Hang Down Your Head

by Janice Macdonald

  “I’ve got to head back to Orlando. Things are really chugging along there. Nice to see you, Randy.”

  Was it my imagination, or had that been a stronger inflection on the word “there”? Was this a challenge? A threat? Or just another jolly holiday with Mary? I swallowed the last of my coffee, and wiped sugar and cinnamon from my lips, watching her stride off toward the Humanities Building and the office of the Orlando Project.

  21

  ~

  You have to understand, I am totally in awe of the work that has been achieved by the Orlando Project at the University of Alberta. The database created about female writers—paying close attention to their travels, politics, health concerns, placement in birth order, number of children they conceived, number of husbands they buried and contents of their libraries—made for some glorious inferences on influences in their writing.

  I had nothing against Mary Montgomery’s work. I was hoping she could say the same for me, though, because I truly didn’t want her for an enemy, especially while I seemed to have some pretty effective antagonists already setting me up as a suspect in one murder and one assault.

  Now there was something else I couldn’t fathom anyone believing: that I would want Paul Calihoo’s job so much that I was willing to bash him over the head to get it. From having covered his tasks for the last few days, I couldn’t see what was so fantastic about his position. Mostly it involved answering ­

  Dr. F’s e-mails, making sure that everything was catalogued properly, that everything was seen to on the paperwork front, and kept organized enough to tick over seamlessly. Dr. Fuller herself seemed to glide through her life and work, to some internally generated and no doubt indigenous drumbeat, but after working Paul’s gig for a couple of days, I could tell that she wouldn’t look half so effortlessly elegant without the back-up player.

  I went back to the music library carrels and spent almost two hours working on the introduction about Moses Asch’s vision for the company. I figured it would be worthwhile setting this out on the website close to the entrance to the database. If a music scholar wandered in but wasn’t quite sure what he or she was looking for, having an inkling of the scope Asch envisioned and the actual swath he managed to carve out would likely be of benefit. Just as I was calling it a day and packing up my laptop yet again, I heard the plastic/metal curtain being pulled back and saw Carmen opening the music library desk. I considered popping over to say hello and gossip a little bit about Paul’s injury and the police closure of the Centre, but decided against it. If I discovered one more person less out of the loop than I was, I figured I’d scream, and that was so not a done thing in libraries. I walked quietly to the big corner staircase, out of sight of the desk, and was soon on my way back to my apartment.

  Once I moved out of the shadow of the trees running the gauntlet between Rutherford Library and HUB, I could tell that the hottest part of the day was truly upon me. The diagonal bar of the strap across my chest felt sticky by the time I passed the Law Building, and by the time I’d made it down my back alley two blocks further, I was ready for another shower. It was as if the heat of two weeks ago had returned, ramped up past max to another higher setting, Hades, maybe.

  My apartment was shrouded in blind-drawn shadow. I opened the kitchen window a crack, noting that the north end of the building was still in shade. The temperature inside the apartment wasn’t quite as bad as out on the sun-pounded concrete, but I couldn’t find a draft anywhere to move the air past my skin. I peeled off my trousers and shirt and tossed them on the laundry pile. Then, in a fit of industry, I shrugged on my terry towel robe and hauled my laundry across the hall to the wash.

  I don’t do hot very well. It probably comes from not having much need to acclimatize, since we Edmontonians don’t get that many terribly hot days, but heat does seem to sap me of all energy. I was glad I’d headed off to the climate-controlled library early enough in the morning to get some work done, since I couldn’t imagine doing too much quality work after whatever late lunch I was going to manage.

  While the sandwich I slapped together was satisfying, the simple preparations for lunch had made me tired. I got up from the table with less energy than I’d brought to it. I calculated that, although I’d stopped for a tense cinnamon bun earlier in the morning, I hadn’t actually taken any other break, and a nap might be in order. I switched off the bell on the telephone as I passed by, and I turned the message machine to silent record.

  People in Latin countries who practise siestas have the right idea. There is absolutely nothing more civilized than an afternoon nap in a hazily lit room. The paper blind in my bedroom, which was always drawn, was once red. Though it was now faded to almost pink, it still offered a peaceful ambience in the small bedroom. I drifted off, trying to establish a list of reasons why I didn’t live in Spain. It was going to be hard to come up with anything past number one: I don’t speak Spanish.

  I woke up around five-thirty. I knew this instinctively, not because I was an ace Girl Guide, able to gauge the time from the angle of light, but because my upstairs neighbour was jumping around on her floor above me. She came home and did a half hour of Richard Simmons’ sweating aerobics without fail. Today, she probably got her first pint of sweat onto her headband just bending over to get the VCR going. I mentally applauded her dedication, and then cursed her disregard for her neighbours, as usual.

  My mother had always been so adamant about not wanting to live in an apartment, or condo, because she feared the possibility that a late-night bath might annoy people who had to listen to her water pipes clanging and gurgling. She, of course, had no idea of the basic indifference of man any more. She had been raised in an age of manners and etiquette, which is something we have somehow managed to lose along the way to the twenty-first century. I thought about what we’d gained in compensation, and couldn’t see how microwave ovens and cellphones held up their end of the bargain. The world was just more and more rude and irritable each day. There were reports of knifings, shootings and road rage happening in Edmonton, which had to be one of the more laid-back cities in North America. In fact, most people still ambled when walking along the sidewalk or window shopping in the malls. Cut someone off, or get in their way, though, and you risked your life.

  I thought about the gormless girl on the floor above me, hopping along to the oldies, totally heedless of other tenants and their needs or schedules. For all she knew, I could be a shift worker who needed my sleep. Of course, if she did consider me at all, she probably didn’t think I’d be at home napping at five-thirty. Normally I wasn’t. Most of the time lately, I was barely even home by now. I silently forgave her trespasses and took back my unkind wishes that she might sprain an ankle or retain water.

  I sat up on the side of my bed and took a couple of deep breaths. I had no real desire to wake up but I knew that if I didn’t, I’d be up at eleven with no ability to sleep through the night, and I’d ruin my chances at a productive day after that. So, it was up and at ’em time.

  I trudged into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. There were slight pillow marks on my right cheek, always an attractive look. I was about to scrub my face when I decided that the path of least resistance would be to step into the shower again and hose off. It was a relief to feel the initial spray of cold water, and I didn’t bother waiting at the foot end of the tub till the hot water kicked in. I was squeezing my hair and stepping out by the time it had barely reached tepid. I rolled my hair into a towel turban and patted myself off with a hand towel. I didn’t bother to rub myself dry. The cool sheen of water was a gift.

  I found an oversized white cotton shirt and pulled it on, flipping the cuffs up to my elbows. I pulled my damp hair up into a high ponytail, and dug out some pink capri pants I’d picked up at the Bissell Centre thrift store a few weeks back. I was going for a Gidget sort of look, on the grounds that Sandra Dee didn’t perspire and therefore I too would remain cool and collected.

  I wandered into the
kitchen, and spot-washed the few dishes with a Kurly Kate and some squirted dish soap. I had no desire to eat anything more, and no real alternative. After putting the kitchen to order, I drifted back into the living room and collapsed onto the couch. Maybe it was more than the heat. Maybe I was coming down with something. I hoped not; summer colds were the worst thing, especially in Edmonton. It feels as if you’re wasting the good weather if you take time off to lie in bed, sweating and coughing up a lung. February was a much better time to contract consumption.

  It probably was the heat. I wondered if this was anywhere near the sort of heat and oppressive weather that Raymond Chandler had meant when he wrote about the Santa Ana winds and the urge to kill people. Maybe whoever killed David Finster would use that as his alibi. I couldn’t recall anyone ever using our chinook winds, which, of course, came in the middle of winter and merely sucked away the snow, as a murder defence, but there was a first time for everything.

  Not that I wanted to kill, of course. I wasn’t even miffed at anyone, although I sort of resented whoever it was that clobbered Paul and loaded me up with the extra work. I guess I was a little bit ticked off at Woody for running off, as well. I had a feeling that a lot of his bright ideas about the folkwaysAlive! stage were going to just end up meaning a whole lot of more work for me at the last minute.

  Thinking about work reminded me to turn my phone ringer back on and check my answering machine. It was a good thing I did, since it told me that six people had been trying to reach me while I’d been sleeping.

  Three of them were hang-ups, then there was a brief message from Dr. Fuller reminding me to check my e-mail for a list of things to do for the Folkways folkwaysAlive! stage. What can I say? Sometimes I marvel at my psychic tendencies. The fourth call was also a hang-up, which I find irritating. If people would only hang up as soon as they hear the answering machine begin, the call wouldn’t even register. The fifth call was from Steve, wondering where I was. The sixth call was also from Steve. He sounded a bit more urgent and asked me to call his pager immediately.

  I dialled his pager, hung up and took the phone with me into the kitchen while I made a pot of tea. I needed the caffeine of a high-test cup of coffee if I really wanted to wake up, but I wasn’t all that committed to the idea. Tea would be fine.

  The kettle clicked at the same time as the phone rang. I answered, and stuck it between my ear and my shoulder, hoping my cheek didn’t press some awkward button by mistake. Multi-tasking was so much easier in the days of rotary dial telephones.

  “Randy? Where have you been?”

  “Hi, yourself. I was sleeping. I turned off the ringer so I could get some rest. How are you? Are you still at work?”

  He sounded grim. “Yeah, I’m still at work. Listen, stay there, and I’ll come by as soon as I can, okay? I think we need to talk.”

  I agreed, and he broke the connection, leaving me to wonder what the heck was troubling him. It was pretty obvious something was, and I was afraid it had something to do with me. For the life of me, though, I couldn’t figure out what I could possibly have done to make Steve tense at work. Something to do with Paul’s attack? Something more to do with David Finster’s death? As much as I liked my Folkways job, I was beginning to wish I’d never heard of the bloody Finsters.

  I turned on the computer to access my e-mail. There was the promised list of chores from Dr. F, twenty-five pieces of spam offering to increase my “package,” decrease my weight, grant me an easy PhD, and pay off my mortgage, and an e-mail from Woody. I deleted the spam and clicked on the Smithsonian header.

  He started off with a description of his flight home, making it sound like something out of an Adam Sandler film. The third paragraph, though, had the gist of the message in it.

  “The word here is that we can consider a recording session for everyone signed to the folkwaysAlive! stage, as long as they all sign off on the deal. There’ll have to be the standard anthology contract, and we can’t pay big bucks, but the main hurdle is contacting everyone prior to the event so we can determine timetabling and recording potential. I think recording live through the sound feed would be feasible and in keeping with the concept of the project but I’m willing to be persuaded of other ways. I’m going to be arriving back there in a couple of days with boilerplate contracts and a list of needs for a capable sound engineer.

  “Can you find it in your heart and schedule to get me a list of at least three recording engineers to speak with on Friday? I need someone with portable equipment, a sense of adventure, a track record in outdoor recording if possible, and an abiding love of folk and world music.

  “Aside from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how has your week been? I miss you.

  “Love, Woody.”

  The “Love, Woody” bit didn’t startle me all that much. I had a feeling Woody was the sort of fellow who would sign letters to his bank manager “Love, Woody.” What floored me was his assumption that I would be able to round up even one sound engineer, let alone three, within the time frame he was ­proposing. There was more to this whole music-ethnography thing than just listening to recordings and thinking up opening essays for database sections.

  Seeing as Paul was out of commission and Dr. F likely had a list of chores twice as long as the one she had sent me, I guess it really would be up to me to flush out some recording engineers. I grabbed a pad of foolscap and the Yellow Pages, then plonked myself down on the floor in front of the coffee table. I felt as if I was back in Grade 11, doing a social studies ­project on “understanding your community” or such like. I’d never even considered the possibility that there were recording engineers in Edmonton, although on reflection I suppose there had to be, given the number of local singers. I couldn’t find a listing for Engineers, but there were twenty-four Recording Studios in the area. One had to have some form or other of portable studio. I wasn’t banking on three, but I pegged Woody for an optimist the minute I met him. I decided to write down the names and numbers of the ones with the most professional-looking advertisements.

  I was just jotting down Woodbend Music’s number on my list when Steve appeared. I looked up at his figure framed in the doorway and my heart fluttered, just like one reads about in cheap romance novels. Now there was a question for the phenomenologists: Did we have romantic physical manifestations before they were spoken about in books and pop lyrics, or did the culture reflect the already established reality? All I knew was that whenever I caught sight of Steve in a crowd after not seening him for a while, my heart literally banged on the inside of my ribcage. Would that happen if I hadn’t done a class in the Romantics? I wasn’t sure.

  I smiled at Steve, who was still in the doorway, looking at me as if I’d somehow wrecked his appetite. I felt my smile fade, and suddenly it seemed stupid to be sitting on the floor. I scrambled to my feet, banging my knee on the side of the coffee table in the process. I stood half bent over, rubbing my knee and looking at Steve. “What is it? Is there something wrong?”

  “I’ve been trying to get hold of you all afternoon, Randy. Where have you been?”

  “Here.”

  “I called you and you didn’t answer.”

  “I was having a nap; I turned the sound off so I could sleep.”

  “Were you here all day?”

  “No, I got up early and went to the music library to work.”

  “Oh good. And there were people there who could confirm this?”

  “Well, no, it turned out the music desk wasn’t open till one, so I just worked at my laptop in one of the carrels in the stacks.” This comment seemed to sadden Steve. I wasn’t sure how to cheer him up because I wasn’t clear why he seemed so fraught with the ins and outs of my schedule for the day. All I knew was that somehow I was responsible for this mood and I had to think of a way to lighten it.

  “I worked through till, I don’t know, around nine-thirty or ten, and then I went out into the mall and had a coffee break run-in with Mary Montgomery,” I recalled. “After that, I went bac
k into the library to work for a couple or three hours and then I came back here, made myself some lunch, and had a nap. I’ve been working on Folkways stuff since I got up.” Steve, by this time, had come into the living room and sat himself down on the sofa. I shuffled together the papers, phone book and pens and took them to my desk, and then came back and sat at the other end of the couch.

  “So why is it so important where I was today? Was there something I was supposed to do? We weren’t supposed to have lunch today, were we?”

  “The reason I was hoping you would be taking part in a large, coordinated group activity is that at some time in the early part of the morning, someone set fire to the Barbara Shoppe on the south side, and we have tentatively identified the body discovered in the back area as Ms. Barbara Finster. Given your connection to her brother’s death, I was hoping there wouldn’t be anything to question you about in this situation.”

  “Do you mean to say that you think I killed a woman and torched her store?”

  “No, I am not saying I believe that. I am not saying any of the detectives I work with would believe that, either. I’m sure that even Superintendent Keller doesn’t believe it. What I am saying is, if you don’t have an alibi for the time when Barbara Finster was killed, then it makes us look lax if we don’t at least question you.”

  “I don’t believe this! I’d never even heard of the Finsters till I got this job. I hadn’t even been in a Barbara Shoppe before yesterday.”