Steve groaned.
“Oh God, Randy, tell me you weren’t in the Petrolia Mall Barbara Shoppe yesterday.”
I felt like a teenager caught with cigarette smoke on her breath. The only defence seemed to be silence. Yes, I had been in that Barbara Shoppe. I had likely left fingerprints all over the changing room area. I could recall touching the Henry Moore, and I wondered if I’d rung the bell for the attendant at that store or just the one on the west end.
“Well, what if I was? I have people who could vouch for me. Denise was with me, and the serving woman who looked like Audrey Hepburn—Holly. They saw me there, so they could confirm that I touched things yesterday.”
“Or they could help make the point that you were casing the joint in order to return early this morning and kill Barbara Finster.”
“Why would I want to kill Barbara Finster? Why on earth would anyone believe that?”
“Randy, you would be amazed at what people will believe if you spin it correctly. You could be trying to save your job from the woman who’s trying to pull the money away from the university. You could be somehow exacting vengeance against whomever you perceive to have attacked your colleague, Paul. You could be striking a blow against the fall line, for all I know. If someone wants you to be the fall guy for this, then you’ve done your level best to help him out.”
“Well, if I am avenging Paul then I can’t be suspected of braining him; I suppose that’s some consolation.”
“Don’t be so sure. You could be covering up the first crime with the second. But the fact that you had coffee with someone on campus is probably enough. What was her name again?” He pulled out his notebook and pen.
“Mary Montgomery. But you can’t be serious, Steve. Have you really come here to question me about murdering a woman?”
“I shouldn’t even be here, truth to tell. I have a feeling the dots haven’t been joined yet in the Finster thing. Just hearing that name set off alarm bells for me. So far, there are two different crowds working three different crime scenes—David Finster’s murder, Paul Calihoo’s attack, and the fire at the Barbara Shoppe. You’re the only link between all three that I know of, so I came to see if we could effectively eliminate you before any shit got stirred up in the first place.”
“I can just imagine what Keller is going to say the minute he sees the pattern,” I moaned.
“Not to worry. We just get this Montgomery woman to swear she saw you, verify when she saw you, and describe what you were wearing. You don’t smell of smoke, so case closed.”
I must have signalled dismay somehow because Steve stiffened. “What?”
“I came home and threw my clothes into the wash since I’d sweated through them. They’re still in the washer across the hall. So, no matter what Mary says I was wearing, if she even remembers, you can’t say that they did or didn’t smell of smoke. Or me either, since I had a shower after my nap.”
“Damn it, Randy. It’s like you want to be framed for this.”
“Well, pardon me. I didn’t wake up this morning thinking, ‘Oh boy, better make sure I have an alibi just in case some old battle-axe gets herself burned up today.’” It was partly the anger, and partly the heat, but mostly the image I conjured just then of Barbara Finster, so towering and domineering, being a charred corpse—that made my stomach lurch and churn. No question of perception and language there. I rose and stumbled to the bathroom just in time to lose what was left of my lunch.
22
~
Steve was technically off duty, so he made hot, sweet tea while I cleaned myself up and then held me while I settled. Apparently, iced tea doesn’t cut it as an antidote to shock, even on sultry summer days. Good thing we don’t get too many of them—hot days or shocks. I don’t throw up easily. I think I’ve done it a total of about twelve times in my entire life and it always leaves me shaking and crying, even when it’s connected to flu rather than horrors. Come to think of it, Steve’s been with me two or three of those times, too. And yet he still sticks around. It must be love.
Eventually I was calm enough to consider more sustenance than tea. Steve and I decided to walk over to the local sushi restaurant, as the thought of raw fish sounded more tempting than anything hot. Steve ordered a big bowl of chirashi and I settled for a California roll and some miso soup, which calmed me even more, and I was finally able to think and talk about something other than arson and murder.
“Woody e-mailed me and asked me to find him a recording engineer for the Folkways stage at the Folk Fest. I have a list of people to call, but I have to phone the Festival bunch and see what the procedures are and what equipment is already at hand. There might be a way to take a pretty decent recording off the mike feed, for all I know. Anyhow, that’s on top of coming up with a playlist and a compilation of music to organize for the PA between sets. Dr. F wants Folkways recordings emanating from the speakers at all times when live music isn’t being played on the stage. The feeling is that we need to sort out music that would complement the acts that have already been and those upcoming on the stage. She hasn’t got the complete lineup yet, although the Festival has already apparently gone to print with their program book, meaning there should be a list available. It’s up to me to get that list and start choosing what to put on our master mix tape.”
Steve smiled. “Sounds like fun.”
“It is fun, you know. The hassle is working from home, and working without Paul. If he were around, he’d be doing the mix tape and I could concentrate on the recording of the new stuff and the coordination with Festival staff. As it is, I have to do it all from my phone line and laptop.”
“Well, if anyone can do it all, it’s you,” Steve said and gallantly toasted me with a piece of raw tuna.
“Just don’t go arresting me or none of it is going to get done,” I growled.
“I’ll see what I can do to give you an alibi for the next twelve hours or so,” Steve smiled. I blushed, I’m sure, and looked around to see if anyone had heard him. He laughed, and reached over to cover my hand on the table. “No one could ever accuse you of hiding your thoughts, girl.”
It was still inordinately hot when we got out of the restaurant, so we decided to take a walk. On the premise that water cools people down, we wandered out on to the High Level Bridge footpath. Others seemed to have the same idea, and we nodded to people passing by as we strolled out to the middle of the bridge. There was no breeze, no relief. The black metal of the bridge was hot to the touch. The riverbanks looked sandy and wide. We stood leaning on the handrail, watching some birds that were immobile on a sand bar. The cars behind us on the bridge seemed slower, more subdued than usual. All around us, the whole city was being pushed into the pavement by the heat. We all stood there sweating, praying for rain.
23
~
The next morning was still stiflingly hot. Steve and I both woke up grumpy, either because of his probable distrust of me and my wounded honest pride, or more likely, from the assumption that we’d have been cooler had we been in a larger apartment. We wouldn’t be any cooler in the middle of the cavernous Agricom Building in this weather, but we were still snippy until both of us showered and managed to down one cup of coffee. Then things looked a bit brighter. As if we needed bright in a heat wave.
“Have you ever noticed how difficult it is to remember being really frostbitten cold in the middle of the summertime?” I had been trying to think cool thoughts, but it wasn’t working.
“Yeah, I think there is some sort of psychological amnesia that occurs so the seasons offer a miraculous renewal, or so we can bear the thought of yet another winter. It’s probably the same amnesia that makes women forget the pain of childbirth until they have the next baby. As a species, we need to put certain things out of mind.”
“So you think it would be harmful to me psychologically if I could recall the feelings of a minus forty degree day with a wind chill factor of minus sixty? I was just thinking it would make me thankful for this
scorcher of a day if I could think of the alternative. Instead, all I can think of is pleasant times when it doesn’t drag you down just to stroll around the block.”
Steve shrugged. “Maybe we’re not supposed to be comparing. A Zen master would tell us just to live in the sweat of the moment.”
“Wow, that is so beautiful—I should embroider that onto a cushion.”
“Smart ass.” Steve poured himself another cup of coffee and topped up my mug. “So, what’s up with you today? Where are you going to be?”
I sighed.
“I’m just asking, Randy. You aren’t under suspicion from me.” I was mollified until I thought about the qualifier. I could just imagine Keller sticking my photo on a squad room bulletin board. However, it was too hot to pick a fight, so I decided to just answer my man.
“Well, I have to find Woody a recording engineer who is willing to work outdoors for three days at the Folk Festival. I then have to sort through a playlist for the interregna, and then head over to the music library this afternoon with the list. I am not sure if they have the capacity right there to burn things to CD, or whether that’s going to be a last-minute chore once you let us back into the Centre. I know the set-up there, at least.”
“You might get back into the Centre sometime tomorrow, for all I know. I don’t think the crime scene people have any more need of it. Want me to check?”
“Sure, although I will have to call Dr. Fuller before heading over in any case. There’s no way I’m going in there all by myself with no one knowing where I am.”
“Good plan. In fact, the more people who know where you are these days, the better. I’ll keep my ear open about the Barbara Shoppe fire, but don’t be surprised if I can’t keep you out of things. There are bound to be connections made, especially since they’ll be focusing on who’d been to the store recently.”
“Okay, I am duly warned. I admit I was curious about the woman, naturally enough, seeing how she and her brother were tampering with my livelihood. Denise and I just decided to go check the places out. Oh! Did I show you what I bought?”
“You bought something at the Barbara Shoppe that was later torched? Oh this just gets better and better.”
I decided to ignore that and went to get my middy blouse. I pulled it out of the closet and smiled all over again at how glorious a piece of clothing it was. Steve wasn’t as impressed.
“You’ll look like a CGIT girl.”
“A what?”
“Canadian Girls in Training; my sister was one. We used to call them Canadian Girls in Training Bras. They were sort of like the Girl Guides, only connected to the United Church of Canada. My sister wore a middy and a navy skirt, and made stuffed animals for kids in hospitals during her spare time, and went camping every summer. She played guitar and made macramé plant hangers for our mom, and organized bottle drives to help the food bank.”
“Are you talking about Gloria, the stock analyst?”
“Yeah, well, she was a CGIT once upon a time, what can I say?”
“So, my lovely new top looks like a girls’ club uniform?”
“It could be worse. You could look like a Boy Scout.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, you’re right. Things could be worse. What the heck. I love it.”
“Well, then I’m glad you found it. If you hear Gloria whistling ‘Taps’ when you wear it around her, you’ll just have to understand.”
I tossed a cushion at him, which he fielded masterfully. As I was hanging my sailor middy back into the closet, Steve tidied up the kitchen and met me back in the centre of the living room. He pulled me into an enveloping hug, and kissed the side of my neck, which he knew would make me squirm.
“Be good, get lots done, stay in touch, and try not to get framed for any murders today, okay? I have to head out now; I’ll see you soon.”
“Right. Be careful out there.” Somehow, I never get that authentic Hill Street Blues tone, but Steve always obligingly laughs.
“I swear, this weekend, we are going to get you a cellphone. My treat.”
“Oh lord, so I’m to be dragged into the twenty-first century, am I?”
“Kicking and screaming, girl, kicking and screaming.”
“You wish.”
“Hoo-wee, is it getting hot again in here, or what?”
“Hit the mean streets, Detective. I have work to get to.”
“You bet, sweetheart.” Steve headed off down the hall, doing his best Adam-12 impression. You’d think Steve Browning spent his entire childhood glued to the screen of a television from the pop culture references he was able to toss out at any given moment.
Speaking of pop culture, I was wishing for a bit of cartoon overdrive to speed me into a bustle of activity. I didn’t think it was going to happen though, at least not in this heat.
I spent the rest of the business hours leaving messages for or talking to recording engineers all over the city, along the way learning enough from each conversation to ask more pertinent questions. Woody may have been overly optimistic in his desires, but I managed to sort out four people he’d likely want to talk with for the folkwayAlive! stage recording project.
I stayed home, folded laundry, made a point of saying hello to Mr. McGregor in the hallway while going to get my mail—because you just never knew who might be getting murdered at three that afternoon—and called it a day around five o’clock.
Steve called, sounding fond but distracted, so I let him get on with things. I settled down to a bowl of popcorn, a pitcher of iced tea and Labyrinth on DVD. There’s just no mood that David Bowie and some Muppets cannot improve.
Maybe it was the film’s Escher-like staircases, the oppressive heat or just my jumbled state of mind, but my dreams were twisty and tense. I woke enervated, with no recollection of any storyline but with a heaviness that was hard to shake, even with a shower and coffee. I took it easy, sorted through more websites and made sure my levels of vitamin C were topped up. I made it to bed early again, and a second full night of sleep seemed to do the trick.
I was up with the birds and ready to head back to work. However, the last thing I wanted to do was head to the Centre unheralded. I called Dr. Fuller’s home number. We spoke briefly about my recent efforts, and the possibility that the Centre would be open later that day. She agreed that pulling a bunch of songs appropriate to the music that would be next up live on the stage was the best format. I had a working list of performers from the Folk Fest website, and a good idea of what about half of them were about. I figured I’d research the other half online before heading over to the music library after lunch.
I packed up my backpack, including my laptop—I figured I could drop it at the Centre on my way to the library—and headed out. It was warm, but either a breeze had come up or I was acclimatizing, because it didn’t feel quite as evil as the day before. Still, I dodged into the first air-conditioned building I came to.
I hummed my way through the Law hallway that led to the pedway through to the Fine Arts Building, just because with all that brick and glass, the acoustics make anyone sound great. One of the great perks of working on campus in the summer months is that there is all this wonderful echoey space and no one around to hear you make a fool of yourself.
I used to sing show tunes almost exclusively when walking, but since working at the Centre I’d taken to mournful folk music in a big way. “Poor Wayfarin’ Stranger” was my latest favourite for walking-along music. I hit the double doors around the start of the chorus: “I’m goin’ there, to meet my mother, I’m goin’ there, no more to roammmmmm …”
The door to the Centre was wedged open, and from inside I heard an answering baritone voice singing: “I am just going over Jordan, I am just goin’ over home.” I stood in the doorway and saw Woody sitting at the central table, smiling at me.
“Hi, Randy! Surprised to see me?”
That would be putting it mildly.
24
~
Woody wasn’t supposed to be in Edmon
ton; I mentally had him safely ensconced in the Smithsonian Institute, far, far away. I expected him to be calling me this evening to arrange a pickup from the airport in the next couple of days. What was he doing here, and if he was already here, why did he e-mail me, asking me to do local chores for him? How long had he been back, anyhow?
His guileless smile didn’t get me far. The man was born to play poker. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to learn anything about Woody’s schedule that Woody didn’t want me to learn. I walked over to my desk and opened my backpack to pull out my laptop in a bit of a daze. He watched my every move by swivelling slightly on the table and sitting cross-legged like some medieval tailor.
“Cheryl Fuller tells me you have the inter-act music well in hand. Have you found me a recording engineer yet?”
I told him what little I’d uncovered. The best recording engineer in the region was a rather famous musician and composer himself, but he didn’t operate outside his specially designed and hand-built studio on an acreage west of town. Of the good engineers who were willing to be portable, three had previous engagements that weekend, leaving Woody with a choice of two names. I plugged in my laptop and opened the file I’d made. I had to head behind the counter to access the printer that was spitting out the addresses and phone numbers, bringing me close enough for him to reach out and touch my arm in passing. I felt a jolt, almost like an electric shock, pass through my arm from his hand. I stopped.
“Randy, you’re upset with me. How come?” Woody sounded like the same happy-go-lucky fellow I enjoyed spending time with just a week and a half ago. Now, he felt dangerous, and I wasn’t totally clear why. I had no reason to suspect him of doing anything wrong, but I’d been through too many bad situations, both recently and in the past, not to listen to my instincts. Whatever his explanation for being here where I didn’t expect him to be, I was intending to be a little wary of Mr. Dowling.
Hang Down Your Head Page 17
