I looked around the sleek man-cave room he had created for himself, but my last waking thoughts were lost as sleep claimed me.
30
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Steve had an early call, so I woke to an empty place once more. I showered and raided his kitchen for coffee and cereal. He had left me a note on the counter, saying he would call my cell later, but that he figured he would pick me up from my place on the way to the Park, since I’d told him the night before I’d be there, cleaning and putting together a costume.
I read the newspaper while eating breakfast, which didn’t take too long. It was as if newspapers had just given up the fight against online news sources and were content with tying together an assortment of stories taken from the wire. Gone was the local breaking news, gone were the reviews by Edmontonians and enthusiastic coverage of local events. The surfeit of car ads was still around, though. Maybe that was how newspapers survived, one car ad at a time.
I slurped the last of my coffee, blessing Steve for spending that little extra for freshly roasted beans each week, and tidied up my presence in his world before heading out to walk back to my apartment.
The day was bright and crisp. All the leaves had turned orange and gold but not all of them had fallen yet, thanks to a remarkably calm autumn. Sometimes, the green would have barely faded when the winds arrived, and we would have bare, bony trees way too early for my liking. There were enough leaves on the ground to produce a satisfying crunch as I strode along, listing in my head any cleaning supplies I should stop to pick up on my way there. I’d used up pretty much all of the cream bleach and could stand another pair of rubber gloves, so I popped into Safeway. I also bought a loaf of sprouted-wheat bread, some sliced turkey, and some equally thinly-sliced Swiss cheese, figuring I would be hungry enough for two sandwiches after another morning of cleaning.
There were letters visible through the grille of my brass mailbox at the front of the apartment block waiting for me. I unlocked it, clutching my grocery bags in my other hand, and stuck the mail under my arm in order to relock the mailbox door and retrieve my keychain hanging from it.
After I let myself into my battered apartment, I set the mail down on the kitchen table and unpacked my groceries. Looking around, I took a deep breath and stalled. There was still so much work ahead of me, no matter which direction I looked, that I lost all energy, and almost collapsed into the nearest chair. This was not the sort of attitude for getting things done. I reached for the mail, anything to seem to be doing something. Besides junk mail, there was the new IKEA flier, which I set to one side, thinking I might need to make a trip out there for new, unbroken furniture. I had one letter from the university requesting a substantial gift to my alma mater, another from the kidney foundation, and a pamphlet from the Full Moon Folk Club listing their upcoming winter concerts. Under that was a thick, white envelope with my name and address printed with a strong black ink. The left corner had only an address, no name. I opened it with some curiosity. It was from my insurance company.
I had sent in my claim the morning after the burglary, on Steve’s suggestion, and I guess having a police report to include did the trick, because in my hands were a very solicitous letter and an equally substantial cheque. While my premiums might spike as a result of this claim, I couldn’t fault them on coming through for me. There was enough in the cheque to equip me with a new laptop, some functional furniture, completely new underwear, and CDs and DVDs to replace those scratched and broken. Or I could get really minimalist in my middle age and spend it all on Australian red licorice from the Bulk Barn.
The zeroes lined up on the cheque galvanized me, which probably says something really dreadful about my character. If I was going to get a new start, I might as well clean up the detritus of the old chapter. I spent the morning sorting through the apartment, cleaning and replacing books, teacups, canned goods, ornaments, and clothing that were intact, and bagging possessions that were irreparable for quick removal. By lunchtime, I had cleared away all evidence of the break-in from the main room. Of course, most living rooms are equipped with places to sit, and this was conspicuously absent in my room. Still, the books were on clean shelves, the walls were washed, the blinds were straight and clean, the pictures were hanging back where they belonged, and there was even a pile of magazines stacked, doctor-office style, on my coffee table.
My kitchen was easier to deal with, and I had managed to clear away most of the broken glass the day before, so scrubbing the shelves and restocking them didn’t take quite as long as I had feared.
While eating my sandwich, I jotted down a list of things I would need from the grocery store. It was strange to be writing down things like mustard and flour, but the people who had trashed the place had been thorough. I had to restock staples right from the beginning, like I had done when moving back to Edmonton for grad school.
After lunch, I tackled the bedroom. It was easier to move around without the bed in there, which I had dragged to the back alley and leaned against the rubbish-bin shed, but having no place to put the things I had folded and sorted made things a bit more complicated. I brought in one of the kitchen chairs so I wasn’t constantly leaning over to pile things on the floor.
The underwear wasn’t torn, but the sheer thought of marauders having touched it was enough for me to toss every single pair of panties into a green garbage bag. The same held true for the bras, though I popped the newer ones in a blue bag for the Goodwill. I took the opportunity to sort through my socks and tossed the mismatched pairs, the ones that had shrunk, and the blue knee socks that always scrunched their way under my arch in the time it took to walk to the bus stop. If I was going to have to shop for clothing, I might as well get some new socks while I was at it.
I had pulled the basket of odds and ends from the top shelf of my closet and was sorting through it when I remembered I had to think up a costume. I didn’t want to be too standout noticeable, but of course, when it came to Hallowe’en, that might mean not wearing a costume at all. It would be chilly, wandering around Fort Edmonton at night, so I wanted my costume to be several layers’ worth of warm.
I supposed I could layer on several sweaters and an overcoat and go as a homeless person, but that would be insensitive in the extreme. Not that I figured too many homeless people were going to be at the Spooktacular, objecting to my insensitivity. But some politically correct person would get in my face, I was certain. If everyone who got pompous over things said in jest actually did something tangible to make the world a better place, I wouldn’t mind their wet-blanket comments so much. But it seemed to me they were just in it to make sure no one looked to be having fun. Not that I particularly wanted to dress as a homeless person, mind you. For one thing, where was I going to find a shopping cart and how would I get it down to Fort Edmonton? No, I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, and of course by that I meant homeless people, not bleeding hearts. Them I wouldn’t mind twitting. How the heck did they know how homeless people saw themselves anyhow? For that matter, how did pirates feel on Hallowe’en?
This sort of thought, while mildly entertaining and certainly diverting, wasn’t getting my apartment cleaned or my costume planned. I leaned against the bedroom wall and sank down to sit on the floor. From this vantage point I could still see some feathers from my gashed pillows under the dresser, but on the whole, the place was looking better. Not homey and cozy, but clean. It looked like an apartment one was leaving and cleaning in order to get back the damage deposit. With no upholstered furniture, everything I owned was either a table or a bookcase. I really did need to schedule a trip to IKEA, and soon.
I looked down to my right at the plastic under-the-bed box I hadn’t yet opened. For some reason, the marauders hadn’t bothered to ransack it. Perhaps they had determined, since it was made of clear plastic and clearly full of sweaters, it didn’t contain whatever items of value they were searching for. Perhaps they had just pooped out by the time they got around to it. I reached over and clicke
d open the lid, releasing a scent of cedar from the little wooden chips I’d placed in the corners of the box. We didn’t get a lot of moths, but I purely loved the smell of cedar.
It was about time to get these clothes back into circulation anyhow, as the nights closed in and the weather dipped. I reached for my green pullover from the Pitlochry woollen mills I’d visited just after high school with my parents on our massive trip to the United Kingdom, and held it to my face. Not overpoweringly cedar-smelling. Good. I didn’t want to remind people of planked salmon wherever I went.
I set the sweaters out on to the floor mat and repacked the storage box with the tee-shirts and shorts I had folded and stacked. That done, I had room in two of the dresser drawers for my sweaters. Once this switch was made, the place looked cleaner, and I closed the closet door and moved back into the main room.
I was never going to think of a good Hallowe’en costume. My whole brain felt addled. Maybe it was the break-in, or the uncertainty of whether or not my project was going to continue, or Mr. Maitland’s death, or Jossie’s, but nothing in my world felt sorted.
Steve, as usual, had played his cards pretty close to his vest, so I wasn’t sure how his investigation or the linked investigation was going, or even if they were actually linked. All I knew was that until some answers started floating to the surface, I was going to feel similarly to this sense of disconnectedness.
A lot of things would be better in my life if Greta Larsen hadn’t showed up in it. She hated my project, she was there the night Jossie had died, she was known to Mr. Maitland, and I’d seen her one of the days I’d been to the Archives. For all I knew, she was the one who had trashed my apartment. On the other hand, Roxanne had never masked her dislike for me, either, and she had been right outside my back door the day my apartment was ransacked and she had been there the night Jossie had died, as well.
Mind you, there were other people who were connected with both Mr. Maitland and Rutherford House. Marni, for one. Mr. Karras, the board chair, even with all his charm and celebrity, might have had a reason to kill. For all I knew, the mysterious magician that no one seemed able to find had done them both in because they’d discovered the secrets to his disappearing budgie trick.
I tried to place each of my disparate suspects in all three situations, because no matter what Steve said about assumptions, I could not for the life of me believe that things weren’t connected. I could picture Mr. Karras at the House and the Archives, but not at my apartment, though I suppose he could have just looked my address up in the phone directory. Marni, I could see everywhere, purposeful and deadly efficient. I could see her bending rules and morality to fight for the future of the House, I just couldn’t figure out why she might want everyone dead and me robbed. Roxanne I could imagine doing nasty things, mostly because she was just so negative and sour about everything. But again, I couldn’t sort out a motive for her. I could see Greta having the will to kill Mr. Maitland and Jossie, just because she exuded that sort of meanness, but as old as she was, she would have really had to surprise either of them, and I wasn’t sure she could pull off a robbery.
I snorted, in spite of myself. Thinking of Greta Larsen, all done up downtown-style in black with a balaclava, made me laugh. In my mind, her cat-burglar suit emphasized her doughy spare tire, and her mean little eyes squinted through the woollen mask as she bent to tie up her sensible walking shoes. Okay, so I really couldn’t picture her as being responsible for my apartment break-in. I honestly couldn’t see one little old lady making that much mess in that short a time.
Thinking of Greta in black sparked the idea, and I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t come up with it before, surrounded as I was by the evidence of the break-in. I could dress as a cat burglar for Hallowe’en. It would be practical and warm and not terribly distasteful, and I could likely put it together from stuff I was planning to toss anyhow.
I texted Steve my idea, and he responded enthusiastically, determining that he could put together a convincing “cop” to my “robber,” thereby making us one of those infuriatingly cute couples who match outfits.
The irony, of course, did not escape me, but wasn’t that what Hallowe’en was for? To confront our fears and overcome them? Nothing like inhabiting the role of burglar to truly overcome its power to make me afraid. Thanking my internal Dr. Joyce Brothers, I went to work sorting out a costume. I busied myself by finding the darkest clothes I could find, laying out a pair of black jeans, socks, and runners, as well as a black turtleneck, hoodie, down vest, tuque, and gloves. I tucked a pair of clear plastic gloves I’d been using for cleaning into the vest pocket, along with a large suction cup hook taken from the side of the fridge, and a protractor, which I thought could pass as glass-cutting tools.
I retrieved a black knee sock and a dark pair of pantyhose from the half-full garbage bag in the bedroom, and cut off the legs of the hose for over-the-face masks. I used the scissors to hack two eye holes out of the knee-high and rummaged in a drawer for a large safety pin. If needed, that could work as a sort of lone ranger/cartoon robber mask.
I was set, and the beautiful part of it was that I wouldn’t need to carry a purse. My keys and wallet could fit in the inner pocket of my vest.
Now that my costume was finalized, I could hardly wait to get changed and ready for the night ahead. I glanced at my watch, only to realize it was still only three o’clock. Steve wasn’t coming to get me till six-thirty. I looked down at the costume, laid out as if the robber inside had somehow dematerialized, leaving only her outer layers. It was going to be great.
I busied myself for the rest of the afternoon by dragging out more garbage bags and setting the recycling near the door. Once my books were back on their shelves, I made a pot of tea and pored over the IKEA catalogue for half an hour, dog-earing pages that held possibilities.
I was pretty sure I was going to opt for the daybed with the drawers under it instead of a regular bed, which might leave me more room to move around most days and yet able to pull out to a full-sized bed on nights when Steve stayed over.
A loveseat, rather than a full chesterfield, would be a better fit for my living room, too. I had been bequeathed the behemoth that had previously dwarfed my apartment, and while it had been a nice place to curl up, it was sort of exciting to think of moving into a new look.
With new furniture, perhaps the little apartment would feel larger and different enough that I wouldn’t have to move away to feel safe again. I had called the landlord, who had promised to have two new locks installed this week, along with bars on the back window.
It wasn’t that I didn’t love Steve. I just didn’t think I was ready to commit to sharing space wholeheartedly yet. If ever. I knew of two or three people who were in long-term relationships, one set even married twenty-some years, who maintained two households. I was pretty sure that was one of the secrets to their happiness.
I would have to think about whether or not I did want to stay in my apartment, though. My default position was lethargy, when it came to moving. I wanted to be certain I was comfortable enough in my space to live there with ease. As soon as the locks were installed, and I had a bed bought, I would move back to see how I felt. I re-examined the furniture I had bookmarked.
It wouldn’t hurt to get the items I was thinking of, as they were sensible bits of furniture that could move with me, should I decide this place held too many bad vibes.
Baby steps.
I cleaned my teacup and took my costume bits into the bathroom to change. By the time Steve showed up, looking like a motorcycle cop from some movie with Sidney Poitier, I was ready.
He had on his brown leather jacket, aviator sunglasses—which would be useless to him within five minutes as the sun was setting sooner each night here along latitude fifty-three—a tan shirt, and darker brown trousers with a stripe down the side. His old handcuffs were jangling on his left hip, and his leather holster was snapped shut over what he demonstrated was his camera.
“I figure
d there would be some pretty cool costumes down there.”
He had done well. If you didn’t know him and what his day job really was, you’d just think it was a really good costume. There was nothing overt stating “Edmonton City Police.” In turn, he admired my burglar outfit, including the glass-cutting tools.
“I had halfway considered a stick-up note, but decided I was going for more of a second-story look,” I said and Steve nodded.
“Yes, it reads. Who knows, maybe later in the evening, I could put you in handcuffs for greater verisimilitude.” He leered a bit and I swatted him.
“And this would be at the Fort or home in your apartment, Officer?”
“Wherever you might consider resisting arrest, I would say.”
“Where did you get those, anyhow? Don’t you mostly just use twist-ties these days?”
“They’re not twist-ties, they are highly effective plastic restraints and way lighter to lug around, let me tell you. These babies are what I was issued in ’87, when I first joined the force.”
“Well, I hope you still have the key for those.”
“I have never taken it off my ring.” He pulled out his keys to prove it. There on the ring, amid his car keys and condo keys, I could see a tiny, shiny silver key. It’s so funny what people keep close to them as talismans.
“You know, this is going to be fun, I think.”
“You bet it is. A Hallowe’en in Edmonton without snow. What more could you want?”
31
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The folks who had organized the Spooktacular had outdone themselves. There was signage at the train station entryway that laid out the map of events for the evening. “Fun without fear” was the name of the game in the hangar for parents with small children. Their Spooktacular would be indoors, warm, and well-lit, and would consist of candy-toss games, a maze made out of hay bales, storytelling, face-painting for those who hadn’t already come dooded up, and a craft area.
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