A Death Most Cold Read online

  Copyright @ 2020 Jarsolav (Jerry) Petryshyn

  Iguana Books

  720 Bathurst Street, Suite 303

  Toronto, ON M5S 2R4

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of the author or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  Publisher: Meghan Behse

  Editor: Allister Thompson and Heather Bury

  Front cover design: Meghan Behse

  Front cover illustration: Melissa Novak

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77180-438-7 (paperback). 978-1-77180-439-4 (epub). 978-1-77180-440-0 (Kindle).

  This is the original electronic edition of A Death Most Cold.

  This is a work of fiction with the characters, names, places and incidents a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Dedicated to the memory of my brother Mike

  (April 22, 1957 – June 26, 2019)

  ‘Always and Forever’

  Chapter One

  Monday evening

  Oliver Spinner sat down, his face a puzzled frown. He had been informed that the board of governors just finished an extraordinary “in camera” session and he had not been invited. This in itself was perplexing considering that, as the institution’s chief financial officer, he attended all such meetings as a matter of course. Bewilderment deepened into concern when he saw the board chair in the president’s office as well, looking bleaker and more severe than he usually did. Sheldon Blythe was clearly discomforted, his high forehead profoundly creased, the mouth etched into a pucker as if tasting something thoroughly unappetizing and the eyes averted, studying the hands clasped in his lap.

  The only individual who seemed herself, which was to say in control, was the president; Vanessa Dworking shifted slightly in her seat, took full measure of the two men before her, and, seemingly satisfied that they were sufficiently attentive — in the case of Spinner, riveted to the edge of his chair — decided she might as well get it over with.

  “I’ll get right to the point, Oliver. This is an exit conference. You are being released from your position as dean of financial and administrative services under the dismissal clause in your contract.”

  Spinner blinked blankly at the woman behind her mammoth desk, then glanced sideways at Blythe, who was now preoccupied with straightening his cuffs. To be sure, his working relationship with the president had been strained lately, but he hadn’t anticipated this scenario at all.

  “Why?” he finally managed to croak.

  “I’ve lost confidence in your ability to perform your duties.”

  Met by a stunned silence, Dworking continued, “Late last week, I placed your name before the Board Personnel Committee with two options — either you go or I go. The committee has chosen.”

  Dworking stated this with a hint of smugness, nodding slightly in the direction of Blythe, who also happened to chair the Personnel Committee. “There was a special meeting of the full board earlier this evening. They ratified the committee’s decision. The only avenue available to you, if you so choose, would be to tender your resignation; it might be advantageous to do so — save public embarrassment. This, of course, will not affect your contractual benefits in any way,” she added gratuitously.

  Spinner cleared his throat a couple of times, trying to comprehend the full scope of his situation and gather his thoughts. “Excuse me if I seem somewhat overwrought…I have been caught by surprise — in fact, I’m shocked and bewildered to find that there has been a serious problem with my work. I would like to know whether this action is a result of my performance or—”

  The president’s gravelly voice cut him off. “There’s no use going into details. The decision has been made, and that decision is not debatable and in any case will not be overturned.” Turning again to her board chairperson as if for confirmation, she proceeded, “Now, I suggest we stick to the purpose of this meeting. Do you wish to tender your resignation?”

  Struggling to keep his composure, Spinner scarcely knew how to respond. “I…I regret that events have reached this stage and that I wasn’t given any indication that there was a serious problem between us. But I don’t appreciate this kind of pressure and such short notice. I would need some time to think as to what is my best course of action—”

  “Oliver,” Blythe spoke for the first time, perhaps sensing his cue, “the dismissal is a reality. After today, you will no longer be employed by Great Plains College. I’m sorry. If you do choose to resign, there will be a generous package; however, I…er…we would need a letter to that effect after this meeting.”

  ***

  Vanessa Dworking stood low to the ground, with a good centre of gravity. She had black, closely cropped hair and a wide Slavic face with a generous mouth — features well proportioned to her stature. In the corridors of the college, she was instantly recognizable by the dapper fur coat and the formidable handbag/purse that swung rhythmically from her side. She walked with a measured cadence, not quite a swagger but still as someone who knew who was in charge. Not that she was an overly familiar figure in the main building; she chose to perform her duties from a solitary edifice that formerly housed the college’s extension services (made defunct by budgetary restraints in her first year). Refurbished inside and out, the squat structure perfectly served her detached administrative style. The sign in front read “President’s Office”; to most, however, it was simply known as “the bunker.”

  At the time of her appointment, she had been the vice-president of a large polytechnical institute in Toronto. Undoubtedly, she would have remained there had she been able to move up that last rung of the ladder. And for a while, she thought she might actually do it. Indeed, for one heady year she served as acting president while the incumbent lay in hospital recuperating from a bad traffic accident (even big Buicks didn’t react well to broadsides from TTC buses). Alas, he recovered sufficiently to resume his post, and her career advancement was temporarily halted. Then she spotted the ad in the Globe and Mail: “A dynamic, growing college in a progressive Northern Alberta community is seeking a Chief Executive Officer.” Well, why not! As it turned out, Great Plains College was looking for a no-nonsense money manager to lead it out of a huge deficit. Being a good bean counter, she fit the bill.

  But not without resistance. The fact of the matter was that when her application arrived, Dwane Pubber, head of the Presidential Selection Committee (and Sheldon Blythe’s predecessor as chairperson of the board of governors) set it aside on the grounds that she couldn’t be seriously considered because of her gender. Not that he was a sexist, mind you — as he explained — it was just that some women at certain times of the year became emotionally distraught on account of “hormonal eruptions” and couldn’t be trusted to make the proper decisions.

  This line of logic did not go over well with other members of the committee. Most members wanted to replace the incumbent, whose contract was not renewed after due deliberation, with a competent, financially responsible administrator with gender considerations irrelevant. One particular female student (the committee was an enlightened one, with student and faculty representation) took the chairperson to task in no uncertain terms for his remarks. It was the mid-1980s, after all, and times were changing, with little tolerance for such misinformed views. Besides, it was discreetly pointed out that
given Ms. Dworking’s age — north of fifty — chances were she was beyond “those” kind of potential problems. Accordingly, her application was quickly reinstated, and on the finalist list at that. Suitably chastised and chastened, Pubber kept any further opinions to himself, and matters, for better or worse, took their course.

  For her part, Vanessa knew exactly what she wanted; she had long ago decided on a career above all else, and she pursued it with the tenacity of a born-again Christian. Her only diversion occurred early in her university days. The young man’s name was Jules Weinstein. A flighty, unorthodox personality, Jules was proved to lack all those characteristics that Vanessa possessed: sober judgement, practicality, and a hard-headed appreciation of reality. But then opposites were supposed to attract.

  At any rate, their relationship was brief and in retrospect doomed. One day, Jules handed her a letter to give to the sociology professor with whom they were both taking a course.

  “I won’t be coming to class anymore,” he announced. “It’s all explained in the note.”

  Jules, as it turned out, was a dedicated Marxist–Leninist. His mission in life was to replace decadent Western capitalism with revolutionary socialism. As fate would have it, the “class struggle” took him to a political rally at Maple Leaf Gardens. During the course of the demonstration that followed, he was accosted (his version) by a fascist pig (code name for one of Metro’s finest). Now, he was being incarcerated and therefore could not attend classes.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “I hit the cocksucker with a two-by-four.”

  After that, Vanessa declined to fraternize any further with Jules, or with anyone else, for that matter.

  ***

  With the meeting concluded and the parties involved gone, Vanessa took a long, satisfying drag on her cigarette. There, that was done! She felt a kind of intoxication at having triumphed once more.

  And triumphed she had. It had been, after all, a bit of a gamble, calculated and weighted heavily in her favour, but a gamble nevertheless. “I’ve lost confidence in the dean of financial and administrative services,” she told the board, “and I want his services terminated.”

  There had been some raised eyebrows, and a couple of the more strident members voiced fairly strenuous objections. Spinner had been with the institution for quite some time — in fact, much longer than she. But in a test of wills she won, as she had been doing from the day they hired her. The clincher, and hence the gamble, required that she lay it on the line — either he goes or she goes. The board chose her, as she knew they would.

  Vanessa decisively crushed her cigarette butt into the overflowing ashtray. Enough for one night! She glanced at her watch. Almost nine — she rarely stayed this late. Indeed, except for the occasional meeting, she adhered to a nine-to-five routine. The quintessence of a good administrator: do what needed to be done in the time allocated and escape to your own sanctum. In her experience those who chained themselves to their desks or brought excessive work home with them were likely inefficient and were apt to suffer from premature burnout. She guarded against both.

  Vanessa got up and stretched. Shrugging into her coat, she paused at the window, parted the blinds, and peered out with a shiver. Great Plains had been enveloped in one of those Arctic cold fronts for three days now; the parking lot was shrouded in ice fog, with her encrusted red Olds sitting forlornly under the pale glow of a street lamp. Must have been minus thirty with no relief in sight, but at least it hadn’t snowed in some time. She didn’t mind the temperature extremes so much but loathed the snow, or rather driving in it, since she lived a good twenty kilometres outside the city.

  Her thoughts were momentarily jarred when she heard the outer doors of the “bunker” creak open. Now who could that be at this time of night? The custodial staff had already made their rounds, and it was still too early for the security check. Picking up her handbag, she emerged from her office.

  “Oh, it’s you!” she exclaimed, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

  ***

  As he wheeled the John Deere into the parking lot, Merle Morgan thought about his warm bed and how he wished he were still in it. Hauling your arse out at 5:30 a.m. and then freezing it off sanding sidewalks and roads wasn’t his career ambition, but then neither was being unemployed.

  The issue wasn’t so much the nature of the job, which he didn’t mind (and the pay was good), but his behaviour that night that had led to his “out of sorts” morning. He had gone to the Great Plains Inn to catch the hotel’s latest attraction, none other than the Rhythm Pals from the Tommy Hunter Show that he used to watch on CBC.

  Merle liked his country music, but these guys were a cut above; he considered the trio more than just a house band for Tommy Hunter but rather great Canadian performing artists like Al Cherny or Juliette, whom he often enjoyed after the hockey game. For him, they transcended the usual nasal, twangy sounds with more elaborate vocal harmonies and instrumental backup. He was particularly partial to the mellow moans of the accordion during their sad ballads. And it was a welcome break from the mid-February cabin fever blues.

  He sat in the corner of the lounge, subsumed in the shadows, a lone lump — at least these days — nursing his beer and tapping his right big toe to the beat. Sparse crowd, he had noted, but it was Monday night. During the intermission, he wandered over to the Rhythm Pals’ display table just off the stage, picked up their latest album, Just for You, and briefly chatted with the musicians. They thanked him, after which the album cover was duly signed by Mike, Marc, and Jack under their respective photos.

  No complaints — that part of the evening was all good… It was later when he arrived home that he got derailed. Hurtin’ songs did that to him, and the album had a couple that made him break his rule about overindulging during the work week. He sat, listened, and drank well into the night, feeling more and more maudlin as the hours wore on. With the strains of “Illusions of Love” stoking his sorrow and sips of Canadian Club dulling his resolve, he thought of his brief time with Maggie and what might have been had she not packed her belongings and left him without so much as a goodbye note.

  That was just over two months ago, and although he was getting over her (after all, there was no formal commitment, and he knew that she was a bit of a free spirit) and had started to move on, there were moments of pain. The Rhythm Pals, or rather their music, had inadvertently caused him a relapse.

  With a deep sigh, Merle drove the tractor cum snowplough/sand spreader alongside the only vehicle in the parking lot; he recognized it as the president’s car. And so he should, since he’d been in charge of its maintenance for the last two years! Part of the perks of office, he supposed; every three years, the president was entitled to a new car, and it was serviced as an integral part of the college fleet.

  The ’86 Oldsmobile Delta 88 Royale was a sharp, substantial conveyance, as befitted the institution’s chief executive officer. Nicely squared off, with an imposing presence — although a bit forlorn at that moment — it was just the kind of automobile he’d love to own, if he could afford it. He wondered what happened to these presidential cars when the time period expired. Were they leased and thus returned (he didn’t think so, if he had to perform the maintenance)? More likely, it was traded in for a new version or sold — possibly auctioned off. He’d take it if the price was right. His old Malibu would be ready to rust in peace in another year or so when the prez was due for a new one. He made a mental note to ask around, get the scoop, and stake out his interest, so to speak.

  Judging by the thick layer of frost on the windows, it hadn’t moved all night. Dworking mustn’t have gotten the thing going, Merle surmised.

  “Probably the battery,” he muttered. Maybe he should give it a boost. But he didn’t have the key, did he? And she wouldn’t leave them in the ignition, would she? On the other hand, you never know, do you? What the hell — might as well check it out anyway.

  He put the tractor in neutral and eased himse
lf out of the warm cabin with a shiver, his boots crackling on the crystallized snow as he approached the driver’s door. He tried it and was surprised that it wasn’t locked.

  As the door swung open, Merle Morgan staggered backward, almost gagging on a deep, involuntary intake of sharp, pristine air.

  “Holeee thundering Jesus!”

  Not only were the keys in the ignition, but the president was there too, securely fastened in her seat belt, staring straight ahead, about as stiff as a body could be.

  Chapter Two

  Tuesday morning

  Myron Tarasyn stared out his apartment window; all he could see was the misty dullness of the ice fog and the diffusion of lights from Great Plains College shrouded in various shades of grey in the distance. It promised to be another frigid, surrealistic day.

  “Minus thirty five and dropping,” announced the slightly nasal voice on the radio, “a real Northern Alberta February. So much for global warming…”

  So much for a hell of a lot of things, thought Tarasyn, pulling out a battered Brigham pipe from the inside pocket of his limp tweed jacket. He went through the ritual of stuffing tobacco into the pipe, tamping it down with his index finger and finally igniting the mixture. It was a bit early to begin puffing, but these days he didn’t much care. What did one of his old mentors say about the vice? A woman is just a woman, but a pipe is a good smoke. Well, not quite right. Both could burn you; it was a matter of degree. One scorched only the tongue; the other could blacken the soul.

  Through the veil of rising smoke, he surveyed the latest manifestation of his blackened soul: an empty living room. Nadia had come by unexpectedly last evening with some of her cohorts and more or less cleaned him out.