Death in Cold Type

by C. C. Benison

  “Well, he wasn’t a cheap drunk, then.”

  “No, but he could be an obnoxious drunk. Charming, when he wanted to be. But often a mean drunk. He’d have these towering rages in the newsroom about something or other.” She shook her head. “Little wonder his son had no interest in this business. Mr. Rossiter would bring Michael in to do stints as copy boy or whatever, and then just tear into him if he did anything wrong. Terrible.” She sighed. “Oh, well…anyway, I’ll just get that microfilm.”

  She moved toward the door that led to one of the building’s narrow interior stairwells.

  “The elevator would be quicker,” Leo suggested hopefully.

  “I could use the exercise, dear.”

  Waiting, Leo stared absently through the library’s dusty back window over the parking lot toward the new downtown mall. He thought about:

  …whether he should wear the same tie to the afternoon funeral and tomorrow’s mall opening, or if he should spring for a new tie in the meantime

  …whether he’d ever wear a tie again if he won the lottery

  …whether Merritt was as rich as she looked

  …whether she was capable of murder

  …what she looked like naked

  …what Stevie looked like naked

  …what Merritt saw in Axel

  …what women saw in Axel generally

  …whether he’d soon be out of a job

  …what he’d do instead

  …what was taking Vera so long

  …whether the mall would do a damn thing for downtown Winnipeg

  …why there was that preposterous “á” in Galleries Portáge.

  …whether he should get a new tie

  …why mental conversations were circular

  “Found them,” an out-of-breath voice gasped, breaking into his thoughts. Vera rattled one of the white boxes. “I suppose you’re going to the mall opening tomorrow night.”

  “It seems we’re commanded to show Zit support for downtown redevelopment.”

  “Ha! Harry Mack will sell up and have us out in the sticks before you know it.” Vera released the roll of microfilm from its box with a clinical snap of the hand and nimbly inserted it through the machine’s nether parts.

  “Amazing,” Leo said.

  “It just takes a little practice.”

  “A new machine might be better.”

  Vera harrumphed. “There’ll be Zambonies in hell before any money’s put into this department. And when you’re finished with that microfilm,” she commanded, “return it to me personally. Don’t leave it lying around.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  After she returned to her desk Leo sat down to the tedious task of scrolling through microfilm. Eleven years seemed a lifetime ago. In those years the Citizen had gone through a major design change to conform to a contemporary standard of uncluttered appearance which, Leo suddenly realized, bore a strong relationship to the look of the accompanying advertising. But as he turned the squeaky handle of the microfilm machine and the pages rolled across the screen, he decided that he preferred the look of the old Zit. Its now quaint type face and narrower columns declared its serious intent. The new Zit looked frivolous by comparison. But old or new, Leo knew that automobile accidents, tragic and often meaningless as they were, remained the stuff of front page coverage.

  He found it sooner than he expected. The accident had occurred on January 2, 1977, the story appearing in the Zit the next day. There was no picture. And the text was terse, just the bare bones of a police report: the time, the place, the circumstances, and the names of the victims of one of the two cars involved—Thomas and Lillian Rossiter. Accompanying the news story however, and continuing at some length on an inside page, was an obituary cum family history that presented Thomas and his wife in scrupulous prose as scions of a venerable old family, their deaths an irreparable loss to the community. Leo scrolled ahead to the next day’s edition and found buried on an inside page a small story that added a few details to the original. The accident was attributed, as Stevie had said, to icy conditions and mechanical failure in the Rossiter car. But what Leo was unprepared for, what set his mind to wondering, was the name of the driver and the two passengers of the other vehicle.

  22

  A Nice Cup of Tea

  Stevie stepped from the Saab, released the catch on her umbrella, and listened to the rain drum against the taut nylon. She skipped across a puddle, over Grosvenor’s sodden boulevard, and onto the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding crushing a worm inching its way across the saturated cement. As she walked in the direction of Savoye House, she thought little of the sorts of things she’d planned to ask Nan Hughes; in the wake of the week’s events, her career plans suddenly seemed even less urgent than they’d been all summer.

  Merritt instead flitted through her mind. The afternoon before, Stevie had unthinkingly accepted an offer of a lift home from Frank Nickel and had endured a cross-examination on wheels. While polishing an effective “no-comment” strategy, she had nevertheless been reminded of the peril of being Merritt, notably in this situation: out of cash, into drugs, and—always—a turbulent relationship with her brother. She had practically leapt from the car to get away from Frank, but she had kept the front door of her parents’ house open a smidgen to see what he would do. As expected, he had stopped at Merritt’s. But he had had to drive away disappointed. There had been no one home.

  Nor had there been the entire evening. She had walked over herself later, then phoned. Where could Merritt be on the evening before her brother’s funeral? She regretted having shown that picture of Axel Werner to the detective. If Mrs. Axel Werner were no longer in residence, Merritt might conceivably be there. She had found the number in the phone book, but, again, no answer. Just another crappy answering machine.

  Stevie reached Nan’s apartment building, folded her umbrella, and pushed open the glass door to the tiny foyer. Water dripped from her coat. Her hand hesitated over the security buzzer. Was she really thinking of staying in Winnipeg? Her fantasy reason, she admitted to herself bleakly, had died Tuesday evening. She could go back to Toronto. But she had made an eleventh-hour call to her landlord in Toronto—it was September 30, after all—and secured her apartment for another month. Leo sailed through her mind, unbidden. Yes, he was a good kisser, my my. She pressed the buzzer next to a card in Helvetica medium script that read “Nan Hughes.” After a pause an indecipherable squawk came through the intercom.

  “Nan, it’s Stevie Lord.”

  Another squawk issued forth, the lock sprang with a noisy click and Stevie, who had been leaning on the door handle, nearly fell into the lobby. Built on slender stilts over resident parking, the building contained sixteen suites on two floors with four sets of stairs, four apartments sharing a set. Sky-lit illumination over a narrow white hallway along the side of the ground floor directed her to a sign marking the second stairwell and apartments 5 to 8.

  Nan stood at the doorwell of number 5, wearing a remarkable golden kimono emblazoned with a red dragon spiralling the garment from hem to neck like the serpent on depictions of the Tree of Life in the Garden of Eden.

  “Did I get you at a bad time?” Stevie’s voice echoed in the stairwell.

  “No, no. I’ve no classes Fridays this term so I don’t often dress until noon. I didn’t think you’d mind.” Nan put a hand out. “Here, let me take those wet things.”

  Stevie peeled off her coat and handed it over with her folded umbrella.

  “Actually, I thought you might reschedule,” Nan continued, grunting with effort as she pushed aside her own coats in the small closet and jammed Stevie’s in. “Given that the funeral’s this afternoon.”

  “Well, I need something else to think about.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Nan turned and regarded her sympathetically. “You were quite fond of him, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I seem to recall Michael coming up to see you in the lab in the Fine Arts building in your
first year. Perhaps it’s because I knew both your parents a little, that he stood out from all the boys wanting a look at the I.D girls.” A smile flitted across Nan’s face. “I remember him once having delivered—”

  “Oh, god, yes, the roses. I’d nearly forgotten. Twelve dozen arriving in the middle of our last drafting class in the spring. The delivery boy staggering in—”

  “Very romantic.”

  “I think it just made me angrier at the time. I can’t remember now what the argument was about.” She looked away. She knew very well what the argument had been about. Michael had teased her, saying her rebellious spirit went about as far as wanting to cover an Eames chair with terrycloth. She had bristled, but deep down it was true. Her acts of defiance to that point had been little more than the usual teenaged antics. His refusal to interest himself in the Rossiter family business, on the other hand, was a finger in his father’s face every day of the week. And when he got his master’s from the Curtis with his father’s money, he was really going to fuck the old man by throwing it all away and going off to be a shepherd in Nevada or somewhere. He sounded half serious; worse, she seemed to have no place in this daydream. No shepherdess by his side. In her mind, she would be at Rizdee, he would be at the Curtis. Providence and Philadelphia weren’t that far apart. They would meet in New York. Frequently. And then…?

  It was the beginning of the end—friends since forever, lovers for a year. The roses had been overcompensation.

  “Extravagant,” Nan added, letting the word hang in the air a moment. Then she frowned, pushing at the sleeves of her kimono. “Less so in recent years, I think. More reserved. Rather self-contained.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Life doesn’t always turn out the way we expect,” Nan sighed. The comment seemed apropos of nothing, but Stevie knew what she meant: Michael had not achieved what he’d set out to do when they were undergraduates.

  “Certainly, I never expected Kerr to die so young,” Nan added.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, no, my apologies. I don’t know why I even brought it up. Anyway, don’t let’s go on standing here in the hallway. Go on in. Make yourself comfortable.” She gestured toward the living room. “What would you prefer? Coffee or tea?”

  “Oh.” It wasn’t a day for decisions. “Tea, I think. Something about the rain makes me want tea.”

  But the problem was: where to make herself comfortable. Stevie surveyed the living room, somewhat startled. She’d expected Nan, as a professor of interior design, to have—without question—living space signifying the great Bauhaus virtue: less is more. With every piece of furniture a paean to clean lines and uncluttered surfaces. But virtually every piece, she could tell at a glance, was period—antique. She ran a finger over a Queen Anne side chair. Gorgeous! And it wasn’t just the quality. It was the quantity. The living room looked more like an auction house preparing for the weekly sale. There was a recamier in the centre of the room, but it was thick with pillows and one cardboard box that appeared to be filled with photo albums. A nearby set of armchairs similarly was covered with boxes, books, and papers, as was a small sofa pressed against a sideboard laden with china, candlesticks, and a silver tea service. Indeed, Stevie noted, there were three silver tea services in sight, one on each of three different cabinets that groaned under an assortment of knick-knacks, all of it, however, remarkably dust-free. There were a couple of hassocks, several spindly-looking side tables of no discernible use, a variety of lamps and several dozen pictures, some on the wall, some grouped on the floor, and one sitting prominently on an easel. Depicted in oils was a young woman, slim, dark, conventionally pretty, and wearing a strapless pink gown of 1950s vintage. It took Stevie a moment to realize it was a youthful Nan. The woman coming down the hall with a tray in her hands was plumpish, her hair lighter than in the picture and fashioned into a tight French roll.

  “I guess you were never in our Crescent house,” Nan said.

  “Just at Hallowe’en, I think.”

  “You’re surprised.”

  “Well—”

  “Kerr was partial to antiques. Many of these things came from his family in England. So my tastes tended to be overruled.”

  “Bauhaus by day, Biedermeier by night.”

  Nan laughed. “Exactly. Anyway, let’s sit down.” She led the way down a passage bordered by a desk and a china cabinet to a nook in front of the floor-to-ceiling window with a loveseat, a chair, and a coffee table. “I’m sorry about this clutter. I thought after Kerr died, I’d make a clean sweep, but somehow I never got around to it in the Crescent house. And then, after my daughter moved to Vancouver—”

  “Oh? School?” Stevie had a vague memory of Amanda Hughes, a sort of wan, moody child of about ten last time she saw her.

  “Studying at Emily Carr. Interested in graphic design. Takes after me, I guess.” Nan placed the tea tray on the low table and gestured for Stevie to sit. “Anyway, after Amanda moved, I decided to buy this condo, then ended up hauling half the furniture here. Ridiculous, I know.”

  “Well, they’re lovely things.”

  “I know. But of course they don’t suit Savoye House. And it’s really my chance to design my own living space the way I want to. Still…” She cast her eyes around the confining space, her expression suggesting the task was daunting. “Roger says—” She paused, frowning. “You’ve met Roger Mellish?”

  “Is that who you were with Tuesday evening.”

  Nan nodded, then bit her lip. “I’m sorry. And I do apologize for my behaviour when we ran into you. I had more wine than I should have.”

  Stevie shrugged.

  “Anyway,” Nan continued, reaching for the teapot, “Roger says I should just screw up my courage and throw all this furniture out. His idea is to call an antiques dealer, give him carte blanche, and then go to a hotel for a few days.”

  “Roger’s not a fan of old things, I guess.”

  “Fan of this old thing.” Nan giggled girlishly, almost splashing the tea as she poured.

  “Oh, hardly old.”

  “Not old enough to be a widow anyway. I’ll be fifty in December. See, I’m even admitting it.” She handed the delicate china cup to Stevie. “But to get back—Roger’s not a fan of old things. He spent his early childhood in cramped rooms in London with busy wallpaper and awful old furniture—and bombs falling in the Blitz. So he fell in love with Savoye House when he moved to Winnipeg. I’ve been spending time helping him get the right mid-century modern look. I should be doing it here, of course. But, you know, the cobbler’s children go unshod. Or whatever the saying is.”

  “Well, it’s a great building.” Stevie sipped her tea, the golden liquid invitingly warm along her tongue. She settled back into the chair nearest the window, almost feeling cozy. Outside the rain-splattered window a gloom hovered over the semi-nude trees along Wellington Crescent.

  “If you’re thinking of buying—I don’t know what your plans are—but there’s one for sale. Across from Roger.”

  “Really?” Stevie entertained the notion. Savoye House was an attractive piece of architecture. And compared to Toronto’s ridiculously inflated real-estate prices, probably affordable. She had money wrested from Sangster, but on work-leave from YP she had no income. The notion of housing threw her back to the usual quandary: was she going or staying? “These are two-bedroom, right?”

  Nan nodded, stirring her tea, her kimono sleeve absently brushing the sugarbowl with each circulation. “I should show you around. It’s ideal for one person or two. I think, after it was first built, a few families lived here. But you know as well as I do how space needs have changed. The kitchen is a bit small, too, by today’s standards. Roger, being the culinary whiz he is, had his enlarged and renovated.” She glanced around the room. “The construction’s solid. The layout is intelligent. The balcony can barely hold a barbecue, though. And, of course, there’s never enough closet space but…” she shrugged.

  “How about noise?”r />
  “Excellent. There’s only four apartments per staircase, so there’s no banging around in hallways and such. Otherwise, just one adjoining wall. Roger’s on the other side of mine. You can hear plumbing noises because the bathrooms adjoin, but that’s all right.” She smiled coyly. “Roger sings at the top of his lungs in the shower and I can sometimes hear him straight through into my bedroom. But…I rather like it.”

  “No ensuite bathroom?”

  “No, just the one.”

  “Well, it’s certainly attractive. But I’m just not sure of what I’m doing these days.”

  Nan studied her a moment. “Well, I did have one suggestion for you: I can’t be all that encouraging about work opportunities in the field, if you’re serious about staying in Winnipeg, though I have a few leads. But I wondered if you’d thought of teaching interior design?”

  “Teaching? No, I hadn’t,” Stevie replied slowly, startled. “Do you mean—?”

  “At the school. Carol Muir, who you might remember, is having a baby around Christmas, so she’s taking her leave come January. Or, perhaps, earlier. She’s having a difficult pregnancy. She’s forty-one and having her first.”

  “My teaching experience is pretty limited. The Ontario College of Art and Design invited me to give a few lectures, but—”

  “Well, it’s only a term position. You’d have to see the dean. But I could put in a word for you. You’ve got good credentials as a designer—”

  “I should have brought you a resume.”

  “Well, you were with Yabu Pushelberg. And you’re a RISD graduate. We’ve been saying for years around the department that we need some fresh perspective. And you’ve done some teaching, it seems.”

  “I’d have thought leaving the school here to go to one in the States might be a strike against me.”

  “Hardly. We all recognize the department is too incestuous. I think we’re the only department on campus where all the instructors are graduates of the same—that is, our own—school. It’s not good. I think you’ll find everyone at the school today is the same as when you were there. What was your year with us? I can’t remember.”