A Death Most Cold

by Petryshyn, Jaroslav (Jerry)

  The lower drawer, however, proved much more interesting. On top of a batch of empty manila folders was a 4” x 6” green hardcover book with the words “Daily Journal” embossed in gold ink. Leafing through it, Myron discovered that it wasn’t so much an appointment ledger as a diary. Its two hundred or so pages were three-quarters filled with Dworking’s neatly penned prose.

  “This looks promising,” he said. “Maybe we’ll get to know the real Dworking.”

  Myron settled himself comfortably at the desk and began perusing. What he read were pages of short and to the point sketches of personalities and situations at the college that, judging from her running commentaries, she found cause for concern or at least irritating.

  “Anything?” Freta asked after a while. She had finished her reconnaissance of the study and came up empty.

  “Yeah… Not exactly the equivalent of the Mackenzie King diaries, but definitely more grist for the suspect mill. Vanessa’s personal scorecard of who’s who at the college and their various transgressions. Looks like she began making notes about a year ago — at least that’s her first recorded incident — and guess whose name pops up?”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense. Who?”

  “None other than Charles Leaper. I had forgotten about this episode, but it did create quite a stink at the time.”

  “Why don’t we go into the living room and make ourselves more comfortable, and you can tell me about it,” Freta suggested, straightening her back. “I find this room dark and oppressive.”

  “Lead the way.”

  Myron opened the curtain behind the couch to let some daylight in and flipped to where he had stopped. Freta plopped down on the couch beside him.

  “It revolved around the termination of an art history instructor, as I recall,” related Myron. “What was his name…Primrose — Dr. Barry Primrose. He was a recognized expert in some branch of native art, had been a tenured faculty member for at least six years. Then, presto, he was declared redundant and let go.”

  “I thought tenure was important?”

  “As a concept normally yes, but I don’t know the particular details of what went on behind the scenes. Certainly faculty and students were aghast. Primrose was an excellent instructor with more students than the rest of the Department of Visual and Performing Arts combined!”

  “So where does Leaper fit in?”

  “He engineered it — so goes the story. Chaired a committee that screwed Primrose royally, all under the guise of cutting the department’s budget. Now, there was a great deal of animosity between the two — I am not sure over what, exactly, and I guess Primrose had a bit of an ego as well; he liked to see things done his way, so he had his share of detractors in the department. Anyway, Charles stacked the committee with those who wanted Primrose out, and they did him in.”

  “Okay, but how does this relate to Leaper and Dworking?” Freta asked pensively.

  “The proverbial shit hit the fan when about fifty faculty and a hundred students and members of the arts community appeared at a board meeting. I remember we had to move to a larger room to accommodate everyone. They came in protest against Primrose’s dismissal. The local press was there too. To make a long story short, Dworking took the flak while Leaper sat there, not saying a word. It was a long night for her. She came out looking none too good publicly. First time I ever saw her flustered — sweat on her upper lip, so to speak. The dismissal couldn’t be justified, and everyone knew it; it was vindictive, capricious, and all Leaper’s doing. That was how it was interpreted, anyway. But give Dworking credit, she defended her administrator when he overstepped his bounds. Later, a board member let it slip that he heard her ream Leaper out — he sure laid low for a while after that.”

  “She didn’t put all of that in the journal, did she?” Freta asked, eyeing the book in his hands.

  “No. She just mentions the incident here — calls it the Primrose Affair and makes a note…” Myron paused and found the passage, “and I quote, ‘Charles messed up, a re-evaluation is in order — perhaps when he takes his sabbatical.’ She’s got a question after that. Come to think of it, Charles did apply for leave, and it was granted for this September.”

  “In other words, Dworking was planning to pay him back when he wasn’t around?”

  “Something like that, maybe. Have an administrative reorganization, which excluded his services, perhaps. It’s happened before. Of course, it’s standard academic procedure now.”

  “Conveniently so,” noted Freta. “Still, seems petty stuff for murder.”

  Myron shrugged. “People have killed for a lot less.”

  “Very true. I think Mr. Leaper has reaffirmed his position on the suspect list. Another interview is in order, I’d say.”

  “Yeah, but before we leap to conclusions — ah, no pun intended — there are others mentioned here.”

  “Who else?”

  “Let’s see…” Myron flipped through a few more pages. “She’s no fan of Oliver — of course, we knew that. She states here, ‘no confidence in Spinner, increasingly argumentative — is resisting the proposed budget — last straw.’ She’s underlined this: ‘went over my head, phoned the deputy minister — undermining my authority.’”

  “That all?”

  “That’s it so far. I haven’t finished reading yet. There could be more farther on. It’s all in point form, little reminders to herself.”

  “Well, give me the journal,” Freta said, getting up. “Why don’t I finish reading it while we drive back to town. I’ve had enough of this place.”

  ***

  Once in the car, however, Freta suggested that they go up the road a ways to Dworking’s nearest neighbour, the man who phoned and offered to keep her dogs. “Maybe he’s got something useful to say about the late president,” she added, sounding not at all hopeful.

  The sign on the mailbox read “Frank Haley”; it guarded the entrance to a ramshackle farmhouse built along much the same lines as the Dworking home. Myron pulled in and brought the Audi to a rolling stop behind a battered Chevy pickup.

  “Let’s see what Mr. Haley knows about Dworking and her country lifestyle,” Freta said, fiddling with her seat belt release.

  The man who stuck his head out the door was old and wrinkled, with wispy white hair and red, rheumy eyes. He wore a flannel shirt that hung around him like a burlap sack. Somewhere behind him could be heard the high-pitched barking of excited dogs.

  “Yes?” His eyes darted between Myron and Freta, finally deciding that Freta was the more appealing object of focus.

  Freta introduced herself and Myron, indicating that she was an RCMP officer.

  “Did yous come about those yapping dogs back there?” He jerked his head backward in the direction of the barking.

  “No, but if they’re a problem, animal control—” Freta began.

  “Naw — no problem — just yappy… Not sure what they be. Some sort of terriers. Yard mutts they ain’t, but house-broken. If they’d be going to a pound, I’d just as soon keep them.” Haley spoke in a rush of words, getting them out quickly before reaching into his back pocket for a handkerchief and coughing harshly into it.

  “We didn’t come about the dogs,” repeated Freta, “and there is a good possibility that you can keep them if you want. We just want to ask some questions about Ms. Dworking.”

  Haley seemed relieved; stepping back, he led them into the musty-smelling mud room ringed on one side with hooks and well-worn coats. “Don’t know what I can tell yous. Didn’t see much of her in all the time she’s been down there in the ol’ Miller place. But then why would I?” He gave them a gummy smile, punctuated by two very yellow teeth. Myron ran his tongue along his recently fixed tooth and made a mental note to see his dentist more regularly.

  Five minutes later, Myron was backing his car out of Haley’s driveway. They learned that Haley lived alone (a widower for many years) and that Dworking pretty much kept to herself. “I’d clear her driveway once in a while
when I could get the ol’ tractor to start,” he told them, “and once she invited me in for a spot of tea — can’t stand the stuff, but that was all she offered, and it wouldn’t’ve been neighbourly to refuse… Hardly saw her at all during the summer — she wasn’t around…”

  “A lonely man,” said Freta as they drove down the Bowden Lake Hutterite Colony Road.

  “Yeah, and not too healthy, either. Seems to have taken a liking to Dworking’s dogs.”

  “They provide company, I suspect. I’ll talk to Rob, make sure he gets to keep them, if he wants. Can’t imagine Dworking’s sister wanting two pets.”

  “Probably doesn’t know they exist.”

  “Ironic, though…” Freta said thoughtfully.

  “How’s that?”

  “Gary shot his dog for a few moments of quiet; Haley needs this pair to break his solitude.

  “Life’s like that…”

  Freta read Dworking’s diary in silence as Myron wheeled his Audi onto the main highway. By the time they hit the airport cut-off, she had three more suspects with a motive. “‘Orville Wishert, an unstable little toad and a detriment to the institution…’” she quoted from Dworking’s commentary.

  “I agree there,” Myron said flatly.

  “How about Sidney Sage?”

  “What’d she say about him?”

  “That he bought his degree, and I quote, ‘bad reflection on the college — dismissal warranted’ with a question mark?”

  “I won’t argue with that either, although I think she wouldn’t have followed through. These were notes to herself.”

  The last name that came up was a total surprise to Myron: Sheldon Blythe. “What did she say about him?” he asked, perplexed.

  “It’s one of her last entries. Just has his name written with a cryptic comment, ‘incompetent or a crook — check.’ That mean anything to you?”

  “Not a thing.”

  Freta sighed. “Looks like I have my work cut out for me. More interviews to come… By the way, you’re mentioned.”

  “What?” Myron gave her a startled glance, his eyes straying to the book in her lap.

  “Along with about seven or eight other names. Collectively calls you the ‘untouchables.’ That mean anything?”

  Myron relaxed and chuckled. “Probably means that she likes us and our jobs are safe — at least while she was alive.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunday

  After spending another heady night in Freta’s apartment, Myron planned for a boring Sunday. His first chore was to boost her Camaro. Luckily, there was an empty space beside the bloated beast, which allowed his green machine ready access. He hooked up the cables, and the car fired up on the first crank. Freta came out in her regulation attire; he held the door open while she slid in. She’d be off to the cop shop for a few hours, catch up on her paperwork, she had told him earlier. They agreed to take a rest from each other for a couple of days. “Get the batteries recharged,” she said. Myron thought that an appropriate analogy as she drove away.

  Back in his abode, Myron shaved, changed his clothes, and made another cup of coffee. Half past ten, and all was well, except that the Super Bowl didn’t start until four. He didn’t feel like cleaning, although the place certainly needed it, and any marking he had was on his desk at the college. Tomorrow would be soon enough for that. After fifteen minutes of sipping coffee and failing to come up with anything that would keep himself gainfully occupied in the apartment for the next three or four hours, Myron felt himself beginning to slip into a morbid frame of mind. Freta notwithstanding, Nadia was still a pressing concern.

  What he needed was a diversion, something useful to do to get him through Sunday — or at least to the Super Bowl. An idea slowly wormed its way from his subconscious until a light bulb lit up in his brain. Why not help Freta out a bit by performing some proactive detective work? Why not indeed! And he knew just the place to start. First, he’d take a drive to the Northside Plaza. The grocery store there (Gordon Prybiewski’s, in fact) opened at eleven, and he needed to replenish his supply of pipe tobacco. Then he’d drop in on Oliver Spinner, commiserate, see how he was doing, and find out what he could about his falling-out with Dworking and his relationship with Sheila.

  Myron and Oliver weren’t exactly friends, but when the occasion warranted, they got along rather well. Myron recalled the party he and Nadia had thrown in their apartment almost a year ago in happier times. There was a good sprinkling of college people, including Oliver. As the evening wore on, Myron was persuaded to take out his accordion (what immigrant kid didn’t play a squeeze box at some time or other?). Oliver, obviously feeling no pain as well, told him to hang on a minute, and he rushed out of the apartment and returned shortly with a violin case, complete with a fiddle inside. He had it in the trunk of his car; why he carried it there, Myron never got around to asking.

  “You lead and I’ll follow,” Oliver said after tuning his instrument to the accordion.

  They probably didn’t sound that good, but no one seemed to mind as the evening wore on. They even took a request from Benson McDougall, Myron’s earnest colleague and soon to be supportive friend, whose Scottish brogue increased exponentially with the amount of alcohol he consumed. Myron got it all wrong, however, and it became a joke afterward. Apparently, the sentimental Scotsman’s words were, “Kinn yah play ‘Loch Loman,’ laddie.” Myron, obviously on a different wavelength, not to mention soundtrack, said, “Sure,” and proceeded to give a less than perfect rendition of “La Paloma.” Oliver, though, never missed a beat, bowing along blissfully. Happier times indeed…

  Even the unexpected presence of Orville Wishert that night didn’t dampen the mood — too much. Orville, Myron was told, never attended such frivolous gatherings: the only event he showed up at was the beginning of the year barbecue put on by the board of governors. Nevertheless, there he was. The first hour went well, until he got into the cooking sherry that had been inadvertently set aside on the counter. Orville drank it like pop until fully “corked”; he then became belligerent and maudlin all at the same time. He berated a colleague for his “liberal” political views (communism and liberalism for Orville appeared to be the flip side of the same coin). He had no use for Liberals of any kind, categorizing them “fellow travellers” or “red buddies” who had no place in Alberta or the rest of the country, for that matter.

  The response, “Why don’t you drop dead, Wishert,” Myron recalled, produced a totally unpredictable reaction. Orville’s lower lip started to quiver, and large tears slid down his cheeks. Admittedly, his fellow department member had endured a rather vigorous and prolonged harangue from Orville, but still, in retrospect, it was…unkind.

  Orville was comforted after his outburst of tears and offered a ride home by another college instructor who had to leave the festivities anyway. Odd what lay beneath the layers of outer epidermis, thought Myron, seeing the little man being led away distraught but docile. Who knew that Orville was really a sensitive guy — at least when it came to what was conveyed to him about him!

  ***

  Myron never met Oliver’s wife, Helen, at the party. He did know that a short time later she was involved in a serious auto accident that left her in a coma for several weeks. She partially recovered, but when occasionally asked how she was, Oliver said “improving” and left it at that. Not wishing to pry, Myron probed no further. Now, wheeling into the plaza parking lot, Myron wondered about that and how Sheila fit into the picture.

  Oliver’s home wasn’t far from the plaza (Myron looked up the address just to be sure) in Northview Estates, a middle-class enclave developed about a decade ago. Unlike some of the older sections of the city, it was denuded of trees, a black mark against the builders who levelled every growth in sight in their rush to erect dwellings for eager customers during the boom period. The economy had slowed considerably, and most of those companies had long since gone belly-up, but their handiwork was still evident in the lack of indigenous t
rees.

  Relatively speaking, Oliver’s house was modest, a split-level of brick, siding, and stucco. As Myron rounded the corner, he spotted Sheila pulling away from his driveway in her beige Volvo. He slowed and watched her motor off in the opposite direction. Definitely something going on there…

  Myron didn’t know exactly how to approach Oliver. “Hi, I’m here helping the police investigate Dworking’s death,” didn’t seem quite the right tack to take. On the other hand, he didn’t want to be there under false pretences. As he stopped by the curb, he decided simply to play it by ear and see how Oliver reacted to an unexpected visitor.

  Oliver came to the door wearing a plain white shirt, baggy brown corduroy pants, and scruffy slippers with the toes beginning to pop through. His face was strained, puffy, and it appeared that he had forgotten to shave that morning. Rough night, judging by how unkempt he is, Myron surmised.

  “Myron!”

  “Hello, Oliver.” There was an awkward pause as Oliver held the door open, letting the frigid air rush in. Myron finally filled in the breach. “Ah…was out and about in the neighbourhood — thought I’d pop in — see how you were doing.” Not really a lie; only a half-truth.

  “Well, do come in. The coffee pot is still hot.” Oliver took Myron’s coat and hung it in the hall closet while Myron slipped out of his toe boots and followed Oliver into the den. “Good of you to stop by in my time of troubles,” he said as Myron surveyed the cozy, dark-panelled room. “Have a seat.” Oliver gestured to a black leather armchair. “I’ll get the coffee.”

  “Thanks.”

  Once the coffee was served and the obligatory discussion of the weather and the faltering fortunes of the Edmonton Oilers were dispensed with (Oliver had no interest in the Super Bowl), Myron sought to steer the conversation toward a more meaningful if contentious direction. “Driving up I saw Sheila leaving…”