Condemned to Repeat Read online

  Tomorrow, I was to start a week-long session at the Archives, which I’d booked almost a month back. I had likewise hired a car for the week, since the Province of Alberta Archives was out in the southeastern back of beyond, where buses ran on the hour and lunch spots were sparse. I was planning to pick up the car and slot in all my run-around necessities this week while I had it, including a long overdue trip to the Superstore for food and pantry supplies. For the next week, at any rate, I was going to be continually on the move.

  Steve knocked on the door while I was on the phone with the car agency. He let himself in and waved back at me. While he was kicking his shoes off, I finalized my plans to pick the car up downtown, which would be easier to get to by bus, I figured.

  “I still cannot believe you budgeted for a rental car.”

  “Well, I thought about it, and the commuting time would be more than double if I were to rely on rapid transit for this week. Besides, I figured I would also fit in a trip to the Ukrainian Village next weekend to see more historic sites of the same time frame. Do you feel like going out of town for a spin?”

  “What sort of mileage do you have to pay on this car?” Steve asked skeptically.

  “No mileage at all. Just a flat rate per week and bring it back with a full tank of gas. I took out the set rate of insurance and I booked the guest-parking stall for the week with the landlords. I’m all set.”

  “Good enough. Are you hungry at all, Helen Wheels?”

  My stomach grumbled loudly enough for us both to hear, as if in response. Sometimes, the body is just there to keep you honest.

  “I’m starving. Do you want me to whip something up here? Or did you have other ideas?”

  “Well, I was thinking we could head over to the Old Spaghetti Factory, but you look pretty comfy here.”

  “Which I take to mean, I am too grubby for a nice place. Give me three minutes and I can be ready. By the way, I popped into the Diner for muffins for breakfast tomorrow, if you have a mind to stay over.”

  “Yum. I think I could be persuaded.”

  Steve sat and clicked through the channels on my television while I changed in my tiny bedroom, the door three-quarters shut mainly to be able to access the closet behind it. I kicked off the yoga pants into the bottom of the closet and pulled on a pair of grey-blue trousers I’d purchased for a song at a Bay Day last spring. A heathery-grey cashmere twin-set I’d found two weeks earlier at the Value Village was a perfect match. One quick brush of my hair back from my face and fastened into a clip, and I was ready.

  I came out of the bedroom with a pair of socks in my hand. Steve whistled.

  “Randy Craig, you do clean up nicely,” he drawled.

  “This is the sort of look I am hoping to adopt while dealing with archivists and historic-site people, what do you think?”

  “I think you are edging very close to sexy librarian.”

  “Don’t you think I would need to get glasses and put my hair up for that?”

  “We can make do.” He came toward me and hugged me. I laughed and, after kissing him on the nose, pushed away from his embrace.

  “Let me put on my other sock, and don’t forget you promised me spaghetti.”

  “Right you are, my lady.” With a flourish, he bowed, and opened the door. “Your carriage awaits.”

  I grabbed my purse and keys, and turned off the lights on my way out.

  9

  --

  The Old Spaghetti Factory was part of a long-standing chain of restaurants known for setting up in historic or re-gentrifying areas. The chain had begun in Oregon, but soon after expanded to Vancouver’s historic Gastown, Winnipeg, and then Edmonton. Ours had been one of the cornerstone businesses in the Boardwalk, a reconstituted downtown warehouse that had become a building full of boutiques, an arcade, and various funky restaurants in the ’70s. The arcade, wicker emporiums, and head shops had disappeared, but a couple of the restaurants were still there, along with the wooden sidewalk. The Old Spaghetti Factory was a glorious hodgepodge of antiques. The tables were all different, the bar was fronted with the intricately carved sides of a European hearse, and a full-sized streetcar sat in pride of place in the centre of the restaurant. That was my favourite place of all to sit. Eating at a table in a vintage streetcar satisfied the same urges in me that had made the now long-gone Buffalo Bill’s Western Village restaurant my favourite place as a child. There, birthday parties of children would have their meals served in alcove rooms made up to look like saloons and jails. There was another Spaghetti Factory out at West Edmonton Mall, and I had to admit I chose to eat there whenever I was caught at the mall—partly for the mizithra cheese, which the menu vowed was the same as what Homer had eaten when penning the Odyssey, and partly for the sanctuary of old and funky amid all the mirrors and marble that was the mall.

  You know you are getting to be a regular when the waiter smiles and leads you straight to the table in the streetcar. It’s moments like this that give me a double-sided sensibility. At the same time as I’m feeling all “Norm!”-happy à la Cheers, I get the nagging feeling I probably spend too much money eating out. I tell you, it is not easy living with the voice of your parsimonious grandmother in your head.

  Since it would be equally small-minded to complain, I busied myself with slicing up the loaf of fresh bread the waiter had left with the menus and slathered garlic butter on a piece, glorying in its melting into the warm bread.

  We had each ordered a glass of wine, me deciding it was still warm enough out to warrant a Pinot Grigio, and Steve debating the merits of two different Australian reds before choosing what the waiter suggested. All conversation ceased as our meals arrived, and I barely heard the music playing in the background over my small moans of delight. I had been hungrier than I realized, and the food was gone before I knew it. I debated whether or not to accept the bowl of spumoni ice cream, with the vague consideration that if I walked home across the High Level Bridge, I might work off a third of the calories. In the end, I decided to opt for coffee, like my responsible boyfriend.

  We were finishing our decaf before Steve actually said anything about my day. I had had no particular desire to discuss it prior to now, which probably said more for my previous lack of food than anything else.

  “So how did it go? Was it hard to go back into the House?”

  “You know, it wasn’t all that problematic. I’ll tell you what was hard—getting fingerprint powder out of grouting on all those little tiles, that was hard.”

  Steve laughed. “I know; that stuff is pervasive. I swear it’s in the seams of my clothing forever. I wander the world sort of like Pigpen from Peanuts.”

  “I feel weird, too, that I feel sort of distant from it all, even though we had been talking to each other earlier that evening. Maybe it was just that I didn’t know her all that well, so her death wasn’t the blow that it could have or probably should have been. She was just one of the young staff that seemed to be around from time to time. They all work part-time hours around their classes and such. The chilling thing is trying to figure out when exactly she died and how long she was lying there. After all, I was eating my supper upstairs. Maybe she was being killed while I was filling my face. That’s the part that really bothers me.”

  “What about the part where it could have just as easily been you?” Steve looked very sober. “That’s the part that really bothers me.”

  “Do you think so? Do you think she was just killed because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time? It had nothing to do with who she was, herself? Somehow that seems even worse.”

  “Randy, pick a lane. Either you want the girl to have been a hapless victim or you want her to be somehow involved in something so shady she gets herself killed. Which is it?”

  “Hapless victim, I guess, though that really does make Jossie a total non-player, doesn’t it?”

  “Seriously, you have to examine either scenario. Don’t close yourself off to either, or you might miss something in th
e investigation.”

  “I take it that is the royal ‘you’ you’re using there; I’m not about to poke around in this. Your boss would throw me in jail. I am sure he’s thinking about it right now, if he’s seen me on the statement list.”

  “Oh, probably,” Steve smiled. “But somehow you do seem to be involved, and I want you thinking, not getting involved in the investigation, but thinking all the time. Because if it is something to do with the House, and not with Jossie herself, then you could be just as much in the line of fire.”

  “When do you think the detectives in charge will figure out which it is?”

  “They will be questioning the girl’s family this week, and her friends, trying to piece together her life apart from being a waitress at Rutherford House. In the meantime, they’ll also be poking into the workings of the House, to see whether it was something to do with her particular connection there. I think they’ll likely also look into the backgrounds of the theatre troupe and the magician.”

  “Has anyone talked to the magician yet, do you know?”

  “Joe Howard was hoping to question him this morning. Dafoe lives just out of town, past St. Albert. The medical examiner is still working to narrow down the time of death, but I wouldn’t be surprised if your dinner with him doesn’t exonerate the both of you.”

  I sighed. This was going to be another long, ugly process. The situation at the House, where everyone walked on eggshells trying not to annoy each other, was going to expand exponentially. And walking into that gorgeous, wood-panelled foyer, not one of us was going to feel safe for quite some time to come.

  People were starting to fill up the restaurant. The dinner hour seemed to be gaining speed. We relinquished our seats and paid up, easing ourselves out past a sizable crowd waiting at the door.

  Steve drove me home down the hill behind the public golf course, where we could see people delighting in an extended season due to the mild autumn, across the Groat Bridge and up Saskatchewan Drive past the Faculty Club, the sprawling Biosciences Building, the rock garden planted by the Geology Department in front of the Earth Sciences Building, and around the parking lot. We passed the Tory Building, and there was Rutherford House, its red bricks glowing in the glow of the street lights. There was nothing but calm emanating from it, no evil aura. I could not imagine Jossie’s death had anything to do with the House.

  A few twists and turns down one-way streets and Steve had pulled up in the guest slot behind my apartment.

  “Are those breakfast muffins still on offer?”

  “Oh lord, how can you think of food after a meal like that?”

  “I can think of ways to work it off,” he leered seductively. I laughed and we headed back into the apartment together.

  10

  --

  I had set an alarm so that neither of us would sleep in. Steve had to be at the precinct by eight thirty and I was planning to pick up the car from the downtown office by nine and be out at the Archives for ten. We showered together, to save time, and as I was towelling off, I smiled to think of what I considered to be intimacy. It wasn’t roses or whispered promises; it was the sharing of regular activities that created the sort of togetherness I valued.

  I was making coffee when Steve came into the kitchen, “all Brylcreemed and Lavorissed,” as my grandmother used to say. A clean, handsome man on a sunny October morning—what more could a girl want?

  Steve offered to drive me downtown to the rental office, but I didn’t want him to clock in late and I would be fine on the bus. He kissed me goodbye, and I tidied up the table quickly before popping into the bathroom to brush my teeth and apply a quick brush of mascara. I wanted to look my best. After all, today I would actually be meeting the archivist.

  In my experience, librarians and those who guard the gates of any realm can be very prickly and must be handled with care. They identify with their role of guardian very seriously and can make snap judgments over whether you are the right sort of person to be handling their grails. Because I was going to be heading to a place that was climatically controlled—where I would have to sign in to see every single document and artifact and would have to wear white cotton gloves the entire time doing so—I had to look my best.

  The advent of laptop computers was a great thing for the historical researcher. Most archivists would let one in with you for note-taking. In the good old days when I had been freelancing before returning to university, they would frisk you for ballpoint pens before you could receive any files to peruse.

  I looked at myself critically in the mirror, checking to see if there was anything I could alter or enhance in order to make a great first impression. My thick hair was braided back in one long braid. My skin, which had never let me down through puberty, still showed the few freckles which usually faded in the winter, but would eventually stay year-round as age spots, I supposed. There weren’t many lines in my face, more due to high cheekbones than proper sun avoidance. I was wearing a loden-green pullover under a black leather jacket cut like a blazer, with a thin pink-and-green scarf wound around my neck. My dark jeans were clean and pressed; I should pass inspection with flying colours. I grabbed the satchel containing my laptop, wallet, keys, water bottle, and granola bar, and headed out to catch the bus.

  The woman at the car place had my paperwork ready for me, although she seemed a bit confused to be dealing with a female Randy. I am sure it had been her on the phone when I had called the week before. Who knows, maybe I have a male-sounding voice on the phone. My register did skew to alto when I sang in choirs. I had all the right ID, and most importantly, a credit card stating I was Miranda Craig, which seemed more compatible with her sense of who I should be, so soon I was fitted with the keys and paperwork to a shiny green Kia Soul that some minion had kindly parked outside the kiosk while I’d been inside.

  I took a few minutes to ostentatiously set the mirrors and figure out where the signal lights were. Then I clicked the little switchblade key into the starter, and off I went, zooming across the city toward the Province of Alberta Archives.

  It had been several years since I’d driven in the city, but one of the great things about Edmonton is that the streets are numbered on a logical grid, so that if you are given an address of say, 8107-50th Street, you would know that it would be to the south-east, since the centre of town was 101st Street and 101st Avenue, and the numbers got larger the further west or further north you went. Sure, every now and then they threw in a named street, or a neighbourhood full of circular drives and culs-de-sac,s where you would require GPS, a map, and a cellphone to use when you got hopelessly lost. But on the whole, you could usually navigate from just the address given.

  The Archives were out in what was mostly an industrial end of town on one of the few named streets out that way, Roper Road. While I had gone along with Steve the fall before to get his new car speakers installed at a nearby business, I rarely had reason to go out this way. I was nervous of overshooting the proper turnoff to the Archives and finding myself heading instead toward Sherwood Park, which was a trick I had done years before when IKEA had first been out in that direction. However, a lovely, large sign on the corner announced the presence of the Archives ahead to my right, meaning I wouldn’t even have to worry about crossing aggressive traffic to get there. I loved it already.

  I was relieved to see a large, rather empty parking lot. I pulled into a slot and tried to remember how to lock the car with the buttons on the keyfob. One press of the lock button produced an audible click. Two made the car beep at me. Oh well, I guess I deserved that.

  Hoisting my heavy satchel onto my shoulder, I took a deep breath and headed to the Archives. Not terribly shy by nature, I am still a bit awkward when it comes to meeting new people, especially if I have a chance to over-think things. If Steve happened to introduce me to someone we ran into somewhere, I would be fine, able to talk and produce appropriate chit-chat off the cuff. It was when I knew I was going to meet people that I would tend to over-rehear
se things in my head, running possible conversations through to their logical conclusions to see if there were any potential traps for faux pas. This tended to make me feel stilted when actually meeting the people, as it all felt like some sort of shabby déjà vu.

  I walked through the double set of glass doors, setting off a muted bell.

  A large counter of blond wood, like the front line in a doctor’s office, sat straight ahead. From behind a half-wall of shelves came the archivist. I introduced myself and he smiled.

  “Ah, yes, Randy Craig, from Rutherford House. It’s lovely to meet you. I am Alastair Maitland. We are a little short-staffed this week, as our administrative person is in Las Vegas seeing every Cirque du Soleil production she can get tickets for. If you wouldn’t mind filling in and signing this research agreement, I’ll give you this ID card, which is good for a year. Then I will show you to our locker area, where you can hang up your coat and lock away everything but your laptop and pencil. No cameras allowed in the reading room, I’m afraid. The lockers are a quarter, but you get it back at the end of the session. Do you need a quarter? No?” He bustled me through, after checking I’d filled everything in to his satisfaction.

  “Once you’re through here to the reading room, you’re in my territory. This is where we keep the catalogues you can browse to see which archives you might want to request. In the meantime, I took the liberty of pulling a few you were mentioning over the phone, so I can bring those to your table right away.”

  I was so charmed by the pleasantness of this dapper little man that I completely forgot to be nervous. Plus, his proactive interest in my project tossed all my rehearsed conversations into the hopper, leaving me to be happily spontaneous. I dumped my coat and bag in a locker in the anteroom he showed me, and followed him through another set of doors into a quiet reading room with several tables in the centre of the room and single carrels lining two walls. The far wall, across from the one containing the door we’d just come through, was lined with windows, letting in the sunny eastern sky.