring. After six rings, she hung up. She would try later.

  After filling in more forms and requisitions, she was finally ready to go.

  She stood at the window putting on her coat. The car was gone from the front of the building. But on the other side of Beverley the dark Ford sat facing north. Someone was sitting in the driver’s seat. She froze.

  Should she call Fitzroy? What if the guy was just waiting for somebody? She’d look like she was afraid of her own shadow. And yet.

  She dialed her own number. Nesha answered.

  “This is going to sound silly, but there’s a man sitting in a car out front that’s been there most of the day. I’m nervous about going out.”

  “Don’t move. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  She sat near the window, watching for Nesha’s car. The man in the Ford barely moved. Maybe he was asleep. She began to feel foolish.

  Nesha pulled into the No Parking zone in front of the building. As soon as he stepped out of his car, she ran downstairs.

  Opening the front door, she watched him stand near his car and stare at the Ford parked on the other side of the street. He looked fearless in his leather jacket. Sometimes you just need a man, she thought smugly.

  “Nice night,” he said out loud.

  She could see a man sitting in the Ford, in profile, ignoring the unwanted attention.

  “Hey!” Nesha called out. “I’m from the States and I think I’m lost. You know where Queen Street is?”

  The man turned his face toward Nesha, assessing him. He pulled down his window, motioning backwards with his thumb. “That way,” he said. No accent. “About four blocks.”