A Death Most Cold Read online

  There were a few exceptions; Myron and Nadia weren’t exactly geriatric, nor was Freta. She didn’t live directly below but close, two doors down. Her apartment was essentially the same as Myron’s. One entered into a short alcove; hard right at the end of the hall was the bathroom, with two bedrooms on the left; straight ahead emerged the tiny kitchen beyond which was a small dining area and a sliding door to the balcony. The most inviting space was the living room, a clone of his with beige walls and a shaggy brown rug. The big difference was that it had its usual complement of furniture. Freta favoured the modern decor of Swedish design.

  She greeted him out of uniform, wearing faded jeans and a large sweatshirt, which had “RCMP” embossed across the front in large letters. Although it hid some of her more notable features, it didn’t make her less appealing. They made their way to her living room, where Myron plopped down into one of her low profile wood/canvas seats.

  “Want to try some of that wine you brought, or beer?” she asked, flipping out the ponytailed hair from the back of her sweatshirt. She must have just tied it before he arrived, Myron thought sublimely.

  “Beer would be good. It goes better with pizza.”

  “Beer it is,” she said, going to the kitchen. “What do you want on your pizza, by the way?” she called, opening the fridge.

  “I’m not fussy. Whatever you like — except anchovies and onions.”

  “Large deluxe, pepperoni, double cheese, hold the onions and fish it is.” She carried in two foaming mugs of brew, handed him one, and sat across from him in a wicker chair, curling her feet beneath her.

  “How was your interrogation of Leaper?” Myron asked.

  “I’d hardly call it an interrogation. He was very circumspect and politically correct,” she said. “Didn’t have a bad thing to say about anyone and didn’t give anything away.”

  “That’s Charles — slick, hooded eyes, plays his cards close to the vest.”

  “And like three quarters of everyone else I spoke to, doesn’t have an alibi — not a verifiable one, at least. Says he worked late in his office until nine that evening and then went home. He doesn’t have a motive for killing Dworking — does he?”

  “None that I know of, other than ambition. I understand that he threw his hat into the ring for the presidency the last time around but the board had the good sense to overlook him. But then,” Myron added a trifle maliciously (he couldn’t help himself), “they spoiled it by picking Vanessa! At any rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if he becomes the acting president in about a week from now.”

  “Oh?”

  Myron told her about the board meeting and the board’s decision to select an internal chief executive officer at the next special meeting on Wednesday. “I’ll bet my Wayne Gretzky rookie card that he’ll apply, and chances are he’ll get it. After that, he’ll be harder to remove than Saddam Hussein.”

  “You don’t like him much, do you?”

  “It’s not a question of like so much,” Myron responded, taking a sip of cold beer. “He’s just devious — knows which side his bread is buttered at any given moment and plays both ends toward the middle. A man of a thousand postures. Mr. Chameleon. He could be singing your praises in one breath while giving you the shaft in the other if it furthered his goals or made him look good.”

  “How did he get along with Dworking?”

  “Hard to say. The word is not all that well lately. But he did what he was told. If Dworking asked him to jump, he’d ask how high. She as much as said so, publicly calling him her boy scout.”

  “Ooh…mean. Low blow!”

  “Of course, the late prez could be a bit insensitive to all senior administrators at various times—”

  “And he’s the type who wouldn’t forget but carry a grudge?”

  “Knowing the way Charles operates — most definitely,” Myron affirmed.

  “And he can potentially achieve what he’s wanted all along now that Dworking is gone.”

  “You got it.”

  “You’re a fountain of information,” Freta declared, raising her mug in a toast.

  “Those are my highly biased and unadulterated perceptions that I’m giving you. I could be totally wrong — although about Charles, I doubt it.”

  “Well…” Freta stared into her beer, thinking, “my number one person of interest is still Oliver Spinner. He had the most pressing, immediate, and devastating motive, and he too has no alibi. Said he drove home straight away after his meeting with Dworking and the board chair in a total state of shock.”

  Oliver seemed the number one suspect of the rumour mill as well, according to Ted, thought Myron, but he said, “I can believe that Oliver was in shock. He was almost a charter member of the institution; got hired in the Business Department about twenty-three years ago. Taught for over eighteen years before becoming the dean of Financial and Administrative Services under Dworking’s predecessor. I guess she didn’t appreciate his fiscal style.”

  “He seemed bewildered when I asked about his dismissal. Couldn’t understand it.”

  Myron shrugged. “I’m not privy to the inner dynamics of the administrative team. Obviously Dworking finally got fed up with him, for whatever specific reason.”

  “I’ll make a note to check into that a little further. Haven’t started to interview the board members yet — excluding you, of course,” she said.

  “Maybe I can help,” Myron volunteered, “and ask some questions as well.”

  Freta smiled. “Does this mean you’re taking up the offer of aiding your local law enforcement officer?”

  “Something like that.” Myron had thought about it ever since their meeting earlier in the day. He was in a rut and needed a diversion. What better diversion? Why not do a little poking around? Besides, he’d have an excuse to keep seeing this intriguing damsel.

  “Discreet checking, mind you,” Freta said lightheartedly. “You’re not deputized or anything.”

  “I’ll be a model of discretion,” Myron assured her.

  “I better phone for the pizza,” she said, getting up and going to the wall phone in the kitchen. “Flattery’s, the best pizza in town.”

  “If you say so.”

  “And they’re quick — delivery within forty-five minutes. Meanwhile, you can tell me more about the board meeting.”

  After Freta placed their order and replenished their beers, Myron recounted the undercurrent of animosity between the dean of Career Studies and the dean of Arts and Sciences, Sheila Penny’s strident defence of Oliver, and the silent interchange between the two. “I can’t be sure, but there was something going on there, and Charles smirked about it.

  “Possible ménage à trois?”

  Myron stifled a cough and set his mug down on the little table beside him. “Oh…hadn’t thought of that, but I doubt it. Of course, who knows? Could be a private matter better left undisturbed.”

  “A homicide investigation leaves little room for privacy,” Freta countered. “I haven’t talked to Penny yet.”

  “So this is a homicide investigation?” Myron asked wryly.

  “Nothing has changed. Just assume for the purposes of our discussion,” Freta replied with an impish smile.

  “Okay, all speculation at this point—”

  “But back to Penny…”

  “She’s hardly a suspect,” Myron said. “She’s got a better alibi than I have. She was in Vancouver the night Dworking died.”

  “Still, a chat won’t hurt. She’s on my list. Don’t want to leave any stone unturned,” Freta said dryly. “Cheers.” She raised her mug.

  ***

  The pizza was most palatable, and infused with a couple of mugs of beer, Myron found himself comfortably ensconced in Freta’s abode, enjoying her company and in no particular hurry to leave. Nor did it seem that she was in any great hurry to see him go. A couple of hours, and in Myron’s case, two trips to the bathroom later, conversation had drifted to more personal matters. In due course, Myron discovered that
Freta had been in Great Plains only about six months and that the Dworking case was her second investigation dealing with a frozen corpse.

  The first also involved a Great Plains celebrity of sorts who met his demise in the city’s industrial park. Jimmy “Gomer” Banks was a well-known panhandler who lived at the men’s hostel. He was usually hanging around downtown in front of the Royal Bank, although occasionally he’d try his luck with the Bank of Montreal customers across the street. His favourite destination was the Alberta Liquor Control store, but of course, he could only go there after he had solicited the necessary funds.

  Like other citizens of Great Plains, Myron had encountered Gomer once or twice going about his business. A diminutive fellow with a crooked back but an effusive smile, he was an innocuous sort to whom one didn’t mind giving a spare quarter or two.

  Panhandling wasn’t Gomer’s only source of revenue. He kept a sharp eye out for bottles and cans, which he stuffed into his ever-present garbage bag. And when he’d collected enough to make it worthwhile, he followed the railway tracks that ran through the industrial park to the bottle depot. In fact, that’s what did him in. Apparently, one cold November day he was making his way to the depot, probably got tired, and sat down in an isolated low area near the tracks. He never got up. His body was spied by a railway repair crew two days later.

  “Poor Gomer,” Freta recalled. “He was my first stiff — literally, about a month after I got here… By the way, that’s how I met your wife.”

  “My wife?”

  “Nadia, right? She’s the reporter for the Great Plains Daily Reporter.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She interviewed me. Of course, the case was pretty cut-and-dry.”

  Myron wondered for a moment how well the two really knew each other and if he was the object of some derisive discourse between them. Places like Great Plains thrived on insidious talk, but he purged any further speculation from his mind. In her job, Nadia had gotten to know just about every official in town, from the major on down, and it was best not to imagine what was said or not…

  Instead, he concentrated on Freta; he discovered that she had originally come from Regina, where she received most of her RCMP training. Because the “Depot,” as the RCMP Academy was commonly called, was bursting at the seams and couldn’t readily handle all the recruits while undergoing a construction phase, Freta and select others were sent to the temporary facility in CFB Penhold near Red Deer to finish their training. On completion, she was assigned to the Brooks Detachment for a couple of years before being transferred to Great Plains. “And here I am plying my trade,” she told him spritely.

  Freta had a certain alluring appeal, Myron decided. Her body — yes — but also her personality. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but she possessed a kind of direct vivacity that broke through his cocoon of rejection and despair. He detected a hint, a thread, a pulse of healthy sexual tension between them.

  This created a bit of a dilemma, however; he was still committed in a rather old-fashioned, monastic sense to Nadia, whom, alas, he suspected did not have the same reservations. If he was really honest in his analysis, though, the truth was somewhat blunter than that. Nadia was much more adept at attracting men than he was women. Chances were Nadia had a few more temptations, and in all probability more than one monk had forsaken the monastery. It was a moot point, then, he decided, and if anything developed with Freta…well, he’ll cross that bridge when he got there — if he ever did.

  Throughout their conversation, Freta gave no hint of past or current male attachments and it seemed gauche to ask. Assuming none, however, Myron boldly led with his battered ego, suggesting that it might be fruitful to continue their discourse over dinner the following night.

  Freta took a moment to think about that. “Technically, with you at the college and me on the case, that might be construed as a conflict — awkward, at least. On the other hand, I asked for your help, you’re not really a suspect, and I’m not sure yet that a crime has actually been committed. I’ll compromise,” she decided. “How about you coming here again — considering the state of your apartment — say seven thirty tomorrow night. This time I’ll bake lasagna and we can continue the ‘investigation’.”

  “You’re on.” He smiled broadly.

  Later, back at his abode, Myron appraised the reflection that stared back at him in the bathroom mirror. Bespectacled, thin, greying hair, slightly stooped shoulders, concave chest but still a fairly presentable pipe-smoking, pen-swinging historian. He went to bed feeling happier than he had in quite some time. He doused the lights and hit the pillow with an old Johnny Rivers tune about a “brown-eyed, handsome man” bouncing around in his head.

  Chapter Eight

  Friday

  “If you can’t teach worth shit and your scholarly activity is next to zero,” Ted Mack averred, digging into his early morning breakfast special — toast, two very messy eggs, and hash browns — “and you still want to hang around academia, then what choice do you have but to administrate? It’s as simple as that — besides, there’s a bonus.”

  “What’s that?” asked Myron, peeling away the wax paper from his blueberry muffin.

  “You get paid more.”

  “You’re being a trifle unfair. I wouldn’t want to be any sort of administrator, least of all a dean. Too many hassles and pressures to deal with. You’d forever be arse deep in high-maintenance faculty, in personnel problems, submitting budgets, engaging in power struggles, and worst of all, you’re on a personal contract and can get canned just like that,” Myron snapped his fingers, “no matter how long you’ve been here. Look at what happened to poor Oliver — zapped in the blink of an eyeball with no faculty association to support him.”

  Ted took a huge gulp of his orange juice. “We all have pressures,” he said simply, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin and shoving away the dishevelled remains of his breakfast.

  It was 8:30 a.m., and the college cafeteria was starting to fill with most of the action at the coffee station and cash register, where students and faculty filed by with brimming mugs (Styrofoam cups were on their way out, since a growing number of the college community had become environmentally conscious) before hurrying off to classes. Official notice that the institution was seeking an acting president was being widely discussed, and Ted was rendering his latest opinion on what he thought of academic administrators in general.

  “Not those kinds of pressures,” Myron retorted.

  Ted sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I admit, administrators are a necessary evil, but Dworking and what she gathered around her are a sorry lot. You don’t remember Jonathan Munday, do you?”

  “He was just leaving as I arrived, said Myron. “He was the college’s first president, right?”

  “Yup and Dworking’s predecessor, a founding president who stayed for over fifteen years — some sort of record as far as college presidents go.”

  “He was forced to step down in the end, wasn’t he?”

  “His contract expired, and the board wasn’t all that keen on renewing it, I guess, although it probably would have if he pressed the issue. I heard say that he was getting a bit long in the tooth as far as some prominent board members were concerned. I wish he’d stayed on, given what we got.”

  “So the board pulled the plug on him?”

  “Yeah, I think that’s the way it went down. A familiar story, really. People get tired of their leaders.” Ted’s lips formed a symmetrical scowl. “Many members of the board, and I guess among the faculty too, started to think that after so many years, a change in the style of leadership and direction of the college was in order. Of course, the accumulating deficit didn’t help.”

  “So who could blame them?” said Myron, playing the devil’s advocate. “Maybe Munday had his day — lost his edge?”

  “Just looking back, in hindsight, he was good. The problem is that no one recognized how good until after he was gone!” Ted seemed to be in a genuine lament
mode, although it was sometimes hard to tell.

  “No one talks about him much nowadays that I have noticed.”

  “Ain’t that the way,” Ted sighed. “Once you’re gone, you’re gone, and nobody cares what you did. Munday made the college, led the institution in its embryonic stage where seat of the pants stewardship was necessary to get things done. We wouldn’t have half the programmes without him. That was his downfall; he had plans for the college, went ahead and did them even if the funding wasn’t all approved. He’d always persuaded the government to come through — until the oil revenues dried up, that is. That’s what really happened, I think. When the money got tight, he was more or less forced out the door. The board thought that it was being smart — that they’d hire a no-nonsense president who’d tighten the belt and do the necessary things to ensure a balanced budget.”

  “Well, Dworking did that,” Myron said, not sure what point Ted was trying to make.

  “But that’s just it! At what cost? As far as I’m concerned she wasn’t any improvement over Munday — worse, in fact—”

  “But you’re a chartered accountant, a bona fide bean counter who’d appreciate a balanced budget?”

  “Technically speaking, yes, but I’m not sure that the budget was ever unbalanced. Just a lot of numbers on the books. And don’t forget, while she was cutting faculty and staff, the government suddenly started coughing up money for capital projects for political reasons — election year and all that.”

  “That sounds mighty cynical.” Although Myron didn’t necessarily disagree.

  “Not really. Maybe I’ve become a bit jaded over the last two or three years by Dworking, that’s all.”

  “As compared to Munday?”

  “All I’m saying is that as far as educational administrators go, Munday was all right. For one thing he was cherubic like me — and,” Ted stuck his index finger in the air for emphasis, “he shafted fewer people in fifteen years than Dworking did in four.”