A Death Most Cold Read online

  “Ladies,” he finally said, “have you got something urgent to add about Louis the XIV and the Theory of Absolutism, or is your discussion of a more current nature — like what you had for lunch?”

  There was a quickly stifled snicker from the middle of the room, followed by silence. Myron finished his lecture without further disruption. As soon as he uttered his last word, Ralph Sorrey unrepentantly picked up his chattels and stomped out of the classroom, obviously unimpressed.

  “And a nice day to you too!” muttered Myron, gathering up his lecture notes.

  After class, Myron went to the cafeteria and bought a ham and cheese sandwich — his favourite meal at home, besides pizza. In this case, it constituted early supper. Since there was the board meeting “extraordinaire” at six, he hadn’t planned to go back to his apartment before. Not much to look forward to there anyway; might as well hang around the place and do some desk work until the meeting, he decided sourly, slowly walking up the stairs to his office.

  After spending an hour or so updating class lists and preparing a midterm test, Myron’s powers of concentration had started to wane. He found his mind wandering off into the gloomy winter landscape just beyond his window. It was dark now — nothing but vague shapes of blackness and a drawn face staring back at him as he gazed out. At least in the summer there’d be a small lake there — actually the city reservoir — but now it was simply a barren, depressed expanse of frozen white under the curtain of darkness, ringed by yellowish street lights in the distance.

  The truth was Myron missed Nadia, plain and simple. He wondered where she was and what she was doing; he felt quite disconnected at that moment, as if he had suddenly inherited an alien reality with nothing to ground him except an empty apartment and increasingly melancholy memories. He sighed, placing his pen down. If nothing else, the board meeting would provide a diversion, a reprieve from his very oppressive preoccupation with personal problems.

  ***

  Arriving half an hour early, Myron hadn’t expected to find anyone in the boardroom. He was therefore surprised to see the solitary figure of Sheila Penny, dean of Career Studies, occupying one of the rolling executive chairs round the large oval table. Head bowed, her hands clutched around her coffee mug, in the subdued light it seemed that she was in deep contemplation over a weighty matter.

  Sheila was a striking woman, in her midforties, Myron guessed, with curled auburn hair, tastefully highlighted with lighter streaks collected in a stylish coiffure, bluish-grey eyes, a wide mouth, and full lips moderately lacquered with a medium shade of red. Her squarely framed face was well preserved, showing but a hint of middle-age looseness under the chin. She kept her body nicely toned and adorned with heavy jewellery and expensive clothing.

  Myron had gotten to know her relatively well in the last couple of years. They sat on a number of committees together and had travelled with a college contingent to Banff Springs Hotel late last year for an institutional conference. There, he discovered the social Sheila, one who could play a mean piano and sing Broadway show tunes when in the partying mode. Her pleasant disposition and graceful features, however, belied the cool glint of her eyes and the hard-headedness of an effective administrator. In some sense, for Myron she embodied a kinder, gentler version of the late president. She could be tough, as Myron found out in committees, but by all accounts she was fair and judicious in dealing with the faculty in her division, which was something that could not be said of her counterpart, Charles Leaper, the dean of Arts and Sciences.

  Nevertheless, there was no denying that Sheila had a hard side, one that cracked her cordial facade every so often. Myron recalled such an incident at a social gathering in a colleague’s home.

  A paediatrician who participated in the nursing student experience placement programme complained to Sheila about the lack of beds at the local hospital. The conversation had started with vaccinations during the flu season and drifted to the health care system in general and acutely ill senior citizens, more specifically. While on the periphery, eavesdropping amid other chatter, Myron heard Sheila adamantly pronounce that the existence of the elderly sick should not be unnecessarily prolonged when they occupied hospital beds, especially when there was an acute shortage for those who could still lead productive lives.

  Ouch! He winced inwardly.

  The soft-spoken paediatrician too was clearly taken aback by these words from a former nurse cum college instructor and administrator who was in charge of the nursing programme.

  “So what do you propose we do?” the doctor asked, her face reddening.

  “Let them die naturally and in their own beds if possible,” Sheila replied forcefully.

  From there, the discussion ventured into the choppy waters of too much medical intervention and euthanasia. Myron didn’t catch the full exchange, but Sheila seemed uncommonly strident in her comments.

  Her uncompromising statements reflected a rigid mindset that chagrined the doctor and bothered Myron (and no doubt others close enough to hear). Myron couldn’t quite rationalize Sheila’s cold, calculating logic. But then there was a fair amount of alcohol consumed by all, and perhaps interpretations and meanings were skewed by loose words best left on the outer edges and not unpacked.

  Myron’s initial greeting received no response. It was as if Sheila was in a deep meditative trance or some subliminal state. He presumed it was the president’s sudden demise. “Awful business — wasn’t it?”

  After still receiving no response, he tried for a spot of levity. “A penny for your thoughts,” he mused, rolling up a chair near her. Ordinarily, he would not be that familiar given their respective positions in the institution, but he knew Sheila well enough to get away with such informality without her taking umbrage.

  “Not very original, Myron. I’ve heard that one before.”

  Ah, wherever she was, she’s back now.

  He shrugged. “Originality was never my strong suit. I leave that to the students…” He cringed inwardly at the creative but uninformed and/or just plain nonsensical history papers he had been marking lately. “You’ve been away, someone mentioned the other day?”

  “For over a week,” she replied, “just got back from Vancouver.”

  “Nice!”

  “Not this trip. Visiting my mother. She’s been under the weather — rheumatism acting up compounded by a nasty fall.”

  “Sorry to hear that—”

  “She’s comfortable and doing much better now. Nothing broken and I’ve made arrangements for regular in-home care. She’s resisting, but soon she may have to move into a senior’s residence.”

  “At least I hope the weather wasn’t as brutal as it has been here for the last week or so.”

  Sheila rolled her eyes. “Drizzled almost the whole time I was there. Don’t know which is worse, miserable, damp cold or just this freezing dry cold.” She pulled her coat from the back of the chair over her shoulders, shivering slightly.

  “Well…you’ve returned to some interesting developments,” Myron noted.

  “But not soon enough!” she remarked rather forcefully. “Tell me,” she leaned toward Myron, “were you part of the travesty that took place at the last board meeting?” There was a definite edge in her voice.

  “I…er…” It took a few seconds for Myron to catch on. “You mean the dismissal of Oliver?” As opposed to Dworking’s sudden demise? wondered Myron.

  “That’s exactly what I mean. What the hell is going on here? How could Dworking can Oliver — the bitch that she…was.”

  Sheila spat out the words so venomously that Myron flinched.

  She caught his expression. “I know…I know… Shouldn’t speak of the dead that way — even if it’s true. But I can’t believe that the board would have gone along with her power tripping. On the other hand,” she frowned, “maybe I can at that.”

  “I plead innocence and ignorance on that one,” Myron assured her. “I wasn’t at the meeting. Haven’t got the foggiest what went down
.”

  “Too bad, but you would have supported Oliver?” There was a sudden frisson of doubt in her voice.

  “I would have,” Myron replied truthfully. He liked Lynch and was absolutely sure that short of some outrageous behaviour or inappropriate actions that came to light (he couldn’t imagine what) he would have defended the dean of Finances and Administration.

  Sheila nodded, apparently satisfied. “Wish you had been there so that I could pick your brain — see what really went down and what set that old battle axe off. Pardon my disrespect for the dead.”

  A second person who wishes that I was there, Myron thought impishly. Pretty soon I might get an “I’m wanted” complex! “As I said, I wasn’t there,” he repeated, still digesting Sheila’s uncharitable outburst.

  She sighed. “The politics of this place…I hate it. Oliver may have stepped on her toes a bit, particularly in the last admin. Budget debate — but to get fired over it…” She paused for a moment, reflecting. “Part of the problem, you know, is that we have such a wimpy board. Most of the appointees are totally clueless about the inner workings of this place — lawyers, businessmen, real estate agents, and aspiring political hacks who know nothing about education. Debits and credits, that’s all this institution means to them, and looking good to government bureaucrats. Why wouldn’t they support Dworking? She spoke their language and balanced the books, which made their tenure on the board relatively painless — one of them rubber-stamping her bottom-line decisions.” She shook her head.

  Myron supposed that Sheila’s tirade was true, to an extent. In Alberta, when the Public Colleges Act was first passed in the mid-1950s, it guaranteed that the board of governors would be comprised of individuals with some interest and experience in educational matters. Members were selected from the participating local school boards to direct college affairs, along with an advisory committee made up of area school superintendents. By the mid-1960s, however, the Act had been amended to broaden the membership. Now included were local business and professional types whose chief criteria was not their contribution or acumen in the educational field but rather their connections to the political party in power and/or their clout with the local member of the legislative assembly.

  “Well…” she continued when Myron kept his silence, “I suppose they’ll have to begin a search to replace her.”

  “Dworking’s death has certainly come as a shock,” Myron said lamely.

  “Bring me up to speed,” Sheila said in a slightly less belligerent tone. “What happened?”

  “I really don’t know all that much.” Who does? “Other than she was found frozen in her car.”

  “What are the police saying?”

  “Not a whole lot more. They may be treating the death as suspicious and certainly are asking a lot of questions.”

  “I see…”

  At that moment, the door swung open and Sheldon Blythe appeared. Blythe, Myron knew, was a stockbroker by profession but a politician by inclination, who, it was rumoured, wanted to be the constituency’s next conservative Member of Parliament. Although most certainly on the cusp of fifty, he had a youthful face with a prominent forehead, accentuated by a receding hairline and egg-shaped head. His tall body complete with a protruding belly was always tailored in a pinstriped suit — at least anytime Myron saw him.

  Blythe stopped and held the door open for Jack Hoar, the vice-chair of the board. Silver-haired with a trace of flabbiness around the jaw, Hoar was the quintessential corporate lawyer, refined, restrained, and expensive. It was no secret that his firm had most of the big government business in Great Plains. Success, however, had not blinded him to his civic duty; as he explained at the time of his appointment, now almost two years ago, he was more than happy to take time out from his busy schedule to offer his services to the institution. The two men quietly conferred near the door before making their way toward Sheila and Myron.

  Next to make his appearance was the other lawyer on the board, Anthony Chorney. Narrow-faced, diminutive in stature, Chorney represented the bottom end of the profession; he specialized in divorce. Although not quite a pettifogging sleazebag, he did have a reputation for screwing people (in the legal sense). Myron wondered if Nadia had gone to see him yet!

  Barely had Chorney closed the door when it sprang open again with the board’s two business representatives: Norm Bowell (Norm’s Sports on 100th street, as Myron recalled) and Gordon Prybiewski, proprietor of an independent grocery store in the Northside Plaza. The two men were a study in contrast. Bowell was short, balding, and fat — all that a lifelong couch potato sports freak aspired to be. Prybiewski was tall and willowy, with sharp edges, of which the most notable was the nose. Both were pillars of their community, family men and good Christians with correct political views (while concomitantly supporting the local MLA), which made them excellent choices for the board.

  “Sheila…Myron,” Blythe said by way of acknowledgement. He focussed on Sheila. “Welcome back! Just wish it could be under more pleasant circumstances. How was your trip?”

  “Other than being wet — fine.” Sheila rose from her chair, continuing with small talk, and joined Hoar as they, like the others in the room, gravitated toward the coffee urn, which had magically appeared just inside the entrance. This was the work of Ms. Whitford, the efficient board secretary, who entered unobtrusively and just as unobtrusively exited until she was needed. Myron also got up but stayed in the back as the parties gathered around the coffee way station.

  After polite inquiries regarding her mother’s health, assurances that she was in good hands (a reference to Sheila having been a practising nurse in her former life before becoming a college instructor and ultimately administrator), and some additional small talk about Vancouver’s version of a nasty winter, Sheila got to the matter that was on her mind: “I understand that there was a rather important board meeting in my absence?”

  “Well, yes…” Blythe cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You are referring to the dismissal of Oliver—”

  “I most certainly am. It was appalling, especially to someone who has served this institution so well.”

  She sure had a bee in her bonnet regarding the board’s treatment of Oliver, thought Myron as he circulated closer to the conversation. Not that she didn’t have a point!

  “Well…there are differing opinions on the matter,” began Blythe, a little wary of Sheila’s strident tone.

  “I gather,” Hoar broke in, “that you have some reservations about the board’s decision to support the president’s recommendation.”

  “I most certainly do. This college seems to have developed a callous attitude to those who have contributed in no small way to building this place. Oliver deserves better.”

  “I hope we’re not overly unfeeling,” Hoar said, turning to Blythe. “We try to be fair to everyone. In the case of Mr. Spinner — well, the decision was made.”

  “On what basis?” Sheila asked harshly.

  “I appreciate that you were absent when the board took the action that it did, but rehashing the reasons wouldn’t get us very far at the moment,” Hoar responded perfunctorily.

  “You mean that the late president’s decision won’t be reconsidered by the board?” Sheila sounded both surprised and annoyed.

  “Well…that may be an item of future discussion,” Blythe said soothingly.

  At that moment, Charles Leaper came in, looking somewhat less than his usual officiousness personified. It took Myron a few seconds to figure out why or more precisely what was missing: the fancy silver aluminum briefcase that Charles seemed never to be without at every meeting he attended, or at least that Myron was at. Instead, he appeared with a big binder under his arm. After a quick sweep of the room, he quickly zeroed in on the board heavyweights.

  If the eyes were the windows to one’s soul, then the look Sheila gave Charles was that of Lady Macbeth: a sharp dart of mortification, loathing, disgust, and just main hatred. Charles was much less obvious, obse
rved Myron, no less menacing but better hooded, concealing the full depth of his animosity. It was a brief, stark unveiling as they acknowledged each other before eye contact broke and the curtain came down, but it was unmistakable nevertheless. These two have a history, surmised Myron, a very nasty one…

  “Ah, Charles…” Blythe chirped pleasantly, “you’re just in time.”

  “Sheldon, Jack…Sheila.” He bowed his head slightly. “In time for what?”

  “We were talking about Oliver. Sheila believes that the board may have been hasty in his case.”

  Charles Leaper was not an imposing figure. Slightly paunchy, with receding hair slicked back, he had the ubiquitous quality of blending into any crowd. He had been with the college almost from the first. For a number of years he was an instructor in the Business Department; later, he became chairperson of that department and a couple of others. Indeed, he specialized in filling administrative gaps; “Have vacancy will fill” seemed to be his motto. After a while, he climbed higher up the administrative ladder to registrar and director of Student Services. Finally, he got his shot at the presidency when Dworking’s predecessor stepped down (with a little nudge, as it turned out). Alas, the board went external and hired Dworking. Undaunted, he sought and got the consolation prize: the deanship of Arts and Sciences, which became available shortly after the new president’s arrival. Charles may have begun in teaching, but administration was his forte. For some in the college, he was viewed as the archetypical mini Machiavellian bureaucrat, the one who ensured his survival by plotting behind a desk. And survive he did, through all the institutional twists and turns that came his way. Myron had heard that his tenure on the Dworking team had become rather tenuous of late, but that was now a moot point.

  Charles pretended to give Sheila’s reservations some thought before answering. “I’m not sure that we were out of line. After all, it was endorsed by those who were present. Of course, I’m willing — as are others I’m sure — to give the matter a second sober thought, as they would say,” he added diplomatically.