My list making was something Steve had teased me about in the past, but it did a lot to concentrate my mind. Whenever chaos rained down, I grabbed a pencil.
I made a list of everyone who would have had a connection to Eleanor Durant. First off, there was everyone in the Shakespeare company. I limited it to Kieran because he’d been bedding her, Stacey and Louise who had something to gain from her death, David who loved Stacey, Coby the costume designer because he seemed to hate everyone, and Micheline, because I wouldn’t have wanted her to feel left out. I wasn’t sure Eleanor had rubbed anyone else in the cast the wrong way and would have to do some digging to find out.
Outside the festival cast and crew, Eleanor had relatively few ties to the city. Paul Mather, the writing genius behind Gopher Broke, had originally been from Edmonton, but he and his family spent time between Toronto and Los Angeles these days. Marlon Davies, the elderly actor who played the requisite curmudgeon, lived here, and Eleanor and he had been featured on the front page of the Journal when she had first blown into town, but it seemed to me he was off somewhere shooting an ironic indie western this summer. I put a question mark by his name with a note to check that out.
Eleanor’s family was from near Edmonton, and that would be another thing to look into. Was that a happy family, or a Chekovian one?
And of course, people who may have been connected to Eleanor from seeing her as she went about her daily habits: shop owners, fellow runners on the trails she frequented, people in her apartment hotel/condo building, frenzied fans.
I now had three lists of people: Shakespeare connections, Edmonton connections, casual connections. Denise was right to be concerned, and I could see why Detective Gladue was paying attention to her. She was linked to Kieran, and therefore connected on the Shakespeare list. She was also linked to casual connections, because Eleanor was known to run a route that Denise frequented. I hadn’t thought to ask her if she knew any of the Durants from Spruce Grove and made a note to do so.
On the whole, it did look problematic for Denise. But that was only looking at the situation through one lens. It was possible to shake off the idea of seeing where Denise fit and check where someone else could be found to intersect with Eleanor. And honestly, why would it be necessary to connect more than once? All that would be necessary was a hatred big enough to want her gone.
I shivered. Just thinking about that sort of hatred frightened me. Thinking of it in the close context of my best friend really scared me.
If no one else was going to look for a suspect other than Denise for the crime, it would have to be me. And I was going to have to do it for more than just Denise’s sake.
If there was one thing I had learned, the older I got, it was that the evil that could bring itself to kill rarely brought itself to stop once it got going.
14.
I spent the next couple of days at home, putting together plastic tubs full of activities for Shakespeare camp. Amanda, who had been with the company from the beginning, had warned me that the weather was something you could never predict, so I had come up with an organizing principle of rainproofedness. I had tubs full of handouts, erasable pens, and battered copies of plays I’d been scrounging from secondhand stores for the kids to look through for soliloquies and to get them used to the five-act layout of Shakespeare. I had sticky notes and flags for their use in marking readings. I had my precious card games in another tub, along with various scarves and hats I’d picked up from thrift stores, to help them build different characters as they practised their scenes.
I was also laying out my work wardrobe for the three-week stint. I figured I could wash it all on the second Wednesday evening and be ready for another go-round of the same togs, but I didn’t want to have to stop too much for general housekeeping during the run of the camp, just in case. Teaching university-age kids for two or three hours a day wears me out. I had a feeling that herding a group of teenagers all day long for what amounted to a half-term summer session course was going to use up every last ounce of energy I had.
Micheline called me every day around 11:00 a.m. I had a feeling I was on her list of chores, making sure I was awake and industrious. I wondered if she had got used to this sort of thing from her stage management work in the past. Did wake-up calls to actors feature as a part of those job specs? She never caught me sleeping, of course, since I was usually up around six and puttering effectively by eight o’clock.
Today’s call seemed different. Maybe it was her tone, or perhaps I was just more sensitive about anything dealing with Denise. Micheline was one of those women who respond poorly to beautiful women, as if somehow another’s beauty diminished her. Whenever Denise popped by to meet up with Kieran or connect with me, I could sense a stiffening in Micheline that hadn’t been there moments before, which of course spoke volumes of what she thought of my looks.
She was listing who was at the tables purchased for the Sterling Awards, an event that would be happening the following Monday at the Mayfield Dinner Theatre. Denise had just the evening before asked me if I would like to attend with her, since she had been sent two tickets with a map of the theatre showing a small table for two near the buffet doors. Kieran had apparently shifted her off as gracefully as possible, which was all right with me. Besides, it wouldn’t have been appropriate to have one of the judges sitting with any particular theatre affiliation. Still, I had a feeling it had been a stinging blow to Denise. Kieran had really got under her skin more than most of her beaux.
Micheline was noting that Kieran, she, Louise, and Christian would be sitting with Barb Mah and a couple of other people from the Walterdale musicals.
“We are at table 17,” she said, as if that should mean something to me.
“I’m at a table close to the food, that’s all I know,” I replied. “I doubt Denise and I’ll do all that much socializing, of course. It’s not the judges anyone will want to talk to.”
“There will be a memorial moment for Oren Gentry, of course, but they’re talking about adding a moment for Eleanor. Maribeth from the Citadel has taken it upon herself to organize it all, and she’s been on at me for photos from rehearsals. We don’t have much, so I sent her the headshot Eleanor was using with her resumé. I figure that would be the best thing to use, anyhow, since it was a photo Eleanor approved.”
“Absolutely. It would likely have been her choice,” I murmured encouragingly. Micheline was winding down.
“Anyhow, we received our keys to the park yesterday, and I give you your choice: either pop by the office here at the Library today, or you can come down to the park tomorrow after 9:00 a.m. I’ll be setting up shop in the trailer on site. This year, they are promising the wifi will be strong enough to keep me connected. We shall see.”
“Tomorrow is good for me. Is there any place I will be able to store four small plastic tubs down there? Or will I be schlepping this stuff to and fro each day? It won’t be easy on a bike.”
“Oh heck, I can fit your stuff in under the second desk in the trailer. We’re not talking huge rough tote size, are we?”
“No, more like mid-size dishpan.”
“Fine, bring them down.”
Micheline sounded much jollier by the time she rang off. Of course, when she realized I’d be hauling stuff with the help of Denise and her car, her tune might change a bit. Oh well, I didn’t have to wade through that river till tomorrow.
The final thing I had to concentrate on in planning what was starting to seem like a three-week siege was the food I would have on hand. The kids were told to bring a bag lunch, since there was nothing in the park for kiosks or food trucks. In the winter, the building by the skating pond sold hot chocolate, but in the summer months you were on your own. The kids were also bound not to leave the tent compound, since guarding and corralling children was what summer camps were really good for—education and entertainment were enjoyable byproducts. Parents wanted to be certain their darlings were there at the end of the day, preferably worn out enoug
h to eat supper, chat happily about their day, and then fall asleep without fussing. Of course, that was for younger kids. I supposed parents of teens were hoping they were too tired to go hang out in front of convenience stores, brooding and looking for trouble.
So, while ostensibly I had an hour’s break for lunch, we were shorthanded down on the site, and it would be up to me to keep an eye on the campers over the lunchtime break. I would need to head out to the Safeway for provisions, or I’d end up gnawing on the stale granola bars that rode in the bottom of my satchel for those just-in-case times.
I smiled at my pile of plastic tubs with their content lists taped to the side. Organization was like catnip for me. I couldn’t always get my life to fit into tidy rows and columns, but when it did, an air of calm would slide through my veins, like that hazy sense of ease that starts in your ankles when you’re getting anesthetized. Maybe someday I would throw in freelancing and academic pursuits and take up bookkeeping.
I grabbed my keys and backpack stuffed with reusable grocery bags, and pulled the little rolly cart from its place beside the fridge. The daydream of heading into work daily to a tidy office existence lasted till I passed the schoolyard on the way to the grocery store.
Bookkeepers wouldn’t have the luxury to do their grocery shopping in the middle of the day, along with the pensioners and stay-at-home moms, who were never in as much of a hurry as the five-o’clock executives dashing in on their way home. Bookkeepers would have to squeeze all their chores into frantic weekends. Bookkeepers would have to tug their forelocks and request time off to visit their dying mothers. Bookkeepers were starting to meld into a Dickensian version of Bob Cratchit in my mind by the time I was passing the Garneau Cultural Centre and crossing the street to cut through the Safeway parking lot.
The best thing about this Safeway was its understanding of its clientele, which was predominantly students and seniors. Kraft Dinner took up half an aisle. Tomato and cream of mushroom soup, which could be used either as soup or as canny sauces for various low-cost recipes, held pride of place in the soup aisle, though you could also find dried soup mixes filled with organic beans and lentils. The butcher on site packed single cutlets and smaller portions, mindful of the older fridges and freezers found in student basement suites in the area, and the smaller appetites of the seniors who also shopped there.
I wonder if that mix of octogenarians and co-eds in the same neighbourhood was what accounted for the pleasantness of Garneau. In other cities, the university areas surrounding campus could get rundown and mangy, as if hanging some Tiebetan prayer flags on your porch was going to make up for the knee-high weeds in the front yard. By contrast, there was a good mixture of house-proud retired folk still in their homes surrounded by well-tended gardens, and several new owners either upgrading the older homes with good bones or razing them and erecting modern edifices in among the beautiful older trees. So, while there were plenty of worn rentals, they were mindful of their permanent neighbours, and the noise and grime quotient was held at bay. Garneau was an utterly pleasant place to live.
I filled my cart with nuts, yoghurts in little tubs, pepperoni sticks, cucumbers, and carrots. I also sprang for some pre-sliced Swiss cheese and processed luncheon meat slices to shove into pitas. I grabbed a dozen eggs and some mayonnaise, thinking it would be nice to mix up a couple of days’ worth of egg salad for sandwiches, too. I would be able to store my lunch in the small fridge in Micheline’s office trailer, so I didn’t have any fear of dosing myself with food poisoning.
I packed my groceries into the rolly cart, which efficiently snapped its two wheels into place and spread to contain five or six snug bags of produce. I’d bought it a few years ago at the Italian Centre, when I got tired of my arms shaking and tingling for hours after hauling groceries five blocks home. I wasn’t sure whether the cart made me look like an old European woman or Ramona Beezly delivering papers, but it made it a lot easier to tow my groceries. On the rare occasions that I ventured further afield to shop, I could manoeuvre it onto low-floor buses, some of which would tilt down for me as if I had a baby stroller. I didn’t like to ride the bus with the cart, though, since it took up space, and I always felt as if the folks in the first few seats were judging me by whether or not I’d bought marshmallows.
By the time I got home and unpacked everything, it was almost three o’clock. I made myself a pot of tea and helped myself to a pita smeared with peanut butter. My preparation list was complete. I had materials, clothing, provisions. Bring on the maddening crowds. I was ready.
The phone rang as I was channelling my inner Thomas Hardy. I took a swig of too hot tea to clear my palate of peanut butter and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Randy?” It was Denise.
“Hey! How are you doing? You know, I think I am finally ready for camp to begin. Now I have to figure out what to wear to the Sterlings with you.”
“Oh god, haven’t you thought about that yet? It’s tomorrow night.”
“I realize that.” I looked up at my calendar on the wall to the side of my desk. There it was, circled in blue. The fanciest night in theatre, on a Monday evening, since that was traditionally the actors’ day off.
“That is why I was calling, to talk logistics. I can pick you up at 3:45.”
“In the afternoon?”
“The doors open at 4:30, and the meal is at five. I don’t want us to be caught in rush-hour traffic getting across the city. Believe me, this is not a room I want to be making an entrance into. I’d rather be there right on time and tucked into our table right away.”
“Are you certain you want to go at all?”
“Yes indeed.” Her voice was grim. “If I stay away, they’ll all say it was because I am feeling guilty. I have to tackle things head-on and live my life as usual. It’s just that it takes a lot of energy to keep the Teflon shields up, you know?”
“Oh, I hear you. Okay, I will be ready by 3:30 at the back door.”
“Great, see you tomorrow!”
All my contentment at being prepared for every contingency of the next three weeks vanished as I hung up the phone. Tomorrow, I had to go to a gala where Edmonton’s prettiest people would all convene in one place. While I already felt like a fringe-hanger, I would be a relative stranger adhering to someone suspected of murdering one of their own.
What the hell could one wear for that occasion?
15.
It took almost the entire day, but after fretting myself to sleep I had come up with a plan. I dashed to the Bay downtown first thing in the morning and returned with a pair of sparkling stockings to wear with my requisite little black dress, which was actually a little brown dress. I added a gold pashmina, two bangles, and slouchy brown ankle boots to the ensemble, and brushed my hair dry with anti-frizz lotion, flattening it out to almost three inches longer than usual. I gave myself a side part and hooked back the fuller side with a gold clip.
I couldn’t figure out what to use as a purse to match my ensemble until I remembered a sparkly makeup bag that had come as a freebie with moisturizer I purchased. I used it to haul a spare toothbrush, floss, and toothpaste around with me. I rummaged for it through my satchel, dumping its usual contents onto my desk. All I would need was my keys, cellphone, and some cash to buy drinks with. I intended to toast Denise’s hard work seeing all those plays throughout the year.
I took one last look in the mirror on my closet door. Although I was a little thicker in the middle than I wanted to be, on the whole I could still polish up pretty well. I wished Steve could see me. I wished I could see Steve right now.
It was just as well I heard Denise beep her horn just then, before I worked up a good head of self-pity. I checked the stove, even though I hadn’t cooked anything hot in three days, grabbed my clutch and shawl, and headed for the back door.
One look at Denise and I wondered why I had even bothered to brush my teeth, let alone coordinate my accessories. She shimmered in peacock blue and gr
een sequins, and her blond hair shone like honey. The convertible roof was up on her creamy little car, probably to protect our hair on the way. I slid in and Denise smiled, which made me feel I’d got the dress code right.
“You look great, Randy. Let’s go show the show people how it’s done.”
Denise steered us out south of the university, following alongside the LRT lines until they ducked under Belgravia Road and we turned onto it toward Fox Drive and the lovely curve of road that took one past the horse stables and on to Fort Edmonton Park. Instead of turning in to the historical interpretive centre, we crested the hill by the statue of shiny silver balls and crossed the river on the Quesnell Bridge, joining the Whitemud Freeway. From that sort of convoluted orienteering you would hardly know that Edmonton was built on a grid system and was fairly straightforward for navigating. The only problem came when trying to get from one side of the river to the other—a river that snaked and curved through the city from the southwest to the northeast, with only eight bridges dotted along at strategic intervals. There were times you had to go quite far out of your way to get back to where you were headed, like a literal reworking of a cryptic Edward Albee statement.
The Mayfield Dinner Theatre was part of a hotel and conference centre located in what was otherwise a cross between retail and light industrial area in the northwest part of the city. At one time it had likely been right on the edge of the city. The way Edmonton was expanding, pretty soon the River Cree Casino on the Enoch Reserve would be in the middle of town.
Dinner theatre had sprung up in the ’70s, and at the time it was a vehicle for light-hearted theatrical romps like Same Time Next Year or Under the Yum-Yum Tree. Local actors would be cast in secondary roles and former television stars would fly in to be the headliner. The halls leading to the theatre area were lined with black-and-white glossy photos of actors who had appeared on Love Boat or M*A*S*H. Some of them had been great, some not so much, but everyone agreed that the fabulous buffet was what had kept the Mayfield chugging forward into the twenty-first century while so many other dinner theatres had called it quits and folded up the curtains.
The Roar of the Crowd Page 10