The Memory Book Page 15

“How should I know? She’s not here. She’s out. Benny, what I called about is this: we don’t need your help any longer. Many thanks for what you’ve already done. And your injuries. But that’s the end. Will you send me your bill? With receipts, of course.”

  “Stella, stop! You’re not my client, Rose is. Rose hired me; Rose can fire me. Get her to call me.” Stella was trying to paint a picture of a home front with all the fires nicely banked and a fresh apple pie cooling on the counter. But something wasn’t right about the picture. Rose hadn’t made one attempt to see or talk to me since I got beaned behind her residence. That’s a few men short of a minyan in my book.

  “I frankly don’t think you know where she is, Stella. Ask her to fire me.”

  “She just did! She’s a minor and I’m her mother!”

  “She’s over twenty-one, Stella. Do you think I didn’t talk to her?” I was amazed that I’d said that. Was I starting to remember my conversation with Rose? Was my mind coming back from lunch at last?

  “If we need a detective again, we’ll get one who’s not on life-support. You don’t know what that girl’s been through.”

  “Stella, make her some chicken soup. Under that Dior suit beats a mother’s heart.”

  “I have to go. Let me know if you hear anything.”

  I didn’t promise. I didn’t have time; she was gone that quickly, leaving me with the dial tone as a ground bass to my recollections of an impossible woman.

  Around two in the afternoon, there was a call from Anna. I was having one of my naps, while my new roommate was off seeing a battery of specialists.

  “Benny,” she said in a breathless voice.

  Instead of listening, I asked her, “Anna, is there a drug problem at Simcoe College? I’m thinking of Ecstasy, mostly.”

  “Depends on your point of view. If you’re a consumer, you haven’t got a problem. All over the campus, the war against drugs goes on, but at Simcoe the problem stands out. Maybe it’s because there are so many labs there. I don’t know. Last week a grad student told me that the scene is enlarging. The problem’s spreading to other colleges. Why?”

  “I’ll tell you later. You sound like you’ve got more important things to say. Spill it.”

  “Benny, something isn’t right!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just got finished talking to Sheila Kerzon here on the campus.”

  “And?”

  “And she says that she hasn’t been to see you at the hospital.”

  “She what?”

  “She hasn’t come to see you. She didn’t know you were in the hospital at all!”

  “Does she remember me?”

  “She says that she talked to you a long time ago. She wasn’t sure of your name.”

  “Something’s out of whack! Anna, could you collect Sheila and get right over here?”

  “A girl could try.”

  “And a full-grown, responsible woman?”

  “Three shakes of a dead lamb’s tail.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  On a piece of paper I tried to work out where I had been all that time ago after driving my Oldsmobile to Toronto from Grantham. Assuming I came alone by car, I must have parked it somewhere near the university. Here I must have met my contact, Rose Moss. Had she hired me? That was the underlying assumption for everything. No! I’ve got more than that. Stella had tried to pay me off just now. That meant I was on the payroll, working for Rose. If this was true, then it was likely that I’d have met her near or on the campus. Knowing the campus, she probably suggested a good place. Not the steak house. That was too far away, and not quite the place to go for coffee at the start of the job. After coffee, she probably led me around to see a few people who knew Steve and who might be expected to remember where he had gone. I had been attacked and left for dead with poor Flora before the Olds was driven down to Elm Street. I couldn’t have been with my client all this time. Wait! I’m getting things out of order. Or am I? Soon I’d be mixing Rose up with Flora McAlpine. Hold on, Flora, I’ll get to you next. All these people without faces. They were getting too abstract for my diminished brain. It didn’t used to be like this.

  I’d followed that line of reasoning, if that’s what it was, as far as it would go. I needed a new beginning. Start with the girl. If the girl who came to see me here wasn’t Sheila Kerzon, then there were at least three young women in the case. If it wasn’t Sheila who accompanied the heavy through the steak house, then it was Miss X. I had a description of the girl at the restaurant, thanks to Spiros, the dishwasher, and I needed to see Sheila, just to check her out and to pick her brain about who the second woman might have been.

  I called the cop shop, hoping to get one or the other of my two former associates.

  “Hello?” the voice said. “Sykes.”

  “Jack, it’s Benny.”

  “Why don’t you just roll over and play dead, Benny?”

  “What have I done now?”

  “A little bird told me that you were over on the campus bothering the professors instead of looking after your dialysis.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my kidneys and I wasn’t bothering anybody.”

  “Isn’t it amazing how honest citizens will twist a story out of shape just to get you in trouble? I’m sorry I mentioned it.”

  “About the restaurant, Barberian’s on Elm.”

  “You won’t find a better chop anywhere.”

  “I’ll remember that when I’ve finished exploring the subtle virtues of hospital meals. Did you get only the one description of the couple who dumped my car in the restaurant lot?”

  “Please, Benny, give it up. Remember, we’re months ahead of you. Do I come over to Grantham and try to catch johns who’ve run away from their overdue Master-Card accounts? Do I try to muscle in on you when you are standing in the rain under a leaking drainpipe while an unsanctioned love affair is consummated in a rundown motel?”

  “Cut it out, Jack! My sense of humour is in the wash. Just give me a couple of straight answers.”

  “Okay, I was just riding you because you sound so fit. They must be getting ready to discharge you one of these days.”

  “Well, they haven’t told me about it yet. Or if they did, I can’t remember. About Barberian’s. You can tell me. Remember, you’re talking to a sieve. It won’t come back to haunt you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. The dishwasher’s was the only description we got: the male suspect had dark glasses and a moustache and the woman had feathery blond hair in a short cap around her head. That’s it.”

  “Did you find anything in my car?”

  “Nothing pertinent to the investigation. We found an ancient pair of swimming trunks and a few remains of once noble corned-beef sandwiches. There was a neatly packaged chopped-egg sandwich, which was still viable. This piece of evidence has disappeared.”

  “What about the driver’s seat?”

  “Ah! You finally hit pay dirt! It had been pushed back as far as it could go. The driver of your car was several inches taller than you are. Happy?”

  “Delighted. Thanks. I’ll get off your back. Oh! By the way. The dishwasher you talked to doesn’t remember as much as the one you didn’t talk to. Name of Spiros Skandalakos. Shall I spell it? See you.”

  “Hold on! You’re not out of the woods yourself, Benny. Because we’ve confirmed that Flora McAlpine— Remember Flora? The dead woman in the Dumpster beside you?—Flora came from your hometown and that she was at the same high school you attended and at the same time. You try to remember Flora, Benny. There’s a good picture of her in your old school yearbook.”

  “There are eight hundred other pictures in that yearbook! Give me a break.”

  “Okay, chalk it up to coincidence. But how do you explain that your name appears in Flora McAlpine’s appointment book on the day of her death? So long.”

  I hung up, still hearing Sykes’s voice in my head. The name of the murdered professor had always rung a distant bell, but now there wer
e serious links between me and Flora. What kind of case could the boys weave from that? I wondered.

  Suddenly the room was full of my parents. I wasn’t expecting them, but the passive side of my new nature moved over to accommodate them.

  “Benny, I want you to know that I’ve talked to the rabbi about your situation,” my mother said.

  “Just keep it simple. Donations to a worthy charity.”

  “Not about that! You used to be so serious, now you’re always joking. A regular comedian.”

  “Sorry. What did Dr. Fischell say, and what about?”

  “Dr. Fischell? That was three rabbis ago! The new man said that according to our traditions it’s no sin not keeping kosher in a place like this. The tradition says: Don’t make waves if it causes other people a problem.”

  “So I can go on eating the food in here without endangering my immortal soul?”

  “Still the comedian! But you’ve got the essentials. Anyway, I brought you some sweets. I was looking for the kind with liquid cherry centres, but I couldn’t find them.”

  “It’s just as well. My friend Staff-Sergeant Sykes is putting on weight whenever he comes to visit me. Put them under my bathrobe.”

  Pa, who hadn’t said a word so far, was looking through a gap in the curtains toward my new roommate. He had the look of someone who desperately needed a fix: gin rummy, poker, anything.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “Mr. Cooperman?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Ben Cooperman?”

  “As close as I can tell. Who wants him?”

  “This is Dr. Bett. Morgan Bett. You’ve been trying to reach me? Angus Kelvin told me.”

  “Oh yes, Professor. You’re a friend of Steve Mapesbury’s, right?”

  “Yes, I am. Have you heard from him?”

  “That’s what I was going to ask you, professor. I understand that you’ve been a friend of his for some years?”

  “Yes. I have been a friend of the family, you might say. But what’s happened to Steve is more than I can imagine. I’m sorry. Wish I could help more.”

  “Maybe you can. What do you know about Boolie Moussuf?”

  “First-rate scientist, good teacher, and a proven friend of Steve’s. Salt of the earth.”

  “What about Parker Samson?”

  “He’s been a good friend, too. He’s watched out for the boy since he first came to Toronto. He helped the boy out, even when he had problems of his own.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, family trouble. His wife, you know, drinks. And his brother, up in Holstein, well, I don’t want to carry tales.”

  “Forget it. What do you know about Steve’s wife and family?”

  “Wonderful woman, fine kids. She gives piano lessons, used to be a concert artist in England.”

  “Sounds like her. Are they still happy together?”

  “If anybody is, I suppose they are. There’ve been tough times, as you may have heard, but I think they are good for each other.”

  “Professor Bett, thanks for helping out.”

  “I don’t suppose I told you anything new. I’ll call again if I hear any news or if I think of something.”

  “Thanks. Oh! Do you know a teacher named Fiona or Flora McAlpine?”

  “Why yes, I did, until her lamentably early death.”

  “What can you tell me about her in relation to Steve Mapesbury?”

  “Nothing. I’m surprised to hear they knew one another.”

  “Was she worried about the spread of drugs from Simcoe College?”

  “She talked of nothing else. She was said to be building a case about the traffic in illicit drugs, which she intended to make known to the Board of Syndics. Her loss will be difficult to repair, I daresay. Is there anything else?”

  I thanked him again and disconnected. I tried to jot down what I remembered of the conversation in my book. I had a lot in the book. When I flipped through the pages, I wondered whether I could ever find something I needed in that welter of scribbling and attempts at printing with block letters.

  Anna walked in with her hair in a mess and a flush in her cheeks. I liked her like that. Many women achieve the impression of beauty in repose. Anna looked fine that way too, but movement and activity added the je ne sais quoi that delivered the knockout punch. With her was someone I’d never seen before, a young woman in her early twenties. She wasn’t one of the people I’d met since coming here to the Rose of Sharon Rehabilitation Hospital. She was wearing a blue-green sleeveless blouse of crisp cotton. Her slacks were off-white. The woman herself was harder to pin down. She looked worried, impatient, nervous, and shy. Altogether she was a fetching young woman: pretty, bright, with impressive poise for her age. She was about the same age as the young woman who had come to see me a day or two ago who claimed to be Sheila Kerzon. Coincidence could hardly account for two Sheila Kerzons walking into my sick room. There had to be a serious attempt at deception here someplace.

  “It’s getting to be a steam bath out there, Benny. You certainly picked the right time to be surrounded with air conditioning. This, Benny, is Sheila Kerzon. Sheila, Benny Cooperman. So much for introductions. I’ll let the two of you talk. I’m going to see if I can scare up some coffee.” She was talking a mile a minute, just at my level of comprehension and, just as quickly as she had arrived, was gone again, leaving the two of us to sweat out the awkward stage together.

  “You really are who you say you are?”

  “Anna checked me out with half a dozen of my friends. Besides, my driver’s licence has my picture on it. As a picture, it’s not great, but you can tell it’s me.”

  She was a taller version of herself than the last edition. But there was a roundness to her. Puppy fat? Hormones? I don’t know, but it all fitted together nicely, topped off with blond hair, a round face, and an incipient Churchillian chin.

  “Okay, you’re you: Sheila Kerzon.”

  “Always have been.” We were sitting across from one another. She was looking me in the eye for most of her answers. I believed her story. But then, who am I to judge? I believed the last story, too.

  “Have you ever seen me before?”

  “No. Anna told me what happened to you. I’m sorry. I hope that you keep improving. It sounds like such a downer not being able to remember things.”

  “Yeah. But they tell me I’m getting better.”

  “Rosie talked about you months ago, when Dr. Mapesbury went missing. She said you’d done some work for her mother.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. So who do you think is trying to pass herself off as you?”

  “Could you describe her to me? Otherwise I really haven’t a clue.”

  “She was about your age, maybe a little older. She had the air of someone who had been around a lot. At the same time, she could blush and show her embarrassment. You’re taller than she is.”

  “What about her colouring?”

  “She had straight, brown hair, I remember. Yeah, brown with, you know, lighter highlights. She was well dressed enough so I didn’t wonder what she was doing here. Know what I mean? She wasn’t too tall. Oh, yeah, I think she wore a few studs in her ears and maybe one in her nose. She was wearing a black skirt and was carrying a cardigan. She had long legs and crossed them a lot.”

  “Men always notice that.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  “It was our other roommate, Heather Nesbitt.”

  “Nesbitt as in George W. Nesbitt?”

  “That’s her father. How do you know him?”

  “I’ll tell you someday. What’s Heather like?”

  “She’s not at Simcoe College to get an education. She’s not even trying to find a husband. Maybe, for her, it’s just a cool place to hang out.”

  “Do you like her?”

  “After you’ve been roommates with certain people, I don’t think you can ever be friends again. I mean, I like her and all that, but I never could trust her. Not like Rosie. Rosie’s straight, or mayb
e we’re both bent the same way. But Heather is always into things, some of them pretty shady. The bottom line is that I love Rosie and always will. She’s great! Heather I wouldn’t trust to take the garbage out.”

  “Does she have a boyfriend?”

  “Yeah.” She stretched out this word as though she was trying to remember some of the ancient background. “Yeah, but I don’t know very much about him. He’s older. He’s married. And he works at or near the university. I think he’s well-to-do. At least, he can afford to give her expensive presents.”

  Anna returned to the room, armed with coffee in paper cups. I’m not sure how far she had to go to get it.

  “Well,” she said. “What’s the verdict?”

  “This is the real Sheila Kerzon. The imposter was Heather Nesbitt, her roommate. And, in a minute, without a net, I’m going to see if I can guess my own name.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Some seconds after the crack of dawn, my phone started ringing. I cursed the dark for a minute before picking up the instrument to silence it. (There’s a lot to be said for cursing the dark, in spite of the optimists out there.)

  “Hello?” I tried to say in a pleasant voice, but failed miserably.

  “Mr. Cooperman? Is that you? This is Abul Moussuf, from the university.”

  “Boolie! What’s happening?”

  “We talked about Steve?”

  “Yes, Boolie. I remember our conversation.” This was only half true. Conversations seemed to disappear into limbo these days. But I remembered the man well enough; his face jumped out of my memory file and I could imagine him at his end of the wire. The burden of Boolie’s message was that he and a few of the old professors wanted to visit me and shower me with chocolates and university gossip.

  While he was still on the phone, a plan was beginning to form in my pointed head. What about gathering together the people concerned in my current inquiries and bring them to the hospital? It would be easier than my trying to get out of here. It would be like an old-fashioned mystery novel, with the detective pointing the guilty finger on the last page. It was worth a try, I thought, and immediately enlisted Boolie to round up some of the people from the university. From my Memory Book, I read the names and numbers of people he might miss. Before he left the line, he sounded as excited about this conspiracy as I felt.