Mr. Maitland noticed my glance at the windows and immediately assured me they were treated glass which wouldn’t allow sun glare to come through and damage any of the papers being examined, something that hadn’t even occurred to me. He nodded approvingly as I set down my laptop, deciding to commandeer the table closest to the window, just in case a horde of researchers raced in behind me. I was just settling into position, having brought up a blank Word document, when Mr. Maitland returned with the first box of papers.
“The guest books and diaries of Mrs. Rutherford are in this box. I also pulled the archival material from the Delta Upsilon fraternity, who used the House between 1940 and 1969, as I thought that material might be of use to you.” He leaned in, slightly conspiratorially. “My father was a Delt, you see, so I just naturally assumed you’d be including that in your survey of the House’s history.”
I assured him that the website would indeed focus on the Delts and their place in university history. On the whole, I was not that bothered by having to deal with a fraternity, because as fraternities went, the Delta Upsilons seemed to be far and away the most upstanding and clean-cut of the lot of them, very egalitarian and open. The one thing that could get you automatically ousted was a drop in your grades, so the whole party-boy, wild-hazing-snob persona that hovered over so many of the Greeks were totally absent from the Delts.
I thanked Mr. Maitland, wondering privately why he hadn’t followed in his father’s footsteps and joined the frat, but feeling it was likely too early in our relationship to be asking him those sorts of questions. Whatever the case, the Delts could wait. I was excited to be getting my hands on Mattie Rutherford’s diaries.
Much was known about Alexander Rutherford, but I thought it would be nice to get a sense of the woman who had used and cherished the lovely china still used in the House, and who had the happy idea to paint the guest-room ceiling yellow to make guests feel as if they were always waking up to a sunny day. I pulled on the white gloves Mr. Maitland had left me and opened the cardboard banker box he had placed on the table.
In the box were a series of blue leather volumes, each one the size of a small pocket bible. There had to be thirty or more of these, all the same. I ran my finger over their nubby spines, counting thirty-three. Slid into the end of the box, alongside, were five cream-coloured ledger books, which turned out to be the guest books. Mrs. Rutherford would ask each guest to sign his or her name and the date of the visit. Several visitors left small messages, as well. It was a charming tradition, and one the House still used today. Although I had stopped signing in once my contract had fully taken hold, I could see from flipping through the book that several women signed in almost weekly, every time they came to tea. A Mrs. Lister and Mrs. Oliver, whom I assumed to be neighbours, seemed to be regular visitors.
I opened my laptop and pulled up a new document in order to create a list of names of visitors I might want to research a bit more, to see if they warranted sideline web pages of their own on the site. Not all the signatures were legible, of course. Bad penmanship and blotty fountain pens were not a researcher’s best friends. Still, within a matter of an hour, I had a list of thirty or forty names that were either strongly reoccurring or historically interesting, enough so for me to delve into with a bit more effort.
I leaned back from the table and stretched, trying to recall the physio exercises I’d been given to keep my shoulder mobile. I’d suffered from a frozen shoulder due to a bicycling injury a year earlier, and needed to be more consistent in my exercises, especially if I was going to insist on hunching over a computer most days. I looked up at the large institutional clock on the wall and realized it was almost lunchtime. My stomach growled, as if to underscore that discovery. As I was still the only person in the research lounge, I figured Mr. Maitland wouldn’t mind if I left my materials on the table for a quick break. I closed my laptop and carried it through to the locker area to pop into my bag and shrugged into my coat, taking a quick look to see if I’d left anything behind.
Mr. Maitland was working at his computer terminal at the front counter when I came out of the reading room. He mentioned two or three good places for lunch a bit further west on 51st Avenue, agreeing that leaving the materials on the table was quite all right.
There is something about digging into the past, even if it is just on paper, that makes you long for red meat. I turned the car in the direction of the Fife N’ Dekel deli and treated myself to a smoked meat sandwich and a huge slice of cherry pie, which was obviously made that morning on the premises. Since I was far away from delicate documents, I felt free to pull a pen and notebook out of my bag, so I could try to organize my week to come.
I had booked archive time for the entire week. From the looks of things, I was going to be able to fill that time completely. Aside from the catalogues, my morning had been taken up entirely by the guest books. I hadn’t been through any of Mattie Rutherford’s diaries yet, and the fraternity box might lead to other names to pursue. The catalogues I’d browsed showed several Rutherford collections of papers worth a look, and a whole slew of photographs donated by his daughter, Hazel McCuaig. So, my days were likely packed from here through Friday. If I had to, I could likely manage a personal chore or two before the Archive’s ten o’clock opening, or after Mr. Maitland kicked me out at four. Otherwise, it would have to wait for the weekend. And by weekend, I meant Sunday, because I’d already decided I was going to have to get to the Ukrainian Village on Saturday. Like Fort Edmonton Park, the village was only open for school tours during the week after the Labour Day long weekend, but there were still Saturday and Sunday hours listed for limited access.
Steve had agreed to go with me to the Ukrainian Village. It was another historic park, with a slightly different, more rural focus on the immigrants from Eastern Europe who came across Canada by train to secure land for themselves and a brighter future for their children. It would be interesting to feel the difference between how the rural Alberta immigrant was living around the same time as Alexander Rutherford was building his brick mansion.
And then, after all that running around, I was going to have to turn in my lovely little green boxy car, which had already charmed me into seriously thinking of saving up for one of my own. It would take a hard look at parking fees and gas prices-per-litre to bring me back to my senses after this week of luxury, I figured.
By one o’clock, I was back. Mr. Maitland smiled at me as he buzzed me through to the inner sanctum.
“If you like, Randy, you are more than welcome to bring your lunch with you in future and eat it in our lunchroom. It’s not usually open to researchers, but there is no one else presently registered to come in, and as I seem to be manning the ship alone this week, it would be no imposition at all. I normally eat my own lunch between twelve-thirty and one-thirty, and would be happy to have company if you like.”
I was really touched by his generosity, and also thankful. Bringing lunch would save a heap of money, and it was getting too chilly to go out and sit in the car to eat.
I was back in the reading room by one-fifteen, fighting my way through Mattie Rutherford’s diaries. While her penmanship was “copperplate excellent,” she had a tendency to use abbreviations I couldn’t always decipher. Most of her days, in the beginnings of the diaries, were taken up with household matters. Then, there was the building of the House, on which, I was happy to see, her husband consulted her in many aspects. It was she who pushed for the guest bathroom, the sun porch and the skylight. There had been apparently a tense time arguing between Doric and Ionic columns for the front porch, but she professed in her diary to be “happy with Alec’s choice.”
I read diaries most of the afternoon, taking notes from time to time, and citing the date. Perhaps these could be set in, overlaid on photos, a line or two in a cool handwriting font to enhance the personal feel for visitors to the website.
Around three forty-five, Mr. Maitland popped into the room, a regretful look on his face. I smiled a
t him to let him know I wasn’t holding him personally responsible for my having to leave, although I could see why he might have learned to steel himself against resentment when kicking out researchers. He told me that I could store the boxes on the shelves near the door, if I was still interested in using them the next day.
“Anything you’re done with can be set on the table here, and we’ll re-shelve them in the archives before the next day.”
Since I had nothing I wanted to turn in, I set both boxes on a shelf. After stopping at the front desk to sign out, thinking of shades of Mattie Rutherford’s guest books, I headed to my little green chariot and pointed it toward home.
It took me almost an hour to get there. I began to suspect that a week’s worth of rush hours would be enough to turn me off the idea of owning my own car. Of course, I had found CKUA on the radio and was grooving to a Good Lovelies tune while waiting at yet another red light, so it wasn’t all bad.
Lazily watching the world from behind my windshield, I spotted someone at the corner of Whyte Avenue and 104th Street who looked familiar. I focused a little bit more and tried to place the rather miserably-annoyed face squished on top of a navy peacoat and under a grey tuque, an outfit that might have been a good combination on a sailor on leave but didn’t at all suit the little woman wearing it. As she turned to speak to the young man beside her, I remembered where I’d seen her before: it was the old woman who had been standing next to the two tall men and looking so grim at the mystery evening. One of the men had been Walter Karras, the chair of the board. The other had been this same young man. I wondered who they were. Marni would know. Just then the light turned green, and I was forced to move forward and put all my attention back on the traffic. While I might not have made it home on foot faster, I wouldn’t have been much later than I was. My thoughts on buying a car retreated back on the list where they normally lived, somewhere under “spend a year in Malta” and “buy a red Mixmaster.”
I kicked off my shoes inside the door of my apartment and turned on the small television before heading into the bedroom to change. Steve had bought me the tiny flat-screen TV the previous Christmas and equipped it with a PVR so that I could record and keep tracks of programs I might want to watch. After several years of my not watching any TV, it was an effort not to become hypnotized by the advertisements, but I had finally worked out a system where I watched the news at a set time of day and recorded most everything else I wanted to see so that I could view it later and race through the ads with my skip button.
The news reports had got hold of the Rutherford House murder right away, working on every angle they could over the weekend, and it was still the second story from the national news desk. They weren’t releasing Jossie’s name yet, which made me wonder if Marni and the police had managed to contact her parents, who were supposed to be spending a three-week holiday in Europe. That wasn’t a call I would want to either initiate or receive.
The anchor was saying that police were still questioning witnesses who had been at the House that night for an event involving magic and entertainment. Great. It was starting to sound as if Jossie had been sacrificed at a theosophical séance.
I came back into the living room and aimed the remote at the television. I’d had enough reality for one day, present or archival; I wanted utter escape. I scrolled through my recorded selections and clicked on a Masterpiece Contemporary offering about love in the wilds of Wales.
The next thing I knew, I was creaking awake from a slumped position on my chesterfield. The television had turned itself off, and the living-room lights were blazing. Checking my wristwatch, I noted it was two in the morning. I was sleepier than I was hungry, so I turned off the lights, peeled off my watch and clothes, and crawled properly into my bed for the rest of the night.
The next morning’s alarm hit me hard, but at least I didn’t have to worry about where I was going. I packed up a proper lunch for eating with Mr. Maitland, sorted through my satchel for laptop, power cord, pencils and notepad, wallet and car keys, and whipped up the Craig version of an eggy-muffin breakfast, which replaced bacon with thin slices of tomato and used whatever bread there was to hand, which in this case was a whole-wheat wrap. On reflection, any resemblance to a fast-food breakfast sandwich was entirely in my mind.
Brushed and flossed and shined into a semblance of morning business shape, I got into the car about half an hour after I thought the regular rush hour should have died down. After all, the Archives weren’t open to the public till nine.
Edmonton was getting to be a lot bigger of a city than I usually gave it credit for. Morning rush hour, which started around seven, was still in full throttle when I eased out into it around eight-fifteen. I decided to relinquish my place in the stop-and-start parking lot that was Argyle Road, and ducked into a Tim Hortons parking lot. A large double-milk coffee and the newspaper would be a better idea than battling rush hour. Not having been a driver for so many years had me feeling sort of spooked. Aggressive drivers used to get me nervous anyhow. Now they were aggressive in huge SUVs. There was a long line of cars waiting in the drive-through, but not a terribly long queue of people inside, I was relieved to find.
The doughnut shop had several papers on hand. I picked the Journal, assuming that since we don’t get a Sunday paper anymore, any coverage of the murder would have taken place in yesterday’s paper. But you never knew.
It must have been a slow news week. A picture of Rutherford House was still on the cover, over the fold. As I’d heard in movies about journalism, “if it bleeds, it leads.” While Jossie hadn’t technically bled out, I guess they weren’t going to quibble as long as she was young and pretty and dead.
Again, Jossie’s name wasn’t listed; she was described as an employee of the Rutherford House staff, engaged at an evening event put on by the House. They were reporting that more than sixty people had purchased tickets to the “Magical Mystery Hour” and described it as a dinner theatre sort of event, which was far closer to the mark than the television news had managed the night before. Police were investigating and nothing more could be offered at this time.
I wondered if Marni had given them the number of attendees. I reminded myself to call her or possibly email her from the Archives, to see if she had a list of all the people who had been at the event. I was still wondering about the identity of the grouchy little woman I had seen on Whyte Avenue.
The traffic was beginning to slow down and the Tim Hortons was beginning to fill up with older, rather loud men who all seemed to know each other. I took both of these things as signs that it was time for me to go. Looking longingly at the showcase of freshly-baked doughnuts, I headed into the parking lot and pointed myself once more toward the past.
11
--
Mr. Maitland was at the counter discussing acid-free photo album choices with an older woman when I got there. He nodded to me, but continued patiently to explain the differences in the three choices the Archives shop stocked. Satisfied, the woman pointed to the mid-level choice and Mr. Maitland rang up her sale. She smiled at me as she left, and I wondered what sorts of memorabilia she was planning to preserve, and hoped that whomever she intended to hand it off to would truly appreciate it.
Mr. Maitland ushered me into the reading room, tutting over the crunch he was feeling by having an employee absent with a sick child. Normally, the Archives apparently buzzed with all sorts of workers, but this week had been the chosen time of vacation for several of the technicians and conservators, and the thought was that they could limp along for one week with their normal weekend skeleton staff. However, with this latest call in, the whole system was being manned by Mr. Maitland, the head reference archivist, and a retrieval technician who was in only mornings. As I hung up my coat and shoved my bag into the locker, he announced he would be shutting the gift shop for the rest of the day.
I mentioned that I had brought my lunch and he inquired whether I would like him to put it in his fridge for the morning. I tha
nked him and handed over my polyvinyl zip bag. I headed back to the same table I’d commandeered the day before, detouring to the shelves to retrieve the box of Mrs. Rutherford’s diaries.Before I opened the box, I whipped an email off to Marni, asking her if I could see a list of the folks who had attended the magic evening. I was hoping one of the names would bounce out to me as the angry woman. I was about to close my email program when a new email popped up from Steve.
Subject: Gibson and Howard need you
Hey Randy, can you take some time today to come over to the station and fill out more of a statement for the detectives in charge of the Rutherford House case? They have some questions about the timelines, and whether you have any insights into some of the witnesses and connections between them. Let me know when would be an okay time for you.
Love,
Steve
I was pretty sure most requests from the police didn’t sign off that way. I was grinning as I returned an email saying I could be over at the south-side station at two-thirty, if that suited them. I left the email up and got an almost immediate return from Steve acknowledging the time as just fine. I was about to open my Word program and settle in to reading the first of Mattie’s diaries when another email popped up. This time it was Marni, with the list of ticket holders to the event. She had also attached a list of the actors involved in the dinner theatre and the names of all of us on the staff. I looked at my own name staring back at me and wondered just how much blood-pressure medication Staff Sergeant Keller was going to need when he looked at it.
Condemned to Repeat Page 7
