A Death Most Cold Read online

  Corporal Osprey was without her parka (which puzzled Myron), but otherwise she was fully dressed in her regulation Mountie costume. The dark-blue shirt strained across her chest, and he spent a lingering second or two examining it before he elevated his sight and thoughts to a higher plane.

  “You look spooked!” she remarked. “Not hiding a body in the closet, are you?”

  “Pardon?” His jaw dropped.

  “Never mind, I couldn’t resist,” she said, stepping in. She took an encompassing survey of his empty living room. “Did I catch you at an awkward time?”

  “Ah…no, not at all,” he assured her. “You can help me dispose of the body.”

  “Touché!” She laughed. “I’m your neighbour — of sorts,” she continued. “I live a floor below you, and rather than tracking you down at the college, I thought it might be more convenient to reach you at home.”

  No wonder she looked familiar; he’d probably seen her a time or two in the building without the uniform but took no real notice when he was happily married. It explained the absence of a parka.

  “Would you have a few moments,” she pressed on, “to answer some questions?”

  “Tonight…I’m free…all evening,” he babbled, still off guard and trying to collect his thoughts. And indeed, he hadn’t any plans but to digest his pizza and feel sorry for himself in front of the TV, which, thankfully, Nadia appeared to have overlooked. “I’ve just made coffee; can I get you some?” He gestured to the gurgling coffee maker. “Should be enough for two.”

  “That’d be great — if it isn’t too much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all.” He directed her to the dining portion of his abode. She sat with her back to the frost-laced sliding balcony door where she had another perspective on his unadorned living room.

  “What happened to your furniture?”

  “It got taken away.”

  “Were you burglarized?”

  “Oh no…nothing like that! Umm…my wife took it,” he said quickly but didn’t elaborate further.

  After an awkward pause, she chose not to pursue it but got to the subject at hand. “I’m here, of course, about the tragic incident at the college.”

  He nodded, setting two coffee mugs on the counter. “Cream and/or sugar?”

  “Black, thanks.”

  Myron poured the brew, placed a mug in front of her, and sat opposite.

  “At this time, I’m interviewing those who dealt with President Dworking on a fairly consistent basis. I’ve spoken to a number of individuals, and your name was mentioned.”

  “Oh?”

  The corporal produced a small notebook from her back pocket and quickly flipped to a section. “You are the faculty representative on the board of governors this year?”

  “Yes.”

  “And until recently, you were president of the Faculty Association — for two years running, someone mentioned?”

  “Right — until last year.”

  “So in those positions you would have had the opportunity to interact with the deceased on a fairly regular basis?”

  “I wouldn’t say regular — but yes, on numerous occasions I spoke to her.”

  Taking a pen from her shirt pocket, she asked, “How long had you known President Dworking?”

  “Since I arrived at the college — almost four years now.”

  “And your interaction with her was on a professional basis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Never got to know her on a more personal basis?”

  “No, not really.”

  “So you wouldn’t know if there was anyone that she may have confided in — a close friend, relative perhaps?”

  “No one that I know of… Don’t think she had any relatives out here. She was from Ontario originally,” as is a goodly portion of the faculty, he mused. “And she was a very private person.”

  Freta nodded. “So I’ve gathered. In general, was she liked by the faculty?”

  “Not liked exactly,” Myron said diplomatically, “but certainly respected and feared, I suppose. She ran a tight ship.”

  “In what way?”

  “Finances, for one. She took the college from a huge deficit to pretty well a balanced budget. That was the hallmark of her administration. She made sure we lived within our means.”

  “An efficient administrator, then, who didn’t mind stepping on people’s toes?”

  Myron shrugged. “There was a price to be paid — cuts to staff and services whenever there was a fiscal shortfall from Advanced Education. The prez could be quite ruthless.”

  Freta jotted a line or two in her notebook. “Do you recall anyone she may have personally slighted or offended?”

  Myron stifled a cough and reddened; the coffee went down the wrong way. “Who didn’t she offend is a better question,” he said, regretting his rather trite remark as soon as he said it. “I didn’t quite mean it that way—”

  “I get your drift,” she said. “I’ve heard much the same from others today. What I mean is were there, to your knowledge, any threats made against her, publicly or privately?”

  “No…none that I am aware of. There’s always disgruntled talk in the halls, but that’s the extent of it. Ah… Can I ask you a question?” Myron’s curiosity was getting the better of him, especially since Freta’s line of questioning was suddenly aligning with what Ted had told him earlier that day.

  “Go ahead.” She gave what Myron perceived was a bemused expression, a curt smile with the eyebrows arching up.

  “Your line of inquiry seems to suggest that President Dworking met with foul play.” God, that sounded like a clichéd line from a cop show I saw the other night!

  “Not necessarily. That is yet to be determined,” Freta responded in a clipped, professional manner.

  “You’re not a homicide detective?”

  “No. The Major Crimes Unit has not been called — yet.”

  “You’re in charge of the investigation?” It seemed a dumb question, but then she seemed relatively young to be handling what he presumed was potentially a murder case.

  “That’s right,” she said, taking a sip from her mug. “For now. The officer first called to the scene gets to investigate — at least initially. Standard procedure.”

  “Oh,” he said, sounding disappointed; somehow he thought she might be from a special squad like on TV. “So when do the detectives come?”

  “When the death is deemed suspicious.”

  “And President Dworking’s death is not?” Myron persisted thinking about Ted’s passed on rumours that the cops were, indeed, suspicious. Certainly, the corporal’s questions seemed to suggest that she was “suspicious.”

  Freta pre-empted any follow-up questions with a very direct and pointed one of her own. “For the record, where were you last night?” She looked straight into his eyes, her pen poised. Suspicion is definitely the operative word, thought Myron.

  “At home,” he responded, somewhat taken aback by the sudden question.

  “Can someone verify that?”

  “You mean do I have an alibi?” This is sounding like something from a cop show after all…

  “Yes,” she said blandly. Myron thought he detected smirk lines at the corners of Freta’s benign smile.

  “Two of my colleagues from the college were here last night for most of the evening — didn’t leave till after midnight.” Myron mentioned Ted Mack and Benson McDougall, which she duly recorded.

  “When did they arrive?”

  “About eight thirty… Also, my wife, ah…dropped by around nine thirty with her, ah…friends to take some furniture and the like. We’ve recently separated,” he added almost apologetically.

  “I see.” Her tone softened. “I had to ask — routine.” She gave him a sympathetic smile as if to say, Sorry, but asking these sorts of questions is part of the job.

  Myron cleared his throat. “Exactly how did the president die?”

  “She froze.”

  “What I
mean is — do you think foul play was involved?”

  Freta stopped writing and gave him that “nice try” look. They had covered the topic already. “We’ll know more when the forensic team finishes its work, but that will take a while.”

  “Oh…” Myron had no idea about such things.

  “Yes, the body was pretty well frozen and needs to be warmed up gradually before an autopsy can be performed. That may take up to a week.”

  “Oh,” Myron repeated numbly, digesting this piece of information.

  “In the meantime,” Freta continued, “I’m taking statements from individuals such as yourself and establishing your whereabouts — just in case.” Myron thought he saw those smirk lines again and frowned.

  “You mean in case of foul play?”

  “Right.”

  “For curiosity’s sake,” and the sake of my alibi, “at what time did she die?”

  “That hasn’t been determined yet. We have to wait for the autopsy report. In any case, it will only be an estimated time, but given what you told me, you and your guests are probably in the clear.” She gave Myron an upgrade from smirk to small smile. “I’d say it was some time between early evening and midnight but—” she shrugged, “then again, these things are tricky to determine accurately and depend on many factors. The process of freezing complicates time of death even further by inhibiting the usual markers. So…who knows?”

  While Myron pondered that, Freta turned a page in her notebook and abruptly changed focus. “You are, of course, acquainted with Mr. Oliver Spinner?”

  “Yes, yes I am.”

  “What is your assessment of his capabilities as…” she flipped to another page, “dean of Financial and Administrative Services?”

  Myron frowned, perplexed. “I presume he’s doing a good job. Certainly, as far as I know, he’s well regarded — by the faculty, at least. Why?”

  “You didn’t know that he was dismissed from his position last night?”

  “Dismissed? No…no, I didn’t.” Surprises never seemed to cease at the place. This was news that even Ted’s sensitive antenna tuned to whispers in the halls didn’t pick up.

  “And you’re the faculty representative on the board?”

  A rhetorical question, no doubt, Myron surmised, since she knew the answer. The truth of the matter was that he hadn’t gone to the “special” board meeting early last evening because of his preoccupation with other recent activities in his life. Evidently, he missed an important development.

  “Well,” Freta continued, not waiting for a response, “apparently, with the concurrence of the board, President Dworking fired him a couple of hours before her death. You didn’t attend the board meeting then?”

  “No…I decided not to go.”

  “Too bad,” she said, pursing her lips. “I’d be interested in knowing what was said. The meeting was in camera, as I understand it, so no official minutes, other than the key decisions, were recorded.”

  Myron nodded. He would like to know as well, for his sake, and that of the faculty to whom he reported. It was pretty bad when he couldn’t even fulfill the proverbial fly on the wall role. That will teach me. The muddle of his own domestic affairs had affected his duty as a duly elected board member. He should have attended; instead, he moped about his apartment for a couple hours until Ted and Benson arrived to “cheer” him up. And, of course, they were on hand to witness Nadia take away “her” possessions.

  “You missed a busy night at the college,” she remarked dryly.

  Freta continued to enquire about a few more people at the college, emphasizing that his interview was, as with others she had conducted, in strict confidence. Myron asked again whether she thought that Dworking’s death could be construed as suspicious, but she declined to elaborate or speculate further. “I’m just doing some preliminary leg work at this point. No doubt in a day or two more information will be released. Right now, I’m interested in general impressions of the deceased and what individuals thought of her. Your observations are appreciated…”

  About forty-five minutes later, Freta closed her notebook. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

  “No problem…care for more coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I better be off.”

  At the door, she took one more glance at his vacant living room. “I hope things work out for you. Refurnishing the apartment can be expensive.” She gave him a becoming smile, which made Myron wonder vaguely if she was attached.

  “Er… thanks. And good luck in your investigation. If I can help in any way…” He really didn’t know why he said that, but it seemed kosher to offer.

  “Well, perhaps you can at that.” She left with the thought hanging.

  ***

  After Freta left, Myron tried to digest what he had learned. One thing for sure, good ol’ Ted was closer with his speculations than even he probably realized; the president, in all likelihood, did not die of natural causes, an accident, or misadventure. Freta didn’t directly say so, but the case could very well as not turn out to be a homicide. And then there was the secondary bombshell, for him at least, of Spinner’s dismissal. Well, that would teach him to miss a board meeting; he would definitely be at the one scheduled for tomorrow. And the lead investigating officer — his thoughts meandered to Freta and her cryptic parting comment about him helping her out. He would not be averse to getting to know her better…

  The beginnings of a reverie about his uniformed neighbour a floor below was suddenly shattered by the sharp ring of the telephone. It made him jump.

  “Get a hold of yourself, old boy,” he muttered as he picked up the receiver. It was his mother.

  “Is there something wrong?” she wanted to know. “I have hard time reaching you — you never home!”

  “I’ve been busy lately, Mom.”

  “Nadia too?”

  “Yes, Nadia too,” he answered lamely.

  “I haven’t talked to her in a long time.”

  “It’s her work — the hours are unpredictable.”

  “Well, don’t you see each other?”

  “Yes…we do,” he said, wincing into the mouthpiece. If he told her that Nadia had left him, she’d probably be out on the next flight.

  “She busy…you busy… Is there trouble between you and Nadia? She not happy?” Mother’s intuition is as sharp as a bat’s radar. “We’re having a spat at the moment,” he said defensively. Better to tell her something.

  “Spat?”

  “Disagreement… Hopefully, we’ll work it out.”

  “Disagreement? Over what?”

  “Oh…a number of things — Nadia’s job, my habits — domestic things. Nothing to worry about.” Myron tried to keep his tone light. Although he lied in terms of the magnitude of what was happening in his personal life, it was for a good cause; he didn’t want to unduly upset her. She would know soon enough if it were really finished between him and Nadia. But for the time being, while there was still a chance to patch their relationship up, Myron thought it best to minimize, if not conceal, his marriage difficulties.

  Still, Mother was persistent and the topic could not be so cavalierly dismissed. “Myron, something smells feeshy there?”

  “I’ll be fine,” he tried to reassure her.

  “Do you want me to come for a veesit?”

  “No…no. It’s cold and miserable here. Been forty below for a week. I’ll be back east as planned in June.” With or without Nadia, he added.

  They went on to talk about the usual fare of long distance family phone calls. Myron learned that everyone was doing fine, that his youngest brother, Andrew, had gotten a job with an insurance company after receiving a diploma in computer technology; that the dog had a litter of six; and that their neighbour of twenty years, Dennis Holick, was dying of cancer. It was a capsule panorama of the life and times of the Tarasyn clan, as interpreted by Marta Tarasyn. But beneath the flow of information, Myron realized that he hadn’t fooled his mother. She knew now that something was
up; she just didn’t know how serious. For that matter, neither did he really, although all the signs of a permanent breakup loomed large.

  Chapter Five

  Wednesday

  In general, Myron’s mid-afternoon class in world history compared rather poorly with his early morning section. The students appeared overly listless and less interested in the subject matter. He attributed this collective behaviour to the deadly time of day (3:00 to 4:20) and the fact that most took the course not because they wanted to but because it was the only arts requirement that they could fit into their schedule.

  Normally, the evident apathy didn’t bother Myron. He considered himself a professional who worked hard on his preparation and communication skills. And as long as he did his best in setting the conditions for learning, he had fulfilled his end of the bargain. After all, he reasoned, “nobody can’t teach nobody nothing if they don’t want to be taught.” It was a line from an old movie or book (he couldn’t remember which) that he had read. Today, however, the overall negative ambience of this particular group was made worse by the addition of discordant elements.

  The first came in the form of Ralph Sorrey, a bright but moody eighteen-year-old who had lately exhibited a sporadic attendance record. He sauntered in a few minutes late, took a seat on the far side of the room, and for the rest of the class proceeded to glower at the instructor, hands folded across his chest, his notebook unopened. Although Myron chose to ignore him (at least he wasn’t nodding off like a couple of others were threatening to do), after a while it became distracting. What’s his beef? Myron wondered, casting the occasional glance in Sorrey’s direction. Is it me or something more generic? He decided to let it pass, but if this were the beginning of a new behavioural trend, in the near future he’d need to take the kid aside and discuss his attitude and body language.

  The second problem was more straightforward. Two females sitting together were engaged in an almost whispered conversation while he lectured. It created a most annoying background buzz, which abruptly ceased when he stopped. Myron deliberately paused a number of times and glared pointedly in their direction, hoping they would receive the message, but to no avail.