Woody smiled from near the counter. I wondered fleetingly if including me had been his decision or Dr. F’s. Then I found myself wondering why it would matter to me whose idea it was.
Instead of settling into the middle of the mall at one of the central tables, we took coffee in La Pasta, one of the sit-down restaurants in HUB, and sat upstairs in the corner. Woody sat in the very corner, with his back to the window.
“I think I must have been an outlaw in a former life,” he apologized, as he manoeuvred himself into place, folding down into the corner chair. “I cannot for the life of me sit with my back to the room or the door.”
“I must say, this is an unexpected pleasure for the Smithsonian to send you, Dr. Dowling,” Dr. Fuller started out, sounding for all the world like she was beginning a board meeting. “While we’re not certain the situation is as problematic as you folks might think, we certainly appreciate the solidarity.”
To me this sounded like diplomacy. It occurred to me that Dr. F wasn’t pleased in the least that Washington had sent anyone up here at all. I had a feeling there were a few rough edges in the partnership between our collection and the Smithsonian Folkways collections down south.
Woody caught the drift immediately, too. “Please, Dr. Fuller, call me Woody. Everyone does. And please don’t think of me as trying to muscle in on your territory in any way. I’m just the pro from Dover, here to help in any way I can and wangle a free trip out of the deal. While I’m here, I’ll be liaising with the Edmonton Folk Music Festival folks to work out all the logistics for recording from the Folkways Stage, but the powers that be figured I might be of some use to y’all up here now, so here I am, at your disposal. Believe me, I know how problematic things can get when large sums of money are involved. How you can deal with that, as well as fending off police investigations and possible murder charges, at the same time, well, that boggles the imagination.” He took a big swig of coffee. “Of course, it makes it sort of exciting, too, doesn’t it?”
Dr. Fuller, who trekked into some pretty remote areas in Nepal and India to collect songs, probably didn’t have the same concept of excitement as Woody, and I had very few romantic notions of how much fun being involved in a police investigation could be. On the other hand, I knew nothing about Woody’s background. Presumably, since he too had a PhD in Ethnomusicology, he may well have been involved in some adventures in the pursuit of his work. Or he may have been seconded to archival research for the Boston Pops for all I knew. It didn’t do to presume too much. I vowed silently to keep an open mind.
Dr. F and I told Woody about the questioning we received from the police, and what we deduced from their line of questioning. With a very small hesitation, which I figured I’d analyze later, I mentioned my connection to Steve, which gave me a few more insights into the investigation than we might otherwise have. I also went over my meeting with David Finster for what seemed like the seventeenth time.
“Man, it sounds like the real mystery was how did that guy manage to stay alive as long as he did?” Woody drawled, to our startled amusement. “I mean really, how can anyone hate folk music? It’s un-American!”
Dr. F smiled a very tight smile, and Woody winced visibly.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry. That sounds like I’m some sort of redneck hick, doesn’t it? I was trying for satirical and ended up sticking my own foot in the mess I was trying to point out. I do realize y’all are a distinct and separate country with ideas and ideals of your own.”
“We even have different words to ‘This Land Is Your Land,’” I grinned, enjoying his discomfort. To his credit, he laughed and blushed. There is something sexy about a man who has both the ability and the grace to blush. Or maybe there was just something sexy about Woody Dowling.
“What I was trying to get at, in my blunderingly boobish fashion, was that this David Finster sounds like a candidate for ugliest soul around.”
“Don’t forget he has a sister,” said Dr. F in a low-key delivery. I practically spewed coffee through my nose, gagging a guffaw.
“Oh yes, Barbara Allen. Have y’all heard anything from her since that first time when the two of them barged in on you?” Dr. F and I both shook our heads. “And did you really have no idea about the source of the funding before they introduced themselves to you?”
Again, Dr. F shook her head. I shrugged, abdicating myself from the discussion since I was just a hired gun, with no background on the project. In fact, until I had been hired, after the bequest had been announced, the only thing I had in common with the Centre for Ethnomusicology was a guitar, a banjo and five of the remastered Smithsonian Folkways CDs in my music collection.
While Woody and Dr. F spoke in what seemed like code, but was really some form of administrative lingo known only to those who actually deal with large sums of research funds on a daily basis, I hauled my datebook out of my backpack and checked the dates with what Woody had been talking about. The bequest had been announced in January, I’d been hired in May, and David Finster and his sister came to see us in late June. This coming long weekend would mark the beginning of July with Canada Day celebrations. I was sure I’d heard when Lillian Finster died, but couldn’t recall whether it was September or October of the previous year. I guess it had taken time to probate the will and for the university lawyers to guarantee the bequest as valid before it was announced.
So why had it taken so long for the Finsters to figure things out and go on the rampage to us at the Centre? Had they known all along? Or did they just find out recently? I had a feeling that would be worth knowing. And when did the Smithsonian Folkways folks get involved? I knew they were underwriting the Folkways stage recordings at the Folk Fest in August, but just why was it deemed useful for Woody Dowling to appear on the scene now, riding in like a cowboy on a palomino?
I shook myself to clear my head and returned to the conversation. Dr. F was describing the eventual housings of the collection in the main floor of the old Arts Building.
“As you must know, the storage of vinyl records is something that can really test the structure of the flooring. We need to consider that, as well as accessibility to students and scholars, and the chance of expansion. We have a mandate to keep the collection up to date by purchasing all new recordings produced by Smithsonian Folkways, and we also have plans to expand by means of recording up here. That, of course, you know about as well.” She smiled graciously at Woody. “We are engaged in the database at the moment, and the means of bringing the collection we have to the level where it is internationally accessible online for scholars. Randy is bringing the written aspect of that to life, by finding the appropriate entrances to the collection. While the database will eventually be elastic enough to suit even the most esoteric reaches of specialist research, we’re hoping to pre-guess the average needs of the generalist. Randy’s approach is to find the likeliest needs of the collection, and create entry-level content for the website at each doorway.”
I felt Woody appraising me, as if by checking me out physically he could tell whether or not I was cerebrally up to the job. Just in case he could, I found myself sucking my stomach in a bit more. I grinned self-consciously, the way I used to when my mother was speaking to her bridge friends about my plans for courses in the coming school year.
“Sounds like a great project. So Randy, have you connected with anyone in Washington in terms of your project?” His question sounded innocuous, but I could feel Dr. F stiffen beside me. I braced myself to tread warily in the dark.
“Well, not yet. I’m still in the composition and research stage. We haven’t committed anything to the website yet. I think I want to keep some distance till I have a clear vision, so as not to co-opt the overall site. I mean, I’m certainly not anxious to reinvent the wheel, and I’m aware of what your website does, but there’s not going to be any competition. More of an enhancing connection, I’m foreseeing.”
Woody was nodding easily across from us, but I could still feel the tension in my boss. It wa
s making me feel awkward, since I wasn’t sure if it had anything to do with the website collaboration idea, or whether something else was bothering her. Whatever it was, I wanted to be gone. I made an obvious show of surreptitiously checking my watch, only to discover that it really was way past my work hours. I normally knocked off at four, and here it was already a quarter past five. To emphasize things, my stomach suddenly gurgled very loudly in the otherwise quiet restaurant. Woody laughed. Dr. F looked a bit startled by my body noises, and masked it with comments that we really had gone overtime, and did Woody know how to find his way back to his hotel? He assured her that he would be fine, that perhaps he could impose on me to point him in the right direction?
“As long as you don’t mind going back via the Centre,” I agreed. “I have to put some stuff away and pick up my laptop.”
Dr. F shook hands with Woody and nodded to me and left the restaurant before us. She was a distant figure heading north to the Tory Building by the time we reached the mall level. I pointed us to the south, and Woody loped along beside me.
“Where is she going?” he asked.
“Dr. F has an office in the Anthropology department, and that’s in the Tory Building—the tallest building on campus. Or she might be headed to the new Centre in the Arts Building—or her car.” Woody nodded. I felt as if all bits of information that he received got stored carefully away for future possible use.
When we got back to the Centre we found that Paul had already left and turned out the lights. I told Woody to hold the door open, and rummaged for the cord to my laptop in the ambient light from the hallway. I set the books on my carrel neatly in a pile on the desktop, not bothering to put them back up on the upper shelf. I could clean up in the morning. I wanted my laptop, though. Ever since I got it a few months ago, I’d got acclimatized to working from my chesterfield rather than the desk in the dining room. Besides, if I worked on my folk essays in the evening from home on the laptop, there was less chance of dallying on a conference site or checking eBay for bicycles and mandolins.
Woody held the door wide, and ushered me through with a sweeping gesture.
“So you’re now done for the day?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Technically. Chances are I might do a bit of research still. I have some books I’m trying to work my way through, half for pleasure, half to make the pictures all come clear in my mind.” Woody nodded.
“And your police officer friend will be meeting you for dinner?” My danger antennae leapt up to attention. What should I answer? Why was he asking? Maybe he just wanted someone to take him out for supper. That was natural. It was his first evening in a strange city. I was surprised Dr. F hadn’t organized something. Of course, I was still wondering if Dr. F had even known Woody was coming at all, let alone early. That might be the source of the tension I had been sensing.
“Well, I think it’s likely he’ll be up to his ears in this case still,” I admitted. “When something like this is on the books, Steve’s hours get a lot more irregular.” The truth, of course, was that I wasn’t sure how much Steve was going to be fraternizing with me till the whole case was concluded, but I wasn’t about to go into all that with a perfect stranger.
“In that case, can I lure you into dinner out with an almost perfect stranger?” Woody smiled winsomely, which tempered my being startled by his use of the very words in my head. He’d very likely learned that smile when apologizing for breaking windows with his slingshot or baseball. He just had that all-American boy sensibility to him, wrapped up in a grown-up package. I found myself grinning back at him and agreeing to join him for supper. As long as I could drop my backpack off at home and pick up my mail, I wouldn’t mind eating something I hadn’t cooked myself.
“Sure. Where do you live?” Oh God, that was going to mean bringing Woody into my apartment. What had I done? It’s not as if I could tell him to wait out on the street for me. As we walked down the three short blocks from his hotel to my apartment, I worried about the wisdom of both letting him know where I lived and allowing him to see how I lived. There’s something so intimate and personal about one’s living space; I am loath to invite people I don’t know well into my home. After all, what we choose to place on our bookcases, what we surround ourselves with in terms of art or decoration, says a lot about us. A friend of mine who did grad studies in abnormal psychology said that you could tell more from someone’s record collection than you could from the first four months of therapy. So what was I doing breaking my cardinal rules of not allowing strangers into my inner sanctum, especially this man, who I had already sensed was relatively dangerous to my equilibrium? Man oh man, I was playing with fire.
Woody was appropriately appreciative of my art deco building and the lovely Persian hall runner. He stood in my apartment doorway, nodding and taking it all in greedily, as if reading the book that was me. I wasn’t mistaken. This man was interested in me.
“I’ll only be five minutes. Don’t even bother to take your shoes off.” I saw slight confusion cross Woody’s face, and it occurred to me that perhaps people in Washington didn’t automatically take off their shoes in other people’s homes. If that was the case, he was a quick study, because he stood obediently on the welcome mat while I dropped my backpack in the dining room, hauling out my wallet and keys. I called Steve’s desk number and left a message for him, which I hoped Woody would overhear.
“Hey, it’s me. It’s almost six and I’m heading out to dinner with a fellow from the Smithsonian Institute who’s in town to deal with the recording issues for the Festival. I shouldn’t be too late out. Call me after ten if you have time, ’kay?” I hung up the phone, and turned to face Woody. “Okay. So, how do you feel about Greek food?”
“You’re a mind reader! I was just standing here wondering where I could get a great moussaka.” Woody grinned. “Is it far? I take it we’re going to walk?”
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all. It’s a great town for walking in, as far as I can see.”
I took us down 109th Street to Whyte Avenue. Normally, I’d have cut cross-country through the Old Strathcona neighbourhood maze of one-way streets and walk-up apartments surrounding the old houses pulling themselves up and sticking their verandahs out proudly at the progress going on around them. However, I wanted Woody to get a sense of where he was in relation to things.
We heard the bouzouki music from half a block away. Woody’s eyebrows shot up as I ushered him through the doors of my favourite Greek restaurant in town, Yianni’s Taverna. Marina, the hostess, came out from behind the bar when she saw us. She squeezed my hand, and said, “Randy! It’s so good to see you. We’ve got the avgolemono soup tonight. It’s lucky we do. You didn’t call.” She turned to Woody and looked suddenly puzzled to note that he wasn’t Steve. I jumped in quickly before she could say anything.
“Marina, meet Woody. He is a colleague from Washington, DC, who wanted to know where to find the best Greek food in town.” Marina beamed and led us to a table near the front of the restaurant, which opened out on Whyte Avenue. Woody commented on the charming decor, which further endeared him to our hostess. We ordered the starter platter, a combination of feta cheese, Greek olives, kalimari, tsatsiki, hummus and dolmades. Woody ordered a bottle of Amalia wine as well.
“Everything Greek goes with red wine, I figure,” he said.
“You’re not allergic to the histamines in red wine?”
“Nope, lucky or what? I know it sounds like I’m some sort of bubble boy, but it’s mostly avoidable stuff—not essentials like wine.” Woody tipped his glass rim toward mine. “Here’s to colleagues and getting to know all about them.”
I clinked and repeated, “To colleagues.”
“You know, I volunteered to come up here. Not that it was billed as a hardship task, but I’ve always had a fascination with the North, and I thought it might be possible to drive to Great Slave Lake from here.”
“It’s not impossible, but it would take you a couple of
days’ driving and you’d have quite a detour in the summer. In the winter there’s an ice road that cuts the time down. Lesser Slave Lake is here in Alberta, and it’s about four hours north. Do you fish?”
“No. I just wanted to collect all the Great Lakes, to be able to say I’d seen them. I have been to Lake Winnipeg once, you know. Why, is fishing all there is to do there?”
“Of course not. You could canoe, or speedboat, or water ski. Or you could drive a quad around on the dunes. There’s a heck of a lot of nature out there to spoil if that’s what you want.”
Woody shrugged. “Maybe just a drive in the country would be enough.”
“Have you ever been to the Canadian Rockies?” I asked. Again he shook his head. “Well, in my opinion, that’s where you should go. Just three hours west of here on good roads, and you’re in the most amazing scenery you’ll ever see. Wild animals wander about everywhere. The glacier-fed lakes are the craziest blue-green colour. There are hiking trails, and camping areas, and cabins to rent, and hot springs. It’s beautiful up there.”
“It sounds great. Maybe I’ll be able to swing a trip there. I suppose I should rent a car while I’m here.”
I nodded. Our transit system was good when contractors weren’t getting murdered in it, but if Woody was going to be here for a few weeks, then he’d want to get out and around at his leisure. Besides, Edmonton and northern Alberta in the summertime were wonderful places to explore; I was all for promoting that to anyone.
“Well, my expense account will allow for a car rental,” Woody continued. What sort of car would you like to drive?”
“Me?”
“Yes, after all, I’ll need someone from the Centre to be my guide, won’t I?” He attempted to bat his eyes, which made me laugh.
“The trouble is, I’m not technically an employee of the Centre so much as an employee of the Folkways collection.”
“All the better! The Smithsonian could lean on the Centre to allow for your liaising with their representative here. I’ll need someone to help me connect with the Folk Festival crowd, and to show me around the city. I may even need someone to drive me to the mountains.” I wasn’t sure how to read his look, and I wasn’t sure I wanted it clearly interpreted.
Hang Down Your Head Page 10
