“Twelve. Maybe twelve-thirty.”
“Did she seem upset?”
The woman shrugged. “Only saw her for a second. Didn’t really notice.” Her eyes dulled; as far as she was concerned, the conversation was finished.
Rebecca heard a shuffling behind the partition door. “Could I speak to Max?” she asked.
The woman’s head came up. She eyed Rebecca up and down, half turned her head toward the closed door. “He’s not here.”
“Could I have his number? It’s important that I speak to him.”
“Look, Max is busy. He’s always busy.” The woman’s forehead had turned as red as her cheeks. “If it’s your mother or something, maybe you should go to the cops.”
“Actually, it’s my aunt...,” Rebecca began.
“Well, leave me a number. Maybe he’ll call you.”
Without warning, a tall man emerged from the back door. His dark greying hair curled at the nape of his neck. He wore a navy blue turtleneck that sharpened the blue of his eyes. He was not young, but had aged gracefully.
“What’s all the commotion, Mona?” he said, irritated. His accent was German.
Mona’s body turned stiff, awkward, almost angry. “I didn’t want to bother you, Maxie.” She pointed her thumb at Rebecca.
He turned to look at Rebecca and his handsome face rearranged itself. His high forehead relaxed beneath the wavy hair; the lines moved up instead of down. His eyes became the colour of calm water. She was both puzzled and flattered by the frank stare.
Mona cleared her throat abruptly. “She wants to ask about her aunt.”
“How can I help you?” His accent had softened.
“I need some information,” Rebecca said holding up the photo. “This woman came in here on Tuesday.”
He stepped forward, not taking his eyes off Rebecca, then delicately took the picture from her hand. He looked briefly at it. “I’m afraid I don’t recall her.”
Rebecca glanced at the woman with the pencilled eyes. “I was told she came in here and that you served her.”
They both turned to Mona, who flushed. “I musta made a mistake. I’m not sure it was her. Maybe it was somebody else.”
Max shook his head at her feeble attempts. “Never mind,” he said. Then turning to Rebecca, “We better straighten this out. Won’t you come in the back?”
Mona’s jaw was set as Rebecca followed Max behind the wall. He walked self-consciously in front, a well-built man whose age was not quite definable, shoulders wide beneath the cotton turtleneck.
The room behind the wall ran the width of the store. To the left, a door exited into a laneway that was visible through a window. Wooden crates were stacked against the opposite wall. Max turned right on entering, leading her to a desk covered with papers and several books left open face up on their hardcover spines.
Across from the desk and chair stood four-foothigh bookcases stuffed with oversized art books. Red velvet draped the tops of the cases at eye level. Set in a row on the cloth were finely wrought objects that surprised Rebecca: a filigreed spice box in the shape of a miniature house; a brass Chanukkah menorah whose row of nine tiny candle holders Rebecca recognized from her childhood when her mother lit the candles on the holiday. A large silver goblet. And of all things, a Seder plate.
He pulled his own chair out from behind the desk and motioned her to sit down. Clearing a space on the desk, he perched on the edge of it.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” he said. “I know this woman is dead. Mona may not read the paper, but I do. Who are you, and why did you come here?”
“My name is Rebecca Temple. I was the dead woman’s physician. I seem to be the only one interested in her murder. The police think she was killed during a robbery.”
“You don’t.”
“I think someone meant to kill her. I just don’t know why. You are...?”
“Max Vogel. I’m afraid I can’t help you. She was barely coherent when she came here.”
“What did she want?”
“Information. I couldn’t give it.”
“What information?”
“Just some questions about someone I know. It was nothing.”
“Who was it?”
His eyes went blank. “I wouldn’t like to say. The man is blameless except for raising the suspicions of a disturbed woman.”
“But the woman is now dead. Perhaps her suspicions were not unfounded.”
“Nevertheless, I will not say.”
“I think the police might be interested in you after all,” she said.
Something behind his eyes shifted. “You are a strong-willed woman. Alright. I will speak to this person today. I’ll get any information I can and tell you. Is that satisfactory?”
“I’d like to know his name.”
“I can’t take responsibility for maligning an innocent man. If he is agreeable, I will tell you his name, but first I must speak to him.”
She could see he wasn’t going to budge.
Leaning over, she picked up a remarkable silver goblet. The stem was fashioned to look like a fish leaping out of water. Four little silver fish heads were arrayed around the bowl of the goblet. “You have some extraordinary things here. Are they for fun or profit?”
His brow relaxed at the turn in the conversation. “This is a very good piece you have in your hand. German, eighteenth-century, probably Nurenberg. It’s one of a kind. I’m afraid I don’t keep up with the market value.”
“You’re a collector,” she said.
His lips turned up in a charming, self-deprecating smile. “I’m far too humble to be called a collector. I merely seek knowledge about the artifacts entrusted to me.”
He selected his words carefully, speaking them in a voice both nasal and throaty, a not unappealing combination.
“What was the cup used for?” she asked.
“Now you’ve asked the right question. The decoration is exquisite, no? But the true value of the cup lies in its history. It was used by some Jewish neighbours of mine during Passover as Elijah’s cup. You know the story?”
Rebecca smiled. “The cup is filled with wine and left in the middle of the table while everyone eats. At the end of the Seder someone gets up to open the front door. Usually my sister and I went. We were letting in the prophet Elijah so he could come in to drink from the cup. We all watched the wine to see if it moved.”
The memory tugged at her heart. Her family was so scattered now.
“These are all exceptional pieces. Where did you get them?”
“I will tell you everything. But it’s a sad story. Would you like some coffee meanwhile?” He motioned to the filter coffee maker on a small table behind the desk.
The ironic intelligence in his eyes intrigued her. She had forty minutes before her patients started arriving. “I’d love some,” she said.
While the coffee dripped through the filter, she asked, “How long have you and your wife had the store?”
“Mona?” He pursed his lips together. “Mona’s not my wife. I bought the shop from her parents years ago and she decided to stay on. She knows the business better than I do.” His blue eyes sparkled with