We filed out the back door of the chapel and made our way to the main entrance of the college building. Although the lobby area was obviously a government office space, effort had been made to maintain the integrity of the building. The minister had positioned himself next to the woman I had learned during the service to be Mr. Maitland’s sister. She and her husband shook hands with people, and it was only polite to wait in line to do the same. I didn’t presume she would whisper an invitation back to their house for refreshments to anyone like me, a person she didn’t know, and I wasn’t wrong on that count. She smiled distantly as I explained my tenuous connection to her brother and she thanked me for coming. Within minutes I was out on the street, facing the Fine Arts building and wondering whether to pop into HUB for a cup of Java Jive coffee or just head home. Navigating the stairs in my go-to-meeting heels just seemed like too much bother, so I looked left for buses, crossed the street, and wended my way sadly home. This sort of rite just took it out of me. Someone seriously needed to put the “fun” back into funeral. Steve had offered to come with me, but I had not taken him up on it. After all, people usually didn’t go to the funerals of people they didn’t know, and it wasn’t as if he had to scan the crowd for suspects. His partner, Iain McCorquodale, had been there, at the back of the chapel, covering that task.
I was now back in my apartment, shoes kicked off and a cup of tea on the lamp table beside me, massaging the balls of my feet and pondering great philosophical questions, the sort that melancholy funerals bring out. Would I die alone and would I draw more than forty-five people to a memorial? When should one set down requests pertaining to one’s own funeral? Should they be filed with one’s will? Why didn’t I have a will?
Mr. Maitland was my age, or nearabouts, likely no more than ten years difference, if that. As he was so trim and dapper, it was hard to peg him. Somehow, even though he couldn’t have been anticipating being killed by someone trying to rob the Archives, he had all his paperwork in order, and his family was able to set a perfectly appropriate service into motion at the drop of a hat.
No one expects a twenty-year-old to be the first one in the family to die, which might be a large part of why Jossie’s family wasn’t having a service. No matter how I tried, there was no way I could imagine the gut-punch of learning your daughter had been killed during the course of her boring little job.
Her parents had likely brought her up carefully, ferrying her to play dates and dance classes, sending her to summer camps, and attending school plays. They had warned her against calling attention to herself with her giggling girlfriends at bus stops. They had supported her choices of classwork at university. They would have restrained themselves from commenting on her choice of boyfriends. They had taught her to look both ways when she crossed the street, and to never leave her drink untended at rowdy parties. They had likely done everything right. And, during the course of her part-time job, taken to earn some money while at university, they had lost her.
My research into the Rutherford maids was likely romanticizing my posthumous recollections of Jossie. Having just come from Mr. Maitland’s funeral didn’t help, either. And maybe the pressure of having to get the website mocked up in time for the board meeting this coming week had taken its toll. Whatever the cause, I found myself weeping. Not just a few magical movie tears sliding down my cheeks, either. This was one of those sinus-clearing, eye-burning emotional releases. I stretched my hand out for the tissue box and in the process dumped my phone, a notepad, and several pens onto the floor. Heedless, I curled up on the chesterfield in the fetal position and cried. At some point, I hooked the afghan in the corner with my toe, dragged it up over myself, and fell asleep.
I woke up drained, but clean. Not certain I wasn’t about to feel a headache, I sat up gingerly. So far, so good. I used the tissue wadded in my hand to wipe my nose and looked around. A mound of spent tissue lay on the floor in front of the sofa. My tea was cold. My phone’s battery had come off and was lying beside the rest of the phone. Two paperbacks, several loose pieces of paper, and a ruled notepad were in a heap in front of the end table. It looked like raccoons had come in and tossed the place while I’d been sleeping.
I padded into the kitchen for a plastic grocery bag and came back to clear my mess. I stuffed it full of soggy tissues, picked up my books, reattached my phone, which almost immediately buzzed to let me know there was a message waiting for me, and reached to pick up the loose paper still on the floor.
One of the sheets was blank, but crumpled. I crumpled it some more and popped it in the garbage bag, hoping David Suzuki would never find out.
For a minute I sat there, perched on the edge of the sofa, bag of refuse in one hand and cup full of cold tea in the other. The sun had set while I’d been napping. It said a lot for the ambient light of the street lights on 109th Street just east of me that I could still navigate my apartment. I shifted the bag to my other hand and flicked on a light, then quickly closed my blinds, just as my parents had taught me to do. Then I went into the kitchen to throw away the evidence of my meltdown and make a sandwich.
24
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Steve was spending quality time with Iain dealing with Mr. Maitland’s murder, and I was inured to the thought that I wouldn’t be seeing much of him for a while. The weekend went by in a blur of apartment cleaning, Hallowe’en candy buying, and outfit choosing for the upcoming showdown with the board. Some people get all geared up for summer by spring cleaning, but the new year so surely begins in the fall for me, programmed as I am by the school and university year. This year’s mild fall and my lack of connection to a course syllabus had delayed my instinctual need to clean my cupboards, but it had finally caught up with me. I had the windows open to catch the drifting smell of bonfires and dry leaves, and had cleaned out the freezer compartment of my fridge, replaced the shelf paper in all my kitchen cupboards, washed the windows and wiped down the venetian blinds, turned the mattress of my bed, and was on my third load of laundry. I had swept all the floors and was in the process of dragging throw carpets outside to thwap them against the side of the garbage-bin shed. The next step would be to wash the floors, and then closet myself in my bedroom and shift my wardrobe choices from summer to winter by hauling out the under-the-bed tubs of sweaters and woollens, and folding up the tee-shirts and cottons.
Hitting the mats against the trash-bin stands was good therapy, as long as too much grit and dust didn’t fly back into my eyes. I wouldn’t have minded one of those carpet beaters from the first Rutherford House for this chore. I looked about as good as Hilda Ogden on a bad day, which was why it was so great to see Roxanne and Chef Bryan standing just a few feet away from my back entrance, dressed to kill. They had obviously been for lunch at the High Level Diner and looked just as pained to see me. Well, no wonder; it’s not often that you see the hideous shadow self revealed in one of your co-workers. I shrugged apologetically and called out, “house cleaning,” as if that would explain my grimy capris, bleach-spotted oversized shirt, and headscarf. Roxanne offered a brittle smile and a small wave of her hand. Bryan looked as if he was going to walk over to see me, but I noticed Roxanne tug on his sleeve and stop him.
I would have stopped him, too. Women understand that other women do not want to be caught looking their worst, and even if saving me face had not been her motive, I silently thanked Roxanne for her tact. I waved again and dragged my somewhat cleaner mats back inside with me, leaving them to their stylish weekend date.
Now I had something to think about as I mopped the floors. I had no idea Roxanne and Bryan were seeing each other socially, if that indeed was what they were doing. Of course, if they weren’t, then why had they been out for lunch together? And for that matter, if they were out together, who was working their shifts this weekend at Rutherford House? Bryan was normally always there when Marni was on duty, and Roxanne took over for her, usually on Sundays and Mondays. Weekends were a busy time for tours, but the Arbour Restaurant seemed to score it
s steadiest clients during the weekdays, when ladies of leisure could go for lunch without being bothered by the hoi polloi. Marni tended to take one weekend day and one weekday off, to balance the supervisory needs. So maybe she had switched with Roxanne this week. But I had always seen Chef Bryan with Marni, so something about seeing Roxanne with him in the Diner’s parking lot just didn’t sit right.
It wasn’t a crime, though, and for all I knew it would be cleared up with a word or two from Marni when I saw her on Tuesday. I got back to the business of cleaning, and by the time the sun set, my entire apartment was gleaming. Citrus smells from the kitchen were vying with the lavender cleaning supplies I’d used in the bathroom, and surfaces shone brighter as I switched on the lights to counter the dark. Pleased with myself, but exhausted, I decided to treat myself to a movie. I flipped through too many choices on the television and briefly considered renting one from iTunes. Then I recalled there was a double feature of the original and remake of The Italian Job, one of my favourite movies, playing at the Garneau Theatre around the corner. I had never seen the remake. I dumped my cleaning duds into my now empty laundry hamper and pulled on clean jeans and a mauve sweater I hadn’t worn since the previous winter, which made it feel new again. It smelled faintly of cedar from the bag of chips I kept in the corners of the plastic bins.
I contemplated calling Steve, but he had sounded a little brusque on the phone the last time we’d spoken, a sign that he was under some stress from work. I didn’t want to add to that and make him feel as if I was feeling neglected. Relationships were a tricky business, and the hassle involved in reading invisible cues and navigating metaphoric minefields were probably the main reasons for the medieval rise in convents and monasteries. I brushed my hair, pulled on my leather jacket, and grabbed keys and a twenty from my wallet.
Pretty soon, I was ensconced in my favourite seat in the upper part of the cinema, revelling in movie popcorn and dreamy blue eyes. All in all, it was a nice way to end the day. I never felt odd about going to the movies alone at the Garneau or the Princess, since they seemed to cater to film buffs rather than people on dates. That was one of the best things about living so close to campus, of course. The lifestyle of the average student was one of solitude and much of the area catered to that. The local Safeway sold smaller trays of meat and single-portion-sized deli meals in greater quantities than other groceries in town. They also, of course, carried more Kraft Dinner and their soup selections skewed heavily to tomato and cream of mushroom. They knew exactly who was cooking for the first time in basement suites and starter apartments within a ten-block radius of their store.
I shook a few kernels of popcorn out of the cowl of my sweater and headed for home by popping out the front-left exit of the cinema. From there, I was about thirty yards from my apartment. If they hadn’t put up the fence between the parking area and the yard of the duplex between my apartment and the cinema, I’d have been able to see my window. I hurried along the back lane to the rear entrance of the apartment, passing the place where I’d seen Roxanne and Bryan earlier.
I made sure to close the outer back door firmly. Every now and then, a homeless person would manage to sneak in if the latch hadn’t firmly caught. All the mayhem I’d witnessed in the movie was making me feel “urban cautious.” Satisfied, I made it to my apartment door, key still in hand.
There was no need for a key. My door was standing open. I pushed it slightly to reveal a mess of foam and feathers and paper. Someone had done their own cleaning job on my apartment.
As horrified as I was, I wasn’t a cop’s girlfriend for nothing. Staying in the hall, I reached into my jacket pocket for my phone, which had been turned to silent during the movie. I hit 911 to report the break-in, then dialled Steve. I told him I would wait for him in the hallway, and obligingly sank to the floor, leaning on the wall across from my ransacked apartment. No one from the other apartments on the main floor popped their heads out to check, which made me think the looter must have been pretty silent. Or, maybe they all thought I was still heaving things around, cleaning house, since I’d been strenuously perky all day.
Or maybe they were all dead in their bathtubs.
Lucky for me, the police arrived before I could freak myself out too much.
25
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Using the key I had given him, Steve appeared from the back door of the apartment building at about the same time that the officers on call entered through the main doorway, using some master key, I supposed. Or maybe the building’s front door had been wedged opened, as often happened. For all I know, that was how the thieves had got into my apartment.
I rose to my feet, sort of creakily, with Steve’s help. Sitting on the floor wasn’t the best thing for my knees, especially in the evening. Between the joint stiffness and my sudden shivering, likely brought on by shock, Steve had to prop me up a bit and I clung to him more than I’d anticipated.
I had once had my university office ransacked, and it had been Steve then, too, who had comforted me and seen me through the sense of violation one feels when one has been invaded. Thank goodness for his presence in my life, because I wasn’t sure just how people managed this sort of thing on their own.
While I don’t mean to usurp the words from those who have had far more violent and horrific things happen to them bodily, I was once again shaken to the core by the sense of violation and molestation that came with having my personal space and belongings desecrated and mauled by some strangers’ hands. Paper, presumably from my desk drawers, was strewn everywhere. The cushions of my chesterfield had been sliced open diagonally and the foam yanked out in hunks. The feathers seemed to still be coming out of my bedroom, but that was likely the heating vent pushing the erstwhile contents of my duvet on air currents. One of the officers on the scene mentioned that I was lucky to have been out when the Huns arrived.
I supposed I was, though standing in the middle of the ruins of my apartment, I didn’t feel particularly lucky. Once they had dusted for prints and photographed the scene, I was asked to determine what, if anything, was missing. To do that, I’d need to start clearing away some of the mess.
“You can file a complete list later, Randy,” Steve said, and the other officers nodded. “Right now, they just want to know if there is anything major they can search for, if they manage to stop someone suspicious.”
I leaned over to pick up a damaged book from the floor. While I was bent over, I gathered up some of the papers at my feet, shuffling them messily into a pile. I would have to go through them all, and probably would still not make any sense of them. Material from my last job was mixed up with notes on Rutherford House and I even noted an early draft of a thesis chapter on Margaret Ahlers, which had been stored in the bottom of my filing cabinet, spilled over the floor.
What had they been looking for? Was this just plain vandalism? Or had they targeted more than one apartment? I looked up and noted that one of the officers who had initially been examining the living room mess had disappeared. Steve noticed my look and read my mind, as usual.
“Officer Dugo is checking with the other residents to see if anyone heard anything, or if anyone else’s homes were vandalized.”
I nodded. “Well, it’s hard to say, because as you know, I have an awful lot of stuff in this small apartment, but off the top, I can’t find my laptop or the remotes for the TV and PVR, and this may sound weird, but there is more china missing than seems to be broken here.” I pointed to the built-in glass-doored shelves that created a half-wall between the kitchen and dining area. The doors stood open, and there were a couple of plates smashed on the floor below, but I had owned several bits and bobs of old glassware and china, which were teetering between collectible and antique. The pink glass condiment jar and several of the teacups seemed to be missing, and the green Depression-ware platter that had leaned up against the back wall of the cabinet was no longer there.
“They stole your china and your laptop?”
“I know
that sounds weirdly specific, doesn’t it?” I headed into the kitchen and opened the canister cupboard, where I kept my flour, oats, sugar, and rice. Beside the rice jar was an envelope in which I kept a small stock of cash for emergencies like late-night deliveries of Chinese food. It was still there, with $90 in tens and fives. So they weren’t after my hoard of money. On the counter was my Magic Bullet, which might only cost $40 at London Drugs, but was worth millions to me in terms of smoothie ease. Between it and my self-sharpening paring knife, I could make practically anything.
I moved back into the living room, trying to see in my mind what it had looked like before I’d headed off to the movies. All that work to make my personal world clean and organized for nothing. Just as I had felt calmed by the order instilled, this chaos was making my head throb, and the tears began to stream down my face.
How could I even operate the television without the remotes? Why would someone take remotes without the machines they operated? Steve answered that by showing me that the set and PVR and DVD player had all been unplugged, but not yet carted away.
“You might have surprised them, babe. I’m just glad you didn’t walk in on them.”
“But how could I have surprised them? I was at the movies.”
“Maybe they knew that? Maybe they were watching you leave your apartment.”
I shuddered. Somehow, the thought of someone spying on me felt even more repulsive than someone breaking into an anonymous apartment and destroying it. Had this been personal?
“So they took what they thought was valuable and easy to sell. But they left actual cash, which wasn’t all that well hidden, and didn’t take all the electronics they intended to. They also had an eye for antiques. I wonder if…” my voice trailed off as I walked into the ruins of my bedroom. The thieves had pulled apart my duvet and dumped it at the end of my bed. My underwear drawer was dumped into the middle of my bed. The thought of someone having pawed through my panties made me gag a bit, and my immediate urge was to throw them all away and head to Zellers for some nice cotton briefs. But Zellers was gone and so was my feeling of security.
Condemned to Repeat Page 16
