It would have been a good day to stay exactly where I was. After all, this wasn't a real case I was on. No one was paying me to find Walter Angel's murderer. Tomorrow was Anthony and Jared's wedding. Certainly I could focus more on that than a case that wasn't one. But no, I couldn't leave this half done. Not that Darren Kirsch and the Saskatoon police force weren't capable of figuring this out on their own. But I was on to something. I could smell it, as sure as the petunias in my backyard. I wanted to be the one to open that final door and see who was behind it. That is truly one of the most exhilarating parts of my job: revealing the bad guy. Walter Angel deserved that.
Upon returning from overseeing her realm, satisfied all was safe and secure from intruders (i.e. pesky cats), Barbra settled near my feet. I'd obviously been forgiven for abandoning her. Brutus was still at it, however, standing stock-still at the back of the yard, quizzically staring at the butterflies and dragonflies dancing for his pleasure. Spoon in hand, I started in on my Fibre 1 and the paper. It wasn't until I reached Section D, the classifieds, that I came upon something of interest: the obituaries. My eyes devoured the first one:
Angel - Walter Dustin, was tragically taken from us on Saturday, August 10 at the age of 64. Walter was born and raised in Rosetown, Saskatchewan. Shortly after graduating high school he moved to Saskatoon where he attended the University of Saskatchewan. As a young man, Walter travelled extensively during his tenure as a cruise ship entertainer, singing and dancing his way around the world. Eventually, Walter returned to Saskatoon where he pursued a career as an archivist. He spent the last twenty years at the University of Saskatchewan Archives, most recently as head archivist. Walter was predeceased by his parents, Liv and Herman Angel, brother Lewis, and sister Angela. He is survived by his husband, Sven Henckell, and their beloved Pomeranians: Liesl, Friedrich, Louisa, Kurt, Brigitta, Marta, and Gretl. As per Walter's wishes, there will be no funeral service. His ashes will be returned to the sea, which he loved so dearly in his youth.
I was disappointed to find there would be no funeral. It sounds flippant and a bit disrespectful, I know, but funerals are never-to-be-missed bonanzas in a detective's bag of tricks. Not only do you get most of the players in the game in one place at one time, but also you can tell a lot about people by how they react in the situation. As a bonus, it might surprise you to know how often a murderer shows up at his or her victim's final service. This goes hand in hand with the familiar statistic that most killings are committed by someone known to the deceased.
There were two things of great interest to me in Walter Angel's obituary. The first was the identification of his spouse. The second was the fact that Angel was an archivist. That set the bells in my head to clanging. Irritating, but I was grateful, for this was the sound of fresh new leads. I downed the rest of my breakfast with zeal, made a few phone calls, told the pooches to guard the house, and then I was off. I had a lot to do today.
Reginald Cenyk was one of those baby-faced guys who would always look at least ten years younger than he really was. Flaming red hair, fair, smooth skin, and lots of freckles helped. Or hurt, depending on how you looked at it. I'm sure as a younger man, Reginald had cursed his youthful complexion and features, wanting to be handsome instead of pleasant-looking, rugged instead of delicate. Now, appearing a fresh-faced forty, but probably closer to fifty, the new University of Saskatchewan head archivist seemed as comfortable in his own pasty white skin as he was ever bound to.
A tight smile had greeted me when I, directed by an archives technician, entered Reginald Cenyk's on-campus office. He sat behind a desk and, after introductions, invited me to sit across from him. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt that showed off skinny freckled arms.
In my opening gambit, telling the man who I was and why I was there, I lied and embellished as little as I could. It felt good. If he assumed that I was more formally related to the police investigation than I really was, it was none of my fault. For the most part.
"I appreciate your willingness to talk to me today," I began. It's always a good idea to grease the wheel with a nice spritz of sycophancy. "I understand you've taken over the role of head archivist since Mr. Angel's death, so I'm sure you must be extremely busy."
"Er, well, yes. I have, however, been employed here for over a dozen years." His voice was quiet, and squeaked a bit at the beginning and end of each sentence. "During that time, Walter and I shared many of the archives's duties and responsibilities. Much of what I do today is the same as before."
"Which is exactly what I'm fascinated by. I have to admit, I've never met an archivist before. I know so little about what you do."
I could detect the thin man's chest puff up just a tad. "Well, I like to tell people to think of us as the university's memory. We keep track of and manage all information having to do with the history of the university, and really the province as a whole."
"So you keep records of who taught at the university, campus clubs and activities over the years, that sort of thing?"
"Oh, it's a great deal more than that, Mr. Quant. Our records cover every college, department, unit, and campus organization that make up the University of Saskatchewan. I know many consider the university to be something greater than the sum of its parts. I believe it is the parts that make it great. Here at the archives is where those parts live on." Cenyk leaned in a little closer as he warmed to his topic. "We have the private papers of many of our past, and even some present, faculty members, and those of alumni. We've had many very interesting people pass through the halls of these greystone buildings over the years, Mr. Quant.
"We also work on special projects here at the archives. For example, quite recently we began collecting the histories and memorabilia of alumnus who served during wartime. Fascinating material. We also maintain a great number of virtual exhibits and digital collections. It's all very exciting. There is a listing on our website if you're interested in taking a look."
"So for instance, as an alumni of the University of Saskatchewan, I could donate my papers to you?" Not that I really wanted to, but I was leading him to where I wanted to end up.
Cenyk hesitated briefly, giving the suggestion sincere thought, before responding. "By all means. As a Saskatchewan detective, people might be very interested to learn about your life and the cases you've been on. There aren't too many of you around, I wouldn't think. Obviously there would be some sensitive and privileged information included in your records, but we could deal with that in our donor agreement by way of specified access restrictions."
I was surprised, and, I have to say, a little flattered. Now who was spritzing the sycophancy? "Well, that certainly would clear up some storage space in the ol' garage."
He didn't laugh.
I moved on. "So the university archives hold the records of anyone famous who's lived in Saskatchewan?"
The man shook his head, a dismayed look on his face. "Unfortunately not. The decision of if, when, and where to donate one's papers is, of course, completely up to the individual. As an institution we do solicit certain people and organizations, in the hope they would consider using us as the safekeeping repository for their information. With certain high profile collections, a competitive environment can arise in the pursuit of obtaining physical ownership and other rights. Obviously, the more famous the individual, the more competition.
"In an effort to appease different organizations and meet loyalty obligations, there have been cases where a set of records is divided up amongst several archives, locally, provincially and even nationally. As I'm sure you can appreciate, as archivists, most of us prefer that a collection remain intact at one location."
"What about someone like, say, Simon Durhuaghe? Are his papers here?"
Again the archivist hesitated. I guess my transition wasn't as seamless as I'd hoped.
He began typing on the computer keyboard in front of him, his eyes fastened to the screen. "Well, let me double-check, but I'm quite certain...yes, the
re it is. We do hold an extensive and, I believe, complete set of Simon Durhuaghe's papers. According to the finding aid, we have draft manuscripts and galleys for most of his early novels, including first editions of those published at the time of the donation. We have short story compilations, including drafts and final edited copies. We hold various research materials and notes, travel and book tour itineraries, as well as personal and professional correspondence and journals. It looks to be quite a comprehensive collection, a lot of material. We're lucky to have it."
"So how exactly does this work? Did he just drop a bunch of boxes off one day?"
"Oh no," Cenyk responded, taken aback by the idea. He referred to his screen again. "In the case of Mr. Durhuaghe, this was a solicited donation. We obtained the material ten years ago. If I recall correctly, Mr. Durhuaghe was happy to make the donation but, like many of our busier donors, didn't want the responsibility of sorting through and organizing the material."
"So he did just drop it off."
The man's face coloured slightly. "I suppose you might say that, yes. It would have been up to the archivist or archives technician, whoever happened to be assigned to the initial accessioning, to process the material."
"Accessioning?"
"That's the first step in processing a donation. A control number is assigned and some basic data is recorded. Then the material is arranged and described, assuming the donor hasn't already created some sort of filing system. If they have, we try to maintain that order as much as possible. But, I must say, that is rarely the case.
"At this stage we do appraisal and weeding; separating material having long-term value from that which doesn't. Once this is done, and we know what we are keeping, physical processing is undertaken. We store documents in acid-free file folders, boxes, or whatever other container is required given the type of material being handled. Finally, we create what we call a finding aid. The finding aid is a summary report of the full collection, along with a listing and brief description of each file or piece in the collection. If the donor requests a tax receipt, we also have an independent monetary appraisal carried out."
"Was a monetary appraisal carried out for Mr. Durhuaghe?"
There was a pause while Reginald considered whether or not he should answer my question. "I believe so," he finally said.
"Was it significant?”
“I'm not at liberty to say." I had to try.
"You said Durhuaghe donated his papers ten years ago. So both you and Walter Angel were on staff at the time?”
“Yes."
"Was one of you assigned to this accessioning process for the Durhuaghe donation?"
He began tapping at keys again while he spoke. "It's quite possible. Oftentimes with a donation of this import and size, an archives technician might be responsible for the initial accessioning, but further processing would be undertaken by an archivist." More key tapping. Then he stopped. "From what I can tell here, most of the work on this file was done by neither Walter nor myself."
"Oh? Can you tell me who did it?"
I smiled at the answer. It was a name I'd heard before.
Chapter 11
Ten years earlier, Helen Crawford had been the senior archivist at the University of Saskatchewan Archives. Helen was the name mentioned by Walter Angel when he first told me about the treasure map. Was she the map's creator? Was she the one who started all this?
At the time Helen worked at the archives, Walter Angel was a fellow archivist, Reginald Cenyk an archives technician. The three were the only permanent staff. According to Reginald, five years ago Helen Crawford suddenly retired, leaving Walter the role of lead archivist, and Reginald a place as a full fledged archivist. With Walter's death, Reginald moved up the ladder once more, taking over as head archivist. As he described the events, I briefly toyed with the idea of Reginald Cenyk killing Walter Angel for his new job. But somehow it just didn't fit.
"So what you're telling me is that Helen Crawford had sole responsibility for the Durhuaghe archival material?"
Cenyk swivelled his computer screen so I could see the screen.
His finger moved down a column in a spreadsheet. The name that appeared over and over again was Crawford. "She signed off on every aspect of the processing," he confirmed. "Now, that's not to say that one of us, or maybe another part-time staff member—we sometimes have summer students or grant employees—didn't help her, but she did have primary responsibility. Which doesn't surprise me."
"Oh? Why do you say that?"
"Helen was a stickler for detail. Rules and regulations were her best friends—as they should be for an archivist. There was no way she would have let just anyone touch the Durhuaghe papers. She'd have taken great pride in obtaining the rights to them for the U of S archives, and overseeing the processing herself. Not that she didn't do a lot of processing herself anyway, but this would have been a special case. She was a bit quirky in some ways, but she was very good at what she did."
"Reginald, you've already been a great help today." My tone turned serious. "But I need to ask for your expertise on one more issue of concern. I hope I can count on your discretion."
His pale blue eyes widened as he nodded.
"Reginald," I began, even glancing to the side for would-be eavesdroppers, "would you know if something had been stolen from the archives?"
This time the slight man remained speechless for several seconds. After a dry gulp, he said: "I don't know for sure. I hope I would. Do you think something has been taken from the archives? Something from the Durhuaghe collection? Is that it?"
I nodded. "Could you find out, Reginald?"
He considered this. "It would depend on when it was taken. If it disappeared before the finding aid was created, I don't know how we'd ever know. The only way would be for the donor to proclaim it missing. If the piece was stolen after the donation was processed, the chance of discovery would be much greater. Depending on what it was, of course."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, if it was a specific file or book or document that was significant enough to be listed on the finding aid, or as part of the monetary valuation, we could confirm if it was missing quite easily Otherwise, we'd have to rely on the memory of the processing archivist or other practical methods, like checking missing entries in documents filed in chronological or date order.”
“You mean like letters or journals?"
"Exactly. If someone left us their diaries, for instance, we could check for gaps in date chronology. Or maybe certain material is footnoted in one file, but is missing when the referenced document is checked."
"I see."
"Mr. Quant, what exactly is it that you think is missing? And who do you think took it?"
I wasn't prepared to take the archivist into my full confidence just yet. But I needed his help. What needed to be done sounded like a lot of paper shuffling for someone who didn't know what they were doing—me—but less shuffling for someone who did. "I'm not sure yet, Reginald. But I was wondering if you could help me find out."
"Me? How?"
"I need you to look through the Durhuaghe archives. See if you can find evidence of anything missing. And more important, evidence of who might have taken it."
Another gulp. "That could take a lot of time."
That wasn't what I wanted to hear.
I left with Reginald's promise that he'd try to do some digging, but no guarantee he'd find anything. It was better than nothing.
Childhelp Saskatchewan was one of Sherry Fisher's favourite projects. The jury was out on whether the mayor's wife had started the children's advocacy group to actually help kids, or to raise her own profile. Part of the problem was the group's spokesperson: Sherry herself. When questioned by the media, she had difficulty exactly putting into words what it was Childhelp actually did. As far as I could tell, it had something to do with helping kids who needed help. Yup, it was that concise.
Despite a rather vague mandate, the char
ity's fundraisers were glittering affairs. They always took place in fancy hotel ballrooms with gourmet menus, pricey drinks, and not-too-shabby entertainment. They were also poorly attended, mostly by mayoral toadies who either had no choice or wanted to curry favour with the big guy. Still, according to press releases following each of these shindigs, the tally of donation dollars was always impressive. Rumour on the street was that most of the funds came from the mayor himself, through various holding companies and whathaveyous, supporting his wife's philanthropic hobby. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose. After all, didn't we all want to help all those help-needing kids who needed helping?
Today's event was a luncheon at the Saskatoon hotel nicknamed "the castle on the river," otherwise known as the Delta Bessborough. With its rich carpeting, reclaimed millwork, and detailed trimmings, the hotel's elegant Adam Ballroom is one the city's most sought-after banquet rooms for weddings and big bashes of every ilk. So of course, that was where the Childhelp luncheon was being held.
I'd seen the advertisement in that morning's paper. It was the perfect way for me to get in front of Sherry Fisher and find out what she knew about Walter Angel. The only problem was that the same ad loudly proclaimed the event "sold out by popular demand." I cattily wondered how far back that set the mayor this time. To solve my dilemma, I called on another woman I know, one inestimably more powerful than any mayor's wife.
Walking into a room with Sereena Orion Smith on your arm is unlike any other experience. The woman is the enigmatic embodiment of exotic yet damaged beauty combined with magnetic allure. People are drawn to her, yet fearful at the same time. She is a lovely but carnivorous flower that begs to be smelled. Many stare and try for a smile. Others simply frown. Few dare to approach unless they know her, then they do come up, and wait for her to bestow upon them the golden touch of her famed wit. When her light shines upon you, you feel like a star, and everybody wants to be a star.
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