By the time I got into the kitchen, Steve had rustled up pancakes and was squeezing oranges into juice. I must have looked as shocked as I felt, because he asked what was the matter.
“I just keep wondering when I’m going to wake up and find out you're just a product of too many bananas before bed.”
“Do you want me to pinch you?”
“Nah, why the heck would I want to wake up?”
After breakfast, Steve got ready to leave and I then busied myself about, trying to shake the buzz of unreality his presence in the morning always seemed to instill. I had promised to call Grace later to see about helping with the HYSTERICAL mailout, and I had to check my list for last-minute things to get done before the onslaught of exams and marking.
Marks have to be posted five business days after the final exam has been written. Every student takes this as gospel, but tends to demand the same results of mid-term and mid-session exams. It was always better to have an exam slated for mid-week, because then you had the weekend to add to marking time. My exams were both on Monday, the first day of exam week. If I wanted any peace at all, I’d have to have the marks posted on the door of the House by Friday.
I wondered if there was someone in my class presuming they had the questions in their possession. I wasn’t really sure what a preview of the questions would do to benefit some of them. Sure, they could decide what essay question to tackle, and reread the text in question, but they’d still have to sit down and write the essay during the time frame of the exam.
I tended to mark exams on a different scale than in-term essays. I gave marks for an original approach and some form of consistent argument, and excused spelling and grammar a little more than usual. That’s where writing in a journal every class came in handy; by the Christmas mid-term, my students were usually getting pretty adept at thinking on their feet.
Thinking of journals made me wonder once again just what had been the quest in the ransacking of my office. Scenes of the wreckage came back like snapshots in my mind. Funny how I’d managed to block it in the last couple of weeks. Maybe Steve was right, I should talk it through with someone. Before I backed off, I picked up the phone and dialed Student Help.
Another perky voice, this time female, answered on the second ring. I made an appointment to see Jane on Tuesday morning. I felt lucky, since I was pretty sure this would be an active week for the counselors. I hoped Jane wouldn’t mind seeing me, after Steve and my visit to her last week. Oh well, if she did, she’d probably tell me and I could find someone else.
I checked the rest of my list. I’d done the majority of my shopping, but still needed to wrap my parents’ presents and mail them off. I had to call Denise, since I hadn’t had a chance to talk to her privately at the party last night. I had to update some notes on Love Medicine, and think up a couple of new essay topics for the February essay. Students complained if they didn’t get topics a month ahead of the due date, yet it occurred to me that precious few of them did a thing before the last minute.
I wrapped my folks’ present, after scrambling to find a brown paper bag to cut and turn inside out. I’d decided to walk up to the Shoppers Drug Mart postal outlet, then head down to Orlando Books for one of Loretta Monterey’s books of poetry. On the way back, I could perhaps find a small tree for the apartment. I shoved the parcel into my knapsack and headed out into one of those brilliantly cold Alberta winter days.
My eyes stung a bit in the cold, and I was thankful for the scarf over the lower half of my face. Everyone was bundled today. Car tires squeaked on the snow, and huge plumes of puffy white exhaust trailed each one for two car lengths. I was glad of my knapsack, which allowed me to shove my mittened hands deep in my pockets. I passed two balaclavaed men and one bare-headed teen, hunched into his jean jacket. A tall woman replete in Linda Lundstrom pink stepped out of a white Sable and headed for the Turtle Creek Café. I felt a wild jab of envy for the pink coat with its matching pink fur rimming the parka hood. One part of my brain argued that investment in a coat like that would be appropriate given the extreme temperatures in Edmonton. The more levelheaded part of my brain argued for saving my budget for frivolities like food and shelter. I thought mean thoughts of how impractical pink boots would be in March slush, and then, feeling highly virtuous and self-righteous, I trudged on.
As I stood in the lineup for the post office, I happened to glance out the window and saw a familiar shape walk past. Head down, toque and scarf obscuring his face, hands burrowed deep into jacket pockets, high black skidoo boots on. I couldn’t be sure of recognizing my own mother bundled on a day like today, but I was almost certain it was Rod Devlin walking down 109th Street. I looked around. I was still four people from the front of the line and several more folks stood behind me. I couldn’t leave. And just what would it prove if I did follow him?
Steve and his boss had warned me off doing anything rash, so I fumed in the line, wanting to act in some way that might resolve the unsettledness of the whole situation. We’d had a murder, vicious graffiti, vandalism and personal attack (I was starting to embroider my sojourn in the basement washroom) and the ruin of the vigil, and nothing had been done about any of it.
I wasn’t blaming Steve or the police; I couldn’t see any solution either, but surely a murder as gruesome as Gwen’s should have been solved by now. It seemed to hang over my head and possibly the whole university like that cloud that used to crown Li’l Abner’s neighbor.
When I finally paid an exorbitant amount for postage that would guarantee an arrival prior to the twenty-fifth, I raced out of Shoppers and around the corner to see if I could still see the bundled potential Rod Devlin. There were plenty of people on Whyte Avenue, but I couldn’t spot him, so I shrugged my knapsack into place and decided to stick to my original game plan.
The wind was crisper walking east, and I kept my head tucked down, glancing through my eyebrows to see where I was going. This did not qualify as a Lauren Bacall impression; I probably looked more like a cartoon bear walking against the wind. I barely avoided bumping into a woman with a stroller trying to keep her snowsuited child from pulling down his scarf.
One of the things that most impresses me about living in Edmonton is how the weather never seems to stop anyone. It can be forty below, and there will still be people lined up outside to get into the Paramount cinema downtown. Blizzards slow people down, but there will be a line of cars behind every snow plow. Today might be considered balmy by January standards, but it was still pretty damn cold out, and Whyte Avenue looked just as crowded as it did during the Fringe Festival in August.
Nine long blocks later, I was peeling my scarf off in Orlando Books. Jackie Dumas, the owner, a feisty activist for local culture and a gifted novelist herself, smiled at me and pointed toward the coffee machine against the wall. It was the best idea I’d come across all day. I poured a cup and silently toasted her.
Perversely, I avoided the poetry section until it was the only aisle I hadn’t scoured. By the time I found a copy of Loretta’s Pebbles, I had to pile it on top of the new Alice Munro, a Dana Stabenow mystery I hadn’t read, a Haruki Murakami I’d never gotten around to buying, and some new calendar pages for my DayRunner. As I waited, patiently this time, in the cash line, I browsed through the selection of tiny books judiciously placed on the counter for impulse buying, and impulsively added a gorgeous little copy of Omar Kayyam’s Rubaiyat to my purchases.
Leo be damned, I could come up with good ideas too. This, with a nice bottle of wine and loaf of bread all wrapped up in red gingham would be a wonderful present for Steve. I could picture it now, the lights twinkling on the tree, and a midnight picnic spread out on the floor.
Tree. Jeez, it was a good thing I’d brought the knapsack. I bundled the books into its depths as Jackie’s cashier rang them up, foregoing a bag. It took two tries for my Interac card to get through, but the woman told me the connections had been like that all day.
“Christmas shopping tying up the phone l
ines, I guess. At least this way, there won’t be any credit card bills to deal with in the New Year!”
Yeah, and no messy money cluttering up my account either, I thought, Grinchlike. I smiled back at her, though, and let the thought pass quickly. Thinking about money made me think about my job, which in turn made me think of McNeely. Or maybe it was the blast of cold air hitting me as I left Orlando’s that made me think of the chairman. Whatever, he in turn made me think of Denise, whom I hadn’t yet called. And that made me think of Grace, whom I’d forgotten to call as well. It was as if I’d left a bundle of worries at the door of the bookstore, only to have to shoulder them again the minute I hit the sidewalk.
To add to everything, who should walk right past as I stood there, but the same collection of winter clothing I’d thought was Rod Devlin. Close up, I was sure, but judging by his non-reaction to me I figured he couldn’t pick me out from any other polar explorer. He was heading west, briskly.
What the heck, I thought, and followed after him. Well, technically followed after him. I’d have been going that way, anyway. I could almost hear the excuses I was piling up for Steve’s boss, Staff Sergeant Keller, in case I got caught. There were enough people on the street to make my following him unobtrusive, but he headed for the lobby of the Varscona Hotel, where not quite as many folks were congregating. I popped in after him, ostensibly to find a pay phone, but really just because I didn’t know what else to do. My experience of tailing suspects comes directly from mystery novels, where the detective usually is quickly spotted and immediately beaten up. This wasn’t the outcome I was hoping for.
I spotted a bank of phones, deposited a quarter in one, and dialed Denise’s number while watching the elevator door close on Devlin, who had by now shown his face by removing his scarf. The elevator number stopped at four, which I noted as Denise came on the line.
“Randy! I was hoping you’d call. Where are you?”
“I’m at a pay phone on Whyte Avenue as a matter of fact, but …”
“Great, why don’t I meet you down there in about”—she paused, probably to check her clock—“half an hour? The Mexican place across from the Army & Navy?”
“Well, I still have to get a tree, but …”
“You’re not thinking of bringing a tree into a restaurant, are you?”
“No, I’ll leave it to last, but I don’t want to be down here all day.”
“Half an hour to get there, and an hour tops, that’s all. I promise. I’ll buy. Go in and order a big plate of nachos and two Dos Equis. I really have to talk to you.”
“Yeah, okay. I’d like to talk to you, too.”
“See you there. Bye.”
Eating nachos is not a bad way of combating cold weather. Eating them in Puerto Vallarta would be better, but Julio’s Barrio was a good second. I looked over to the bank of elevators, thought about calling Steve or the other detectives, but figured they would just say Devlin was allowed to be in his hotel room, so I left and headed a couple of blocks back up Whyte.
I stopped into When Pigs Fly to see if they had something small in brass for Grace. Seeing her living room had given me the idea. The place was mobbed, and I beat a quick retreat so that I wouldn’t be pushed into a stand of something valuable and fragile. I wonder if all Tauruses suffer from this phobia?
Julio’s was just down the block, and mariachi music came floating out the door as I opened it, mingled with the smell of refritos and chilis. The waitress ushered me to a table of barrel chairs near the back of the restaurant. It was warm, being closer to the kitchen and farther from the street door. The place was active without being completely full, and a smiling waitress who thankfully didn’t introduce herself hustled over to me with menus.
I gave her Denise’s order, explaining I had a friend coming so that she wouldn’t think me a lonely Christmas toper. It’s so important what complete strangers think of you, after all. Speaking of, I took a moment to look around the darkened restaurant, checking to see if I actually did know anyone. I get accused of ignoring people out in public. I think I just make the assumption that I don’t know that many people and never really look at folks. After teaching for a few years, though, the more faces were getting familiar the more places I went. Anywhere you look, you're bound to spot a university face. For instance, over in the front of Julio’s sat Arno with several young men, very probably students. Thinking about what Denise had said about his campaigning for tenure votes, I wondered if he mightn’t be getting some of his students to nominate him for a Rutherford Fellowship in Teaching Excellence. That wouldn’t look half-bad when the tenure decisions were being made. I wondered what sort of teacher Arno was; he must be pretty swell to have students wanting to hang with him during study week.
I didn’t think he had seen me, so I didn’t bother trying to catch his eye. Instead, I reached into my backpack for one of the un-gifts I’d managed to snare in the day’s foraging. The beer came before the nachos, but both had arrived before Denise breezed in and caught me on chapter three of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.
“Isn’t it wonderful to be able to read what you want?” She nodded to my book, as she divested herself of parka, scarf, mitts and hat, and plunked herself down in the chair opposite. “I used to go into a bookstore the day after exams every year, pick up every single bestseller, and glut for a week or two.”
“It’s the calm-before-the-storm syndrome with me. Just knowing I have to mark seventy-five exams next week has me grasping at anyone who can complete a sentence. Literary merit is a bonus.”
Denise took a long swig of Mexican beer and sighed. ” This tastes so good. I think I may just run away and become a drunk. This marks two days in a row with alcohol. Do you think I’m on my way?”
We talked about the party. She mentioned speaking to Steve and probed a bit until I admitted that he’d been taken off the case. This interested her.
“That’s it. I didn’t think I was being interviewed, but just put it down to social graces.”
“He wouldn’t have interviewed you at a party, anyhow,” I found myself defending him.
“No? Well, he and Leo seemed to be having a pretty intense discussion at one point, but I guess I was mistaken.”
“Leo and Steve? He didn’t mention it? They were fighting?”
“Not fighting. They just looked very serious. If it had been anyone but Leo, I’d have thought they were discussing hockey.”
I tried to get off the topic of Steve. I somehow felt as if I was revealing secrets rather than comparing boyfriend notes with a friend. Mind you, this girlfriend was dating a reporter.
“Has McNeely been on to you yet?” I asked.
“I’ve managed to avoid him, although apparently there was a message in my mailbox to see him. Julian told me. I told him to leave it there, then I spent the evening ducking our chairman at Grace’s. Thank goodness she has a big house. It’s a nice house, isn’t it? I’m not sure why they call it Pleasantview, though. The only real vista is of the cemetery.”
Denise was sounding forced, which was unusual since she was normally the most direct person I know. Leo had once said of Denise that she wouldn’t use a door if there was a wall handy, and he wasn’t far wrong. Something was bugging her, and I had a feeling I knew what, or rather who, it was.
“How are things with you and your intrepid journalist?”
“Mark? He didn’t take kindly to being left off the party list last night, but can you imagine what McNeely would have done if he’d seen him there? We could have just left him in the cemetery and saved trouble.”
“Does Mark know the trouble he’s put you in?”
“Intellectually I think he understands, but emotionally ‘the truth’ is in big neon letters and he can’t get beyond that.”
“Even if it means your job?”
“Randy, this is all going to get dealt with long before the review for next year’s sessionals comes up. It will be history, and that, as they say, is another department.”
> “Are you sure? I was just thinking about how it’s hanging over us all. I can’t figure out how to make the cloud lift.”
“Simple. They find the murderer. Then they find the graffiti artist. They punish the idiots in the Nixon masks who wrecked the vigil.”
“So you think they’re all disparate events? Unconnected?” I still wasn’t sure what to think, and of course Denise didn’t know about my threatening phone call. I felt sort of miffed that she was forgetting my office ransacking. Then again she hadn’t been the one locked in the basement bathroom.
“Of course, in a way they are connected. I think the letters catalyzed the murder. I am not sure it would have happened without the letters, but I doubt any of the letter-writers was the murderer. I think the graffiti came as a result of the murder, and the vigil was ruined as a result of the graffiti. There is a sense of things being out of control.”
“ ‘The center cannot hold …’ ” I quoted softly.
“Exactly. We have to come to some form of closure. If they find the culprits, we can punish them appropriately, and then we can all go back to normal. You remember normal? Where we pretend that we’re all colleagues in pursuit of higher knowledge and wisdom?”
I grimaced. Maybe Denise should be going to see Jane instead of me. She sounded ready to snap. She probably heard the manic edge to her own voice, because she immediately apologized.
“I’m sorry, Randy. You’re right. There is a cloud over us. I’m trying to think of Mark as the silver lining, but keeping things to myself at the same time as I’m exploring intimacy has got me rattled.”
“He’s worth the trouble?” I asked, more to keep her talking than for prurient reasons.
“He’s terrific. He’s funny, he’s bright, and he’s interested in my world. He’s neither defensive nor egotistical about his own. And one of the best things, which in this case is also one of the worst things, he is taking all these events seriously.”
Sticks and Stones Page 16
