A Death Most Cold Read online

Page 9


  “You’ve got a point there,” Myron conceded.

  “One thing for sure,” Ted affirmed, gathering up his binder of notes, “around here all the deans will apply; nothing like being the top kingpin, even if it’s just temporary.”

  “The field is rather limited,” Myron noted, getting up with Ted. “There’s only Charles and Sheila left and maybe Reginald at Student Affairs.”

  “Sheila would be my choice,” Ted said without hesitation.

  “She’d be the choice of most faculty, I believe,” Myron agreed, but not so the Personnel Committee, he thought, given her belligerent tone at the board meeting and her criticism of the board decision to support Dworking’s ouster of Spinner. And she made it clear that she would reinstate him if given the chance. He wondered if she had made a tactical error in her outburst, which was unexpected, if not totally out of character for her, at least from his experience. But then maybe he was reading too much into it, or she had no interest in the president’s position, Ted’s comment notwithstanding, which would indeed leave the field clear for Charles. Perish the thought…

  “Well, I’m off to teach tax,” Ted said unenthusiastically. “And take flak over that surprise test, which most failed miserably.”

  “First, you’d better see if you can remove that egg stain off your tie before it hardens,” Myron advised. “It doesn’t quite match with the red.”

  ***

  Myron had matured as an instructor — at least relative to his rookie and sophomore sessional years at the University of Edmonton. At the time, he was so conscious of what he was going to say in front of class that he’d write “good morning” (or “afternoon”) across the top of his earnestly prepared lecture notes, lest he forget.

  His one time being radically flamboyant in a lecture hall was almost a disaster. Many of the teaching rooms at the university had sliding vertical blackboards so that a scribbling professor could shove a filled blackboard up and without breaking stride slide another down. That was precisely what Myron did one day; however, the empty board was slightly out of reach, so he jumped with unexpected exuberance and caught his wedding ring on the edge of the ledge (that was when he still wore it). The end result was a huge gash in his finger. With twenty minutes still to go in his lecture, he resolved to carry on, trying not to grimace too much while surreptitiously nursing his wounded and profusely bleeding appendage. Finally, a pretty blonde student in the front row couldn’t stand it any longer. “Sir,” she said, fishing out of her handbag a wad of Kleenex, “I think you better take these.”

  Myron gratefully accepted and managed to finish his lecture before hurrying off for repairs.

  Now he was thinking of that incident and Nadia’s somewhat endearing admonishment that he was prone to occasional klutziness because he had done something equally stupid. At his 10:00 a.m. Canadian history class, he decided to show a film, an old but useful black and white National Film Board production on Louis Riel narrated by Austin Willis. Alas, he was having difficulty getting the reel off the projector so that it could be rewound. In frustration, he gave it a good yank and hit himself in the mouth. Fortunately, the lights had been dimmed and he was at the back of the room because although he had drawn no blood, he did chip a tooth and inadvertently swallowed the fragment. Silently cursing himself, with tears welling in his eyes, he quickly dismissed the class and made an emergency visit to his dentist to assess the damage and make the necessary repairs.

  Friday was not turning out to be a banner day. When he arrived at the Co-op Mall, he discovered that his dentist was out to lunch and wouldn’t be back until one thirty, when, the receptionist was reasonably sure, he could be squeezed in.

  With almost an hour to kill, Myron decided to visit the Co-op coffee shop on the lower level of the mall. Myron didn’t go there often, but when he did, he always appreciated its character. It was a farmer’s rendezvous where, for the price of the cheapest cup of coffee in town, weather-hardened men in crusty boots, work shirts, goose-down parkas, and dirty John Deere baseball caps would sit and shoot the shit. Presumably, the wives were upstairs doing the groceries.

  It was a myth that farmers only talked about the weather, world grain prices, and how they were screwed by their bankers. Deeply ingrained (if one pardoned the pun) was what Myron believed a political mindset going back to the frontier days. “God made the country, man made the town” was still a viable creed to these folks, and it seemed that politicians (city slickers by and large), particularly those with the real power in the “middle east” (Ontario and Quebec) had done the country and them a disservice. As one old farmer from “Poverty Flats,” an unofficial name for an area northwest of Great Plains, once pointed out to Myron, “We’re the backbone of this country, and they’re trying to break us. But we’re not broken yet, and I aim to fight back.” And they did; many of them became redneck reformers and a force to be reckoned with.

  Myron didn’t see old Hank from Poverty Flats, but he did spy Conrad Streuve, assistant editor of the Great Plains Daily Reporter, sitting alone, rather forlornly over a cup of coffee. Myron had met him the previous summer; Nadia introduced him as a fellow reporter at a hot air balloon tournament they were covering at the time.

  Myron never quite understood the lure of hot air balloons that took hold in Great Plains. Everyone seemed to be mesmerized by these gigantic globes floating across the sky — as much as fifteen at a time, he recalled from a couple of summers ago. True, travelling at a leisurely pace (as the wind dictated) a thousand plus feet above across a quilt patch of farmlands and boreal forest no doubt provided a view bordering on the majestic. But he knew very few so fascinated who had actually taken a ride. Most of those who volunteered for the tournament remained firmly rooted to the earth as spotters and chasers. Perhaps it was the uniqueness of it all and the romance. When he first saw the stately rise of these artefacts, accompanied by the periodic whoosh of ignited burners heating the ascending air, he thought of his childhood and of reading Jules Verne’s Around the World In 80 Days. He really couldn’t explain it since, in retrospect, he couldn’t remember the mention of a hot air balloon in the novel… Certainly, Nadia seemed captivated, and he idly wondered if she had ever gotten around to a flight. Speaking of which… Buying yet another ubiquitous cup from the coffee maid, Myron decided to say hello and perhaps obtain some information on Nadia’s more recent activities.

  “Mind if I join you?” Myron asked, running his tongue over the sharp edge of his broken tooth. Dracula lives, he thought.

  Streuve raised a pair of sorrowful eyes to Myron, hesitated for a brief fraction, then seemed to deflate and acquiesce. “Hi, Myron…have a seat.”

  Streuve was broad-shouldered, fair-haired, and about his own age, Myron judged, sporting a corduroy jacket and blue jeans beneath his open parka. His angular face had a dejected look. Myron hoped that his dog hadn’t died, or something worse…

  “How’s it going?” Myron inquired, injecting more mirth than he felt at the table.

  Streuve shrugged. “It could be better. The job’s a drag, and the weather is lousy. But I need it to pay the alimony, and I can’t do much about the weather.”

  Myron recalled that Streuve had gotten divorced a few months ago and that it was a bitter one, with his former wife moving to BC with her new accountant boyfriend and taking their young daughter with her. Myron couldn’t be sure from whom he received that information, though.

  “Right…ah…” Myron was suddenly at a loss for words. Maybe he should leave and let Streuve figure out his life or whatever it was that appeared to weigh him down.

  “I should be asking you,” Streuve said, suddenly sitting up in his chair, “what’s the latest at the college — with the president. That must have been a shocker!”

  “I’ll say—”

  “The paper ran a very short story today — her background, length of time at the college, that kind of thing, but practically nothing on what happened to her. The police haven’t released any information at
all.”

  “It will take some time to complete the investigation,” Myron said lamely, not wanting to get into a speculative discussion with a reporter. “I’m sure that they’ll release what they know when they’re ready.”

  “I suppose,” said Streuve, sounding a bit disappointed at Myron’s unengaging answer.

  “How’s Nadia?” Myron asked abruptly, which both changed the subject and brought his focus back on track. There was no doubt that Streuve knew they had separated. Nadia was one not to restrain herself in matters of the heart. Myron knew that he had been described in evocative and graphic language to anyone who cared to listen.

  “Fine,” Streuve responded with a decided edge in his voice. “Pretty soon she’ll be running the paper.”

  Myron nodded. Nadia was like that. No half measures — either all in or all out. She was, Myron knew, energetic, efficient, and when she set her sights on something, she pursued it with gusto.

  “Say…I’m sorry about your breakup,” Streuve said.

  “So am I,” Myron responded heavily. “One of life’s unexpected twists.”

  “There’s nothing you can do about it, either,” Streuve lamented, dumping a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. “Women… When they decide its over — then it’s over. Take that from experience,” he concluded almost wistfully.

  God, Myron thought, this guy is as badly dejected and jaded as me — maybe worse! A great pair we make. He was getting depressed just listening to Conrad.

  “A bunch of us were at a newspaper association convention in Edmonton over the weekend,” Streuve rambled on, slowly stirring his coffee. “Your wife knows how to have a good time.”

  “Oh.” Myron frowned; he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear this.

  “Danced the night away after the banquet.”

  “Yes, she knows how to dance.”

  “Expected to see a red rose in her teeth by the end of the evening… No, Myron, Nadia’s doing fine,” Streuve concluded, shaking his head and staring into his cup as if it offered some solace.

  After a few more minutes of general banter, Myron excused himself and made his way to the dentist’s office, still trying to sort out his disturbing conversation with a very distraught fellow. It left him with an uneasy feeling that he’d missed something poignant in Streuve’s ruminative comments about his wife.

  Myron did not exit the dentist’s chair until about three thirty. It took what seemed a huge amount of freezing and extensive chiselling by Doctor Federko before he applied the filling. “There,” Federko said, smiling and admiring his work. “No food or drink for at least an hour, and try not to bite too hard on that tooth.”

  After making his follow-up appointment at the front desk, Myron walked out feeling like one side of his face had slipped a couple of inches. He hoped he wasn’t drooling. Thank goodness his dinner date with Freta wasn’t until seven thirty; by then, the freezing should have worn off. Meanwhile, it was a quick stop at the liquor store for a bottle of wine and home, such as it was, to recuperate. All in all, not a great day, but there was still the night to come.

  Chapter Nine

  Myron arrived at Freta’s apartment just in time to hear the pinging of an oven timer going off. The air had the appetizing aroma of cooked meat ragout and tomato marinara sauce; the dining table was set complete with a white cloth, two long-stemmed wine glasses, and a burning candle in the middle. Rather romantic, surmised Myron, removing his shoes at the door. Freta greeted him wearing a simple mauve dress designed to show cleavage. He gave her a shaky smile; although the freezing had worn off, he was still conscious of his nerve-dead mouth three hours earlier, which had been most uncooperative, particularly when it came to liquid intake.

  “Smells wonderful in here,” he said, handing her a bottle of Chablis. And I hope I’m not drooling, he added.

  “Why thank you,” she said merrily, leading him into the living room. “Dinner will be ready shortly… Care for some wine?”

  “I’d love some…”

  Later, over a cheesy but not too mushy lasagna, Myron told her about his less than sterling day. She couldn’t stop laughing. “It must be the wine,” she explained apologetically. “I know it isn’t funny but…” She brought her hand to her mouth to stifle a further outburst. “I just can’t help it!”

  “For a moment I thought my face still looked strange,” he said defensively.

  “You look fine,” she assured him.

  “This is great, by the way,” he said, stuffing another forkful of pasta and cheese into his mouth.

  “It’s premade, if the truth be known. I just stuck it in and let it bake, as per instructions on the box.”

  “Works for me… What about your day?” Myron asked, taking another sip from his wine glass. He noted that they had almost finished a bottle between them.

  “Well, let’s see… I spoke briefly to Sheila Penny, and she confirmed what you told me, that she was in Vancouver during the presumed time period of Dworking’s death. Other than that…” Freta stretched her arms behind her head and rubbed her neck, “she sure didn’t much care for the president. Called her a power-tripping misanthrope.”

  “A what?”

  “That’s what she said — had to look it up in the Webster’s dictionary later.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “You’re the academic — you should know,” she admonished.

  “The Queen’s English was never my strong suit,” he replied.

  “Hater of humanity or something close to that effect,” she smiled. “Rob didn’t know either,” she added as an afterthought.

  “So you met with Rob… How’s his end of the investigation going?’

  Freta shrugged. “We compared notes, but nothing jumped out. Well, one small item that may be of interest to you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Let’s go into the living room and make ourselves more comfortable. If I sit here any longer, I’ll need a chiropractor. Pop open another bottle on route…”

  “You were saying…” Myron took up the thread of their conversation as he once again ensconced himself in her canvas over wood chair. “Something about developments related to me?”

  “Not to you, personally,” she said, tucking her feet under her in the wicker chair opposite him. “Your wife.”

  “Nadia?”

  “According to Rob, she had an appointment scheduled with Dworking. She wanted to do a story about the proposed student residences.”

  “Nadia was there that night?” Myron’s pulse suddenly sped up a notch or two. Nadia was the last name he would have associated in any way with the case. “She can’t be a suspect—” he started to say.

  “No more than anyone else,” Freta said flatly, with a trace of officiousness. “Rob has yet to speak to her directly. The appointment was scheduled in Dworking’s calendar — Monday night, he said.”

  “She’s got an alibi. She was at my apartment cleaning me out!”

  “Around what time was that again?”

  Myron thought for a moment. “Must have been after nine — about nine thirty.”

  “Okay… When did she leave?”

  “She and her…friends didn’t stay long. Maybe until ten, a little after — when their mission was finished.”

  “Given the imprecise time of Dworking’s death, there’s still before and after time gaps that need to be accounted for.”

  “Back up a bit,” Myron said, frowning. “I’m not sure I’ve got who’s where at what times. I know that the board meeting was scheduled for six…”

  “Right, and according to my notes, it lasted approximately forty-five minutes. Spinner then met with Dworking and the board chair at seven. Nadia was pencilled in for eight.”

  “That’s rather late for giving interviews?”

  “I would have thought so,” Freta agreed. “As I said, Rob will talk to Nadia and verify when she met with the president. It’s probably another dead end as far as this case is concerned,” she assured him, “but it
needs to be followed up. Nadia may have seen or heard something. One never knows.”

  “Right.” Myron nodded uncertainly.

  “This hasn’t put your evening off, has it?” Freta asked with a note of concern.

  Myron shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “No, not at all. It was just a bit unexpected…”

  Freta nodded, and the subject was dropped.

  ***

  As the evening progressed and the wine continued to flow, the conversation drifted to their personal lives, and almost inevitably, it seemed, relationships. With his tongue loosened considerably by the alcohol, he inquired if Freta and Rob were an item.

  She chuckled at that. “Heavens no… We haven’t socialized in any way, and besides, he’s happily married.”

  “As opposed to not so happily married.” The rather petulant comment seemed to slip involuntarily out from Myron’s lips.

  Unperturbed, Freta took it at face value. “Well, I’d say Nadia gave you your freedom when she walked out on you.”

  “Can’t argue with that.” He was silent for a moment, staring into his wine glass. “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “You know my situation, but I don’t know yours. Is there someone in your life?”

  “I’m unattached at the moment and rather like it that way.”

  “Oh…”

  She laughed lightheartedly, her eyes suddenly bright. No doubt the wine, Myron thought.

  “But,” she quickly added, “that could change.”

  “And what are you looking for?”

  “You mean what’s my type?”

  “If you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Not at all…” She thought about that for a moment. “Definitely not a Mr. Macho. Other than that…” She shrugged. “I’m open. Someone who is reasonably well-adjusted — normal would be high on my list. And believe me, such individuals are harder to find than you might think.”