Hang Down Your Head

by Janice Macdonald

  “What time is it, anyway?” I asked Woody, who was still holding my arm, taking his St. Bernard role very seriously.

  “Ten to ten,” he answered, after swivelling his left arm around to read his watch face, bringing his elbow into lock with mine and supporting it with his right hand, making me feel as if we were in some bizarre square dance, promenading home. “Just the right time for a cup of tea.”

  Before I knew it, we were at my apartment, and I was fishing into my backpack pocket for the keys. Woody loomed in the shadowy dark of the shotgun hallway once more, admiring the Persian runner and the hardwood. While I can’t take credit for the decor, I am always proud to acknowledge I have the good taste to live where I do. We kicked off our shoes, and I dropped my backpack in the dining/office area. Woody moved past me to the kitchen, and began filling the kettle, then bustling about with the teapot and caddy. I left him to it, and wandered back into the living room to collapse on the chesterfield. What a bloody morning.

  My phrasing, even though I hadn’t actually uttered it out loud, was enough to make me shudder. Woody had just reappeared in the living room and must have thought I was in some level of shock. Who knows, maybe I was. He pulled out the folded quilt that I kept tucked behind a couch cushion and wrapped it around my shoulders, chafing my arms through the blanket.

  “The tea will be ready soon, but you should stay warm.” Ironic, the heat wave had just broken, and here I was already shivering again at the thought of Paul lying there in his own blood.

  Surely there was nothing in the Centre that was worth coshing a man unconscious for. The whole scene kept hanging behind my eyelids like a puzzle picture where you have to figure out what’s wrong, but it all seems perfectly normal. Of course, this picture didn’t seem normal at all. I must have shaken visibly once more, because Woody pulled me over to him and wrapped his arms around me. I leaned into his chest and began to cry.

  16

  ~

  Eventually I got myself together. It would be more accurate to say that Woody got me together, really, since he was the one who got me tea and cookies—which I had forgotten were even in my cupboard—and alternated between companionable silences and cheerful chatter. He had a knack for being optimistic and easy without appearing callous to the events that had just occurred. I wasn’t sure, but I figured that had to be an uncommon talent.

  Steve called around noon, but Woody was the one who talked to him, in muted tones, so I couldn’t quite overhear them. By that time, I was curled up on the couch, sliding in and out of a nap. Woody roused me with a tray he placed on my coffee table, and offered me a hand so I could swing myself up and around to have some lunch.

  He had made tomato soup and cheese melts. It was such a nursery comfort meal that I almost burst out crying again, but instead my stomach gave a cheerful growl and I decided just to tuck in. Woody smiled in approval and retrieved a tray of his own from the kitchen. He sat in the chair across from me, balancing his tray on his knees, and slurped his soup happily.

  “My mom used to make me this very meal when I had to stay home sick from school,” he offered, between slurps.

  “Mine, too,” I said.

  “No kidding? Maybe there’s less to this forty-ninth parallel than meets the eye. I mean, you’ve got your proto-Japanese shoe removal at the door, and all that nitpicking business about universal medicare, and don’t get me started on the Queen, but when it shakes out, we have a lot more in common with each other than say we would with citizens of Yapp or Burkina Faso.”

  “Don’t say that too loudly in some quarters. There are heaps of Canadians who can only identify themselves as non-Americans. Just think what would happen if they couldn’t do that. They might just spontaneously combust.”

  “You see, that’s why I think the Folkways project is still such a vital one. Moe Asch’s vision of a heritage of sounds of the entire world does a lot more to indicate lines of similarity rather than lines of demarcation. More soup?”

  I declined, and so Woody went into the kitchen to finish off the remainder. The soup was settling me down nicely, or maybe it was Woody’s presence. I decided to test my land legs and unwrapped myself from my quilt. I followed Woody into the kitchen with my now empty tray and found him starting a sudsy pan of dishwater in my sink. I leaned against the edge of the built-in sideboard and watched him. I’d never seen such a tall man look so natural in an apron before, but Woody just seemed to fit in wherever he went. He calmly reached for my soup bowl and started humming as he splashed his hands into the dishpan.

  It took me a minute, but I realized that what he was humming was “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad.” I started to laugh, thinking of who was in the kitchen with Dinah. It was likely my banjo in the corner of the living room that had put it in his mind. It was amazing how many songs actually mentioned banjos in comparison to, say, piccolos or lutes.

  “Fee fie fiddle dee oh, strumming on the ole banjo,” we both warbled in questionable harmony and ended up laughing, which I suppose is what music is supposed to do. I know I felt a bit lighter.

  “Thanks, Woody,” I said, picking up a tea towel.

  “My momma raised me to always do the dishes, or at least offer,” he replied, making room for me to get to the drying rack beside him on the counter.

  “I don’t mean the dishes, although I must say, I admire the way your momma raised her children. I mean taking care of me this morning. I feel like I’ve really interfered with your work. I had no idea I was going to get so swacked out by things, but I am sure glad you were around when you were. I think Steve is likely relieved, too, not to have to worry about me while he’s busy trying to get his job done.”

  “Don’t be too sure about that. Of course, your Steve there is a very perceptive fellow. However, that is what I’m here for, to take care of the Folkways’ interests in the midst of upheaval, problems and muggings. Since you represent Folkways’ interests here in Edmonton in more ways than one, I figure I’m following my directives to the letter.” He turned and smiled at me. I could swear a space heater had just been turned on me full blast. I felt like a magnet being drawn closer, but forced myself backward and turned to pick up another handful of cutlery in my towel. I could feel Woody’s eyes on me still, but I studiously avoided looking at him, concentrating on getting the knives as dry as possible before setting them into the cutlery drawer beside me.

  Finally I heard him rinsing the tea mugs, swooshing the wash water into the low white sink, and rinsing the pan itself. I handed him the tea towel to swipe out the dishpan before he hung it back up on the hook I’d glued to the side of the fridge. He dried his hands on the apron and then removed it.

  I led the way back into the living room. Both of us seemed to have moved back into work mode. We were Folkways employees, and something was attacking our livelihood. While I had complete faith in Steve’s ability to read a crime scene and solve the murder and the attempted murder, it couldn’t hurt for Woody and me to find some sort of pattern or link between the two, if indeed there was one. I considered grabbing my laptop and opening my murder file, but figured a fresh perspective would happen by starting fresh with Woody. I grabbed a notepad and pen from the coffee table, and Woody began to list out some of the issues we were facing.

  “David Finster is killed. We know he had discovered and was objecting to the Folkways bequest his mother made. We likely can’t find out whether there was trouble in his own personal life, or in the construction business, but we’d need to before we can assume that Folkways was sufficient cause for his death.”

  “I’m sure Steven and Iain are working all the angles.”

  “Of course, that’s what the police are brilliant at. What we can be brilliant at, I hope, is figuring out whether or not there is someone targeting Folkways in particular, by working from the inside outward. I have to think that, given the attack on Paul this morning, there’s something to be said for Finster’s death being Folkways-related. I can’t get my head wrapped around the
idea that Edmonton is somehow a hotbed of physical danger, especially around the university campus. It just doesn’t compute.”

  I nodded. It wasn’t totally unheard of to hear of fights and even killings in the news, but when they did occur, they happened in the less salubrious parts of town. I couldn’t recall anyone ever being mugged inside an actual university building before this morning.

  “So, if we are to continue along the logical progression, whoever killed David Finster likely also attacked Paul Calihoo. It is also possible to infer that this mysterious person was looking for something associated with the Folkways collection, since that seems to be the only point of intersection between the two men, right?”

  So far Woody was making sense, although I wasn’t absolutely sold on the idea that it was the same attacker in both cases.

  “If it was the same person, do you think maybe Paul’s attack happened just because he was in the way?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, for one thing, there wasn’t anything extra brought along to make it into a folk song.” I went on to describe as much detail as I had gleaned about the scene of crime folk tableau found with David Finster. “So there isn’t any of that stuff around Paul. He’s just lying there, oozing blood. Now, maybe there is a folk song about someone hit on the head in his own place of work, and left for dead, but it’s not springing to mind.”

  Woody looked contemplative for a few minutes, and then shook his head. “Nothing as clear as your Tom Dooley reference, that’s for sure. The only thing that actually springs to my mind isn’t even a Folkways recording and that’s Jim Croce’s ‘You Don’t Mess Around with Jim.’ He shook his head even more forcefully. “And that won’t do, it’s about a knife fight.”

  “Well, maybe whoever didn’t expect Paul to be in the office so early was there to steal something. I think I overheard Dr. Fuller telling the police there was something missing from her office, but I have no idea what it could be. We should ask her. Maybe Steve will tell me later, but I wouldn’t count on it. Of course, if the intruder knew anything at all about the workings of the Centre, they’d realize that Paul would be in, like clockwork, at eight.”

  “Do you think they came in after Paul, or did he walk in on a robbery already in progress?”

  I wondered that, too. If he opened the door to the Centre at eight as usual, wouldn’t he have been able to see anyone inside? He’d have been able to see all the open area, from my carrel corner to the counter to the right. If the intruder was already in Dr. Fuller’s office, with the door closed, then perhaps he wouldn’t have any hint that there was something wrong. The climate-controlling main door closed heavily as one walked into the Centre, so the intruder would have been warned of Paul’s arrival. All he or she would have to do was wait inside Dr. F’s office till Paul rounded the counter and turned toward the main part of the room. If the intruder wasn’t waiting to attack Paul specifically, and I supposed we couldn’t rule that out, then he or she would have to incapacitate him somehow to escape Dr. F’s office unscathed.

  It would really help to know what was missing from Dr. F’s office. I wondered if Steve would be forthcoming with that sort of information. I wasn’t sure where I stood in terms of receiving information about this case at all, given that I was supposedly on the list of suspects in the Finster murder. I didn’t see how I could be considered problematic in Paul’s attack, but then again you never knew. One general rule of thumb is to suspect whoever finds the body and calls, and that had been me.

  Woody made us more tea, and then we decided to go for a walk. He had a cellphone, and I had been excused from work for the entire day, so technically it wouldn’t be skipping out of duties. Nonetheless, I felt sort of guilty as I strolled across the High Level Bridge with Woody, as if I’d called in sick to school and was taking a Ferris Bueller day.

  Woody was easy to talk with, and seemed to have no end of interest in things he saw. He managed to make polite noises about our Legislature Building and reflecting pool, even though he came from Washington, where the most famous reflecting pool of all time shimmered. I took him down Jasper Avenue, which was starting to emerge from its thirty years’ slumber into a relatively interesting place. Give it a few more bistros and bookstores, and we might actually revive the downtown. We then wandered over to Sir Winston Churchill Square, where they were setting up for the Taste of Edmonton food festival beginning the next week.

  “How on earth do you keep track of all the festivals? It’s like the summer arrives and you folks go into party mode.” He danced a few steps of an impromptu conga.

  I laughed, which was probably Woody’s intention in the first place. All part of the cheer-Randy-up campaign.

  “Honestly, though, I love it. In fact, I’m going to have to race around back home to get everything done in time if I have a hope of getting back here for Heritage Days.”

  “You’re heading back to Washington?”

  Woody nodded.

  “Yes, I got a call this morning, right before you called me over to the Centre about Paul. Once the police are ready to let me leave, I’m going to have to head back home to see about expediting the movement of some of the Smithsonian Folkways recordings through Customs in time for the Folk Festival sales tent. Apparently, I alone am qualified to handle the paperwork on that, which in other words means I must have lost a bet somewhere. If I can get all that done sooner rather than later, it’d be all to the good. I figure it will take me a week, not more than two. Sorting out the Folk Fest requirements will need to be handled from here closer to the time and Heritage Days sounds like a fun time.”

  “You bet! Eighty-three varieties of meat on a stick.” I grinned. “Actually, I like it a lot. It’s about the only festival here in town where you get a complete cross-section of the populace. Besides, Heritage Days is set in the park, and it’s so much nicer to walk around on grass than on tarmac or concrete.”

  “Well, if you don’t resent me deserting you as you deal with all this turmoil at work and the upcoming Folk Fest, I promise I’ll be back to escort you to Heritage Days.” He grinned at me and put out his hand. I shook it and we pronounced it a deal. I led us past the CBC windows and the Made in Canada store, which Woody insisted on popping in. He bought a birdhouse shaped like a grain elevator, and had it wrapped up as a gift. I looked at earrings, waiting. I wondered who the gift was for back in Washington, but didn’t really want to find out. I took us past the Telus Towers, across the patio, and along Macdonald Drive to see the river valley view. Then we crossed over to wait for a bus in front of the Edmonton Journal building on the corner of 101st Street. There are times when enough walking is enough walking.

  We got off the bus in front of the Garneau Cinema and Woody left me at the entrance to my apartment around the corner.

  “I’m flying out day after tomorrow, as soon as I’ve had it okayed with your Steve. I have a feeling he’ll be just fine with me leaving,” he smiled, and leaned over to kiss me on the cheek.

  I watched him lope down the avenue toward his hotel. I had a feeling he was right about Steve.

  17

  ~

  The day after Woody left, Denise called me to see about a day out. The police still had the Centre cordoned off, so there was very little I could do at work. Dr. Fuller called me the evening before and asked me to keep track of my hours working at home, but not to “push myself,” as she put it. I was taking that to mean that three or four hours of work on the laptop would see me square on the job for the next little while. Steve was keeping a pretty low profile, too, at least from me, which had me feeling troubled. I was all for taking my mind off things, and besides, aside from our one quick lunch, I’d been without Denise for two whole months.

  Denise picked me up outside my apartment. She was driving her baby, a Volkswagen Beetle convertible in a creamy off-white colour with black leather interior. With her shiny blond hair and penchant for basic black clothing, the car seemed like an extension of her ensemble. It
made me wonder what sort of car I could consider an appropriate accessory—perhaps a Pacer: out of date, almost transparent and dependable, with plenty of storage room. I was better off with a bus pass.

  I slipped into the passenger seat and buckled up. Edmontonians with convertibles are almost all optimists by nature. We have so little in the way of actual summer, even though the days are long, and it seems like more of those days are taken up with umbrellas these past few years than before. Denise had a hard shell for her Bug, but tended to park it in a heated garage for most of the winter and take the bus, thereby avoiding the cost of university parking, higher insurance rates and offensive drivers on wintry streets. She had bought the car a year and a half ago and it still looked showroom shiny.

  Denise had a plan for the morning, with several stops to make, but aside from an idea for a nice lunch spot to introduce me to, she had nothing much planned for the afternoon. My suggestion of hitting a Barbara Shoppe was met with incredulity.

  “Does Steve know you’re detecting, Randy?”

  “How do you know I’m not just interested in seeing how the other half lives?”

  “Half? More like other five percent. What the heck, I have nearly new underwear on, sure. We can go to the one in the west end. It’s near the lunch place I was thinking of.”