“Who knows what the police officers will require when they come to talk with us? Perhaps we should leave the voice mail for them to listen to, if there is any?”
“Police officers? What police officers?” I was asking, but even as my voice rose, the door to the Centre opened and in walked Steve with Detective Iain McCorquodale behind him. I might have known they’d be coming, but for some reason it hadn’t computed. David Finster was dead, and the police were going to have to question his movements of the last few days along with people who might have had a grudge against him.
And here I was, one of the people who saw him alive on his last day, one of the people who had the most to lose if he lived and would be better off because of his death, one of the last people who had been personally irritated by his presence. What were the odds?
7
~
It was a strange way to conduct an interview, I guess, what with me introducing people, and showing Steve and Iain McCorquodale around my new area of employment after they spent time interviewing Dr. F and Paul. There was a sort of theatre of the absurd sensibility to it, as if Ionesco had penned the questions and answers.
“So, this is where you work, is it? Do you leave your laptop here, or does the Centre provide a computer?” Steve was looking at the books lined up across the top of my carrel, while his counterpart was discussing the organization of the Centre’s hours and who held keys. While Steve was doing the talking, I wasn’t sure whether this was an official interview. On the whole, I hoped it wasn’t. The last thing I wanted to do was get in the midst of one of Steve’s investigations. His boss was pretty snarky whenever that happened, as it had a bit too often for comfort. However, I noticed Iain taking surreptitious notes, so I wasn’t overly optimistic.
“Well, this is where I work, when I’m not at the library or trundling things between here and the new Collection site over in the old Arts Building. I normally take my laptop home with me, unless I have too much to carry, in which case I lock it up in here.” I showed them the large drawer where I kept files, mostly of reprints of liner notes and posters, reviews of albums and online biographies I’d printed off. “I usually put my headphones in there, too, and that’s where I keep my backpack during the day. The key’s on the same lanyard I keep the Centre key on.” I pulled on the cord with “U of A” woven along it in gold against green.
“And what time were you here yesterday?” Steve had his notepad out of his pocket, too, so I guess this was now an official conversation.
“I got here about eight forty-five, and David Finster popped in about ten, I guess. I worked some more, then I went off to lunch around eleven forty-five. I ate lunch and went for a walk before I went to Rutherford Library. I got back here around two. Then I worked some more till about four forty-five, and then I went home. You came by around six and we ate.”
“Right. Okay, so you saw Finster here around ten in the morning, but Dr. Fuller says that she expected to see him around one. Now, we can’t say for sure that she was here to meet him then, because you were in the library and Paul was in the … the,” he checked his notes, “the recording studio mixing a collection of Indian folk tunes for Dr. Fuller to take to a conference next week. No one saw Finster with you, because Dr. Fuller wasn’t yet in, thinking she didn’t have to be here till the afternoon, and Paul was where? Oh, yes, he was in the back room collating handouts for Dr. Fuller’s conference talk. So, you were all alone with the victim for about half an hour?”
“I doubt it was even that long. He came in expecting to meet up with Dr. Fuller and ended up finding just me. He was annoyed and took it out on me, I think. On the whole, though, I doubt he was a very nice man at any time.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, he had anger lines on his face.”
“Anger lines?”
“You know, the sort of wrinkles that cut up from the bridge of your nose, right between your eyebrows? Two small ones means you squint. Either you live someplace really bright and don’t have good sunglasses, or you needed glasses in high school but were too vain to wear them to see the board. If they’re deep cuts, or if there’s even just one big line shooting directly up from your nose, then you make it a habit to glare at people. That’s why they’re anger lines.”
“And Finster had them?”
“Very deep and very pronounced. Not only that, but he was using them on me big time. The thing is, I wasn’t sure if he knew that I was the person contracted to work from the bequest money or not, but he sure had an axe to grind about folk music.”
“Well, folk music returned the compliment,” Iain chuckled wryly.
“What do you mean?”
“This isn’t for public knowledge, of course,” Steve’s partner tapped the side of his nose in a manner I’d only seen in gangster and con artist movies, “but Finster’s body was deliberately staged. He’d been stabbed, strung up from a beam, and a note was hanging from the handle of the knife still sticking into him. It said, HANG DOWN YOUR HEAD.”
“Tom Dooley.”
“That’s the first thing that I thought of, as well,” said Steve quietly.
“Yuck. Well, Tom Dooley was tried and hanged for murder. He’s the one who ‘stabbed her with my knife,’” I said.
“Stabbed who?” Iain looked interested.
“Poor little Laurie Foster.”
“Well, this time it was poor little Davey Finster.” Steve sounded really troubled, and looked meaningfully at Iain. “Damn, Randy, I wish you weren’t involved in this.”
“Am I?” I was hoping I wasn’t. Being involved with murders is no picnic for me, and it wasn’t ever going to be something that grew on me.
“Oh, yeah, I don’t think anyone involved in LRT construction has much reason to make references to Kingston Trio music.”
“It’s a Civil War-era song, popular long before the Kingston Trio. I have a great version by Doc Watson at home.”
“You know what I mean,” Steve sighed. He wasn’t looking forward to Staff Sergeant Keller’s commentary either, I was betting. “Look, I have to get Dr. Fuller to come down to sign a statement. You’d better go with her, and sign one yourself. I am not sure when I’ll get off tonight. Keller wants this priority one. Finster is as well-known a name as Muttart and Winspear around here. We can’t have our top citizens bumped off. So, I’ll call you later, but don’t wait up for me, okay?”
I didn’t expect a kiss, and didn’t get one, but it felt odd to see Steve heading away from me without physical contact and acknowledgement. Damn, there were times when I hated his job. Or mine. Or at least the ways they intersected. No wonder Jessica Fletcher never dated, although whenever I caught a rerun, I couldn’t help wondering how she could maintain a professional distance from Jerry Orbach. Or maybe that was just me.
8
~
Dr. Fuller and I followed Detective McCorquodale down to the south side station in her car. I was relieved that she requested this arrangement, since there is very little I enjoy less than riding in a police car. You always have to ride in the back, which has a slight scent of vomit lacing a heavy smell of disinfectant. The few times I’ve ridden in a squad car, I ended up washing all the clothes I was wearing in hot water.
We were seated in the back of the room next to Iain’s desk, reading over and signing our statements when Staff Sergeant Keller strode in. Honestly, adjectives haven’t been created for what that man does instead of walking, entering or looking at people. He was larger than life, and used that stature to every speck of its intimidating value. I’m sure it worked well on hardened criminals, because it made me long for Imodium, and I usually hadn’t done anything wrong. I just hoped that if Steve and I ever got married, Keller wouldn’t be in the wedding party. I had the feeling, though, he might volunteer to give the bride away. Far away.
I suppose I couldn’t really blame him. It did seem that the only times he saw me there was trouble happening. Of course, being a police officer, he could
likely say that about a lot of people. Come to think of it, the same held true for me seeing him, and I wasn’t holding a grudge, whereas one could just look at the anger lines on Keller. I made a mental note to mention Keller’s facial grooves to Steve the next time we were talking privately, as prime examples of what I’d been talking about.
“Ah, Ms. Craig.” Keller’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “How nice to see you again.”
I found myself introducing Dr. Fuller to Keller, and explaining a bit of why we were there. Keller held up his hands to stop the imaginary flow.
“I’ll read about it in your statements and the officers’ reports later, I’m sure. For now, don’t let me keep you.” He moved on out of the room, and the air got perceptibly lighter.
When we were finished, I led Dr. Fuller out of the warren of halls to the parking lot. She looked across the street to the Swiss Chalet and asked if I was hungry. I looked at my watch. It was past one and I hadn’t eaten since seven. Just the mention of food made my stomach gurgle loudly. Dr. F laughed and said, “I’ll take that as a yes. Why don’t we head across the street? I wouldn’t mind talking a bit more about all of this while it’s fresh in our minds. Perhaps we can help each other understand what this means, and means to us in particular.”
Pretty soon we were ensconced in a booth, eating salads, our orders for the quarter-chicken dinner taken and the efficient waitress on her way. I have to admit a fondness for standardized restaurant chains like Swiss Chalet and Smitty’s and Japanese Village. No matter where you go, you know what you’ll get on the menu, and you always get what you want.
“Did you ever meet Lillian Finster?” Dr. F asked me.
“No, I wasn’t really clear on who she was. Paul told me he’d seen her at various functions, but I doubt I’d be able to point her out in a picture of famous Edmontonians.”
Dr. F laughed. “Famous Edmontonians. There used to be a section of the newspaper that would report on that, with photos of people at events. They were mostly people whom very few Edmontonians knew or saw, who somehow formed their own group. It always made me laugh a bit to see the names dropped by that fellow in his column as if we should all be so impressed that he ran a race with this magnate or cooked chili with that tycoon. Now I’m not saying there aren’t quite a few wealthy people in this city and even more interesting intellectuals. I think the problem was that he thought he was writing a column for Majesty or Entertainment Weekly, and it actually read like an old-fashioned town paper that documents great social events like, ‘Mrs. Mabel Harris is visiting her sister-in-law Mrs. Minnie McCord this week, all the way from Ladner, BC.’ For all its big-city elements, in many ways Edmonton still has a small-town feel. And that’s not such a bad thing, in my opinion.”
“Well, I can see what you mean about the provincialism, but there had to be a certain amount of international flavour to the music scene for Moses Asch to decide to leave his personal collection to the university, right?”
Dr. F smiled at me, and I wondered if my own provincialism was showing. Sometimes, her grace in the face of lesser mortals was incredibly obvious; most of the time, however, she was so gracious that we lesser mortals never were aware of how much she put up with.
“I think yes, there is a greatness to the music scene here that’s aided by the isolation of the city from all the other centres. To have classical music, we needed to provide a symphony ourselves, and an opera company, and a jazz festival, and a folk music festival, and blues and alternative rock. When all those forms of music are built from the ground up, rather than imposed from outside, then there is something vital about the place that grows them. That, I think, is what Moses Asch found when he came here to visit his son. Have you ever met Michael?”
I shook my head.
“Michael Asch was a marvellous lecturer in the Anthropology department and a wonderful colleague. His retirement is something I really regret. Of course, with the Centre and all my travelling lately, I haven’t spent much time in the department either, but I do miss him.” Dr. Fuller pushed a fry across her plate with her fork. “But it was terrific fun when Michael’s parents came to town. He would throw these enormous dinner parties for everyone, and it would always end up with Moe holding court, telling stories about recording various people, about concerts they’d sponsored. His eyes twinkled, you know. I am afraid I have always been vulnerable to twinkling eyes.”
I thought of Steve’s eyes and blushed. Thank goodness at that moment Dr. F seemed more interested in her chicken than my complexion.
“It was wonderful to receive the collection. I think with it, though, comes an obligation, to continue Moe’s vision. The Smithsonian is doing its best to keep the music in circulation, which was part of it. Moe didn’t want the music archived; he wanted it flowing out there. That’s not our job, of course. For one thing, we don’t hold the copyright. But there are a couple of things we can do to help keep Moe’s dream alive.”
She pushed aside her plate, and leaned her chin on her hands.
“We can cross-reference, and organize the material so researchers and ethnomusicologists of all stripes can use the collection as a resource that no one else could have ever imagined. The other thing we can do is to keep the collection growing. That’s the really exciting thing, I believe. We can keep the Folkways Collection alive by doing what Moe Asch did. We can record the performers who collect music, who make the connections between various forms of world music and add them to the pool. That’s what makes the collaboration between the Folk Festival and the Centre so exciting, and also what makes this infusion of money to the Centre so wonderful. I will admit to you, Randy, that seeing David Finster and his sister the other day just made my stomach turn. I hope the university president is correct when he says the lawyers have gone over the bequest papers with magnifying glasses and that it’s ironclad, because to have all of this dream suddenly possible and then to have it taken away because of pique and resentment is something I am not sure I can bear.”
That’s what it would be, too, I thought. There was no way Barbara or David Finster needed the money. They not only had settlements from their father, but, as Dr. F painted it, they were both well off in their own rights. David had his construction company, and Barbara owned a set of exclusive boutiques in Edmonton and Calgary catering to women who wore designer labels aimed at the older sophisticate. Dr. F had once been served tea in the changing room at one of the Barbara Shoppes. I wasn’t sure how a store could survive on catering that exclusively to the wealthy women in the area, but perhaps Dr. F was right, and there were lots of rich people out there that we hoi polloi didn’t even know existed. There must be, or else the Shoppes wouldn’t still be in existence, let alone flourishing.
So, since they didn’t need the money their mother left to the Centre, it stood to reason they just didn’t want the Centre to have money. It was hard to imagine people having something against “Kumbayah,” but who knew what evil lurked in the hearts of men, anyhow, besides The Shadow?
Dr. F was mulling over the bill, and waved me away when I reached for my purse. Since she likely made twice what I ever would, I didn’t feel too guilty. We headed out to the parking lot, edging past the window boxes of geraniums that were the restaurant’s signature. Dr. F dropped me in front of my apartment, insisting that it was pointless to head back into the Centre for just an hour and a half. I didn’t object guiltily to that either. Perhaps it was residual shock, but I was feeling just wiped.
I barely managed to get into my apartment and drop the keys before I sank down onto the chesterfield and closed my eyes. So much had happened in the last, hot, enervating twenty-four hours. I’d been verbally attacked by someone who turned up murdered a few hours later. My boss and I had spent the afternoon at the police station filing statements. I’d had to see Steve’s boss, and I was running the risk of being involved in Steve’s work once again. I’ve found myself in danger in the past, being the target of a murderer in a couple of cases and used as bait in anoth
er. It wasn’t something I cherished repeating.
Suddenly, I sat straight up on the couch, like a corpse in a horror movie, It finally sank in: this afternoon wasn’t an exercise in helping the police with their appointed rounds, as in the other situations. I had just filed a statement at the police station because there was every likelihood they were thinking of me as a suspect.
9
~
Steve phoned me around nine that night to say hi, but there was no discussion of him coming over, or even any idea of when he might have some time off to see me in the next few days. I sketched out my work schedule for him, just in case, but I could feel an edge to things as we were talking. After he rang off, I stood with my hand on the telephone, wondering. Was I already on someone’s list of suspects? Was Steve doubting me?
I went to bed with a biography of Allen Ginsberg, but couldn’t concentrate enough for it to be worthwhile. Maybe it was the continued heat or the heavy horror of thinking about David Finster’s ugly and violent death, but a headache was settling in my temples and my sinuses. I got up in the dark, grabbed a clean washcloth from the shelf above my toilet, ran cold water onto it, wrung it out and took it back to bed with me. I lay there, with only the cotton sheet covering me, and spread the washcloth over my face. It reminded me of when I was young, trying to sleep and thinking of my bed as a pocket on the side of the globe.
Once I learned about the way the planet worked, I always needed my bed to be aligned from north to south, with my head at the north. I would make sure my quilts were tucked in securely, and then I would lie there, snug in my pocket, like the card in the back of an old library book, put away for the night. In this bedroom, the only way the bed could sit was east to west, but I hadn’t outgrown the pocket principle.
Well, it was too hot for a quilt tonight. In fact, it was too hot for even a sheet, but for security reasons, I always needed some form of coverlet. As I lay trying to will my headache away, I listened to thunder and felt the lightning more than saw it as it lit up the room through my blind and my washcloth. I waited for the pounding rain to follow, but it was a dry storm, and that likely meant there’d be an even hotter day tomorrow. Oh, goody.
Hang Down Your Head Page 5