A Death Most Cold

by Petryshyn, Jaroslav (Jerry)

  “Yes… She paid me a visit this morning.” Oliver licked his lips and set his cup and saucer down on the coffee table between them with a clatter. “Wanted to bring me the latest news. She’s decided to apply for the acting president’s position, you know.”

  “Good for her. I hope she gets it.” And Myron meant it.

  “She agonized about throwing her name into the hat for the last couple of days. Decided only this morning. The competition deadline, as you know, is tomorrow. I don’t think she’s going to change her mind…” Oliver trailed off.

  “Why should she?”

  “No reason, if that’s what she wants to do. I…” he sighed thoughtfully, “I don’t want her to plunge into this on my account.”

  Myron saw his opening. “I know this may be none of my business, but are you and Sheila involved?” Normally, Myron would not have been so blunt, but here was the opportunity to ascertain the state of affairs, so to speak.

  Oliver solemnly studied his hands for a moment clasped together in his lap. “Helen never fully recovered from the accident, you know?

  “I’m sorry…”

  “It was one of those things,” Oliver continued. “The brain is a delicate instrument…” He shook his head. “She came out of the coma all right, but she really didn’t get better. Couldn’t remember things, got confused easily — left water taps running, the stove on — almost burned down the place. I tried to take care of her when she came home, but she couldn’t be left alone for any length of time.”

  “I understand,” Myron said uncomfortably. He was not sure he could take an outpouring of someone else’s grief at that moment.

  “Anyway, Helen is at a long-term facility in Edmonton, where my son lives. She’s receiving the best care available.” Oliver cleared his throat. “That’s when I got to know Sheila better. She had been a nurse, you know. I asked her for advice. She was caring. Came over to be with Helen on occasion and gave me…solace. It became clear that Helen needed to be institutionalized. I just couldn’t handle it on my own. My son, Richard…” his eyes strayed to a framed photo on the mantle above the unlit fieldstone fireplace, a family shot of a beaming Oliver with one hand around an equally cheerful woman with a soft face and streaked grey hair and the other around a gangling teenager. “He agreed we couldn’t help Helen, and with him off to university — well…” he spread his hands out in an empty gesture. “He visits her often, and I come on weekends mostly, when I could find the time, which is something I have plenty of now.”

  “Terribly sorry about what’s happened and the circumstances you find yourself in,” Myron said sincerely, not knowing what else to say.

  “Yes, well… You can figure out the rest,” Oliver said resolutely, straightening up in his seat. “Sheila and I…hit it off. She’s a widow, you know — husband died some years ago. I guess,” he cleared his throat again, “Sheila and I are about the worst-kept secret in the college. We tried to be discreet with Helen still in the background.”

  Myron nodded sympathetically. Actually, it was a well-contained relationship; certainly, he didn’t know about it and hadn’t heard any gossip around the institution. Charles, though, seemed to be fully aware and homed in like a hawk on its prey. In any case, his personal woes seemed minor compared with Oliver’s unfolding Shakespearean drama.

  “And, of course, it’s become much more complicated,” Oliver continued, “now that I’ve run afoul of Dworking—”

  “What happened?”

  “I was going to ask you that. You were at the board meeting—”

  “Actually, I wasn’t,” Myron interjected. “Sorry I wasn’t there — bad timing.”

  Spinner nodded. “Well, I have been thinking about what happened, and it was a combination of things, I guess,” he said with resignation. “I had reservations about the strategy the president was pursuing — cutting certain programmes in order to balance the budget. Not only were they the wrong programmes, but I believed — and still do — not every effort had been exploited to obtain more funding from Edmonton. I can only suppose that I was a little too outspoken for Vanessa. And it was a bit out of character for me, in retrospect, but I was getting frustrated with her unrelenting policy of slash and burn. The college wasn’t always run that way, and I sincerely believed — believe — that there was enough flexibility in the system to run a deficit budget. We’d done it before and always found the money in the end. I thought that in my position as dean of Finances and Administration, I had a responsibility to point this out and seek further funding. I made some phone calls. She saw this as a direct threat to her authority and…well…convinced the board to serve my head on a platter. And here we are.”

  Myron nodded, having read Dworking’s angry entry in her journal. “I hope you get your job back,” he said with feeling.

  “So do I. Boy, that meeting was a bombshell. I got totally blindsided, had no idea that I was going to get canned. Got home in a daze and Sheila…she was livid.”

  “Sheila? I thought she was in Vancouver?” Suddenly, alarm bells went off in Myron’s head.

  “Yes…she was. She phoned me from the airport.”

  “Oh.” Myron relaxed.

  “When she heard, she could hardly contain herself. Vanessa had done this, you see, behind Sheila’s back with, Sheila believes, a great deal of forethought and malice to spite us both.”

  “Did Vanessa know about you and Sheila?” Myron saw no reference to their relationship in Dworking’s journal, which did not necessarily exclude the possibility.

  “I didn’t think so. I told Sheila that Vanessa’s action was probably more about my perceived challenge to her authority than anything personal, but Sheila was convinced that Vanessa was being spiteful — not sure why. At any rate, she told me not to worry and that she would straighten Dworking out when she got in. And the rest — well, we know the rest.”

  “Did Sheila say there were problems between her and the president?” Myron asked, trying to get a gage of the animosity that obviously existed between the two.

  “Sheila and Vanessa did not really get along, that’s for sure, and it was getting worse with the budget cuts, which affected Sheila’s area. They were civil, for the most part, at meetings and other college functions, but they instinctively disliked each other — an oil and water thing, maybe…” Oliver shrugged. “Of course, it’s all a moot point now since Vanessa’s passing. Still, I don’t know what happened, exactly.”

  “No one does,” Myron said in an uncommitted tone.

  “Police been around asking questions — think it wasn’t some unfortunate medical condition or accident of some sort?”

  “RCMP have to investigate, cover all the bases,” Myron reaffirmed in a neutral voice.

  “I suppose…”

  “Great shame Sheila missed that special board meeting,” Myron said, taking a different tack in the conversation, away from the police inquiries.

  “Sure is. Sheila’s flight didn’t arrive in time.”

  “Oh, Sheila got to Great Plains that night?” That was significant news that Myron wasn’t aware of; he had assumed that Sheila was still in Vancouver.

  “Last flight in,” Oliver confirmed.

  That would have been 12:45 a.m., Myron surmised, relaxing a little. He knew this because he took the same flight a few months before after attending a Learned Conference at UBC. Given that, Sheila had an alibi that was at least as good as his.

  “Did you pick her up?” he asked innocuously.

  “No. That would have been indiscreet. Sheila parked her car at the airport.” Oliver frowned. “Why? Are the police suspicious about Vanessa’s death?” His eyes widened. “There’s no possible way Sheila could have—”

  “I know,” Myron reassured him. “It’s just police would want to account for everyone’s whereabouts just in case. You told all this to the investigating officer?” Well, so much for tactfully avoiding the notion that Dworking’s death is considered suspicious!

  “No. I didn’t
mention my involvement with Sheila. Didn’t see the relevance or want to drag our relationship into it. But guess it’s pretty well out in the open now.”

  “If it is, I’ve heard no idle talk about it in the halls,” Myron said, trying to be positive. He put aside Charles’s snide comment at the board meeting.

  “What do you think of Sheila’s chances for the presidency?”

  Myron told him that he didn’t know but thought that Sheila had as good a chance as anyone else at the college. After that, the conversation drifted off and then sputtered. There didn’t appear much else to say. Myron told Oliver to keep the faith and quoted a famous twentieth century sports philosopher to the effect that it wasn’t over until it was over. Oliver thanked him for stopping by, and with that Myron took his leave.

  ***

  The Super Bowl was a bust. Washington trailed Denver 10–0 in the first quarter; then the Redskins woke up and scored 35 unanswered points in the second quarter. By halftime the game was over, final tally Redskins 42, Broncos 10. It was like that most years, Myron realized, media hype, a great deal of anticipation followed by a blowout.

  With a longer evening than he imagined looming, Myron’s thoughts strayed briefly to Oliver then, possibly by association, to his accordion, which presumably sat collecting dust in a battered case in a forgotten corner of the bedroom closet. He hadn’t played it since the party, with Oliver providing the accompaniment. Maybe he should take it out and tickle the keys a bit.

  Myron played in a band every weekend for a number of years in the metro Toronto area, earning his weekly stash to keep him afloat while attending university. He wasn’t very good as far as accordionists went; he had a tin ear and couldn’t harmonize with a dial tone, but he could read music and muddled his way through — acceptable enough for Bohdan Babich and his Music Kings in a venue where polkas, waltzes, and elongated tangos ruled.

  Most Saturday nights, the Music Kings were on stage at some ethnic hall, playing their gig — by and large, weddings and anniversaries. He’d stand with that goofy “this is fun” smile, pulling and squeezing the bellows, exercising the bicep muscle in the left hand, while drunken twirlers, stiff two-steppers, and flamboyant floaters occupied the dance floor.

  To be sure, the accordion was the perfect happy instrument, bubbling with merriment and cheer, and Myron had performed his fair share of “Roll out the Barrel” and “Clarinet” polkas. However, he knew if he took it out now, he would only play sad songs in minor keys because deeply embedded within each accordion lay the innately mournful cries of the tragic Slavic soul. As he opened the closet door to reassure himself that it was still there (and not hauled away, inadvertently or otherwise, by Nadia’s movers), he instinctively knew that his accordion was the perfect melancholy mood-inducer best suited for the forlorn, dejected, and/or reasonably intoxicated.

  The case remained exactly where he had put it almost a year ago (why would Nadia take it? Accordions were not a hot item, rejected even by understocked pawnshops). After a long, ruminative stare, Myron did not open the accordion case — best not to sink into a depressing stupor with some peasant ballad of lost or unrequited love. Besides, if he started playing, no doubt, complaints would be quickly registered with the building manager. Management policy: no dogs, cats, or accordions allowed.

  Instead, he sat on the empty living room floor, his back propped against the wall, took out his pouch of Sail tobacco, extracted a plentiful pinch, and stuffed it into his pipe. A quick flick of the Bic resulted in a satisfying cloud of aromatic smoke. He replayed his visit with Oliver, his unfortunate circumstances, and Sheila’s involvement. (One thing was sure, Sheila’s alibi might not be as tight as first thought!) What he couldn’t quite get a handle on was how Charles fit into the equation. He’d discuss this with Freta; also, a more thorough reading of Dworking’s journal might yield further clues…

  Chapter Twelve

  Monday

  Overnight, a Chinook came sweeping down through Great Plains. The warm, dry wind descended from the eastern slopes of the Rockies, displacing the cold embrace of the Arctic high. It occurred most often in southern Alberta. Calgarians, in particular, liked to boast to the rest of the province deep in the clutches of a winter continental climate of how these warm coastal winds that swirled from the mountains raised the temperature as much as thirty degrees in a matter of three or four hours, creating absolutely balmy conditions. The downside was that this thaw didn’t last for more than a day or two before the thermometer took a rude plunge; moreover, there were high winds, up to a hundred kilometres an hour, associated with this phenomenon.

  Myron awoke early, conscious of the whistling outside: flitting wind, the price to be paid for a momentary heat wave. He got up quickly, his mouth stale and his tongue feeling like scorched shoe leather. He had overindulged in his pipe again.

  “Once more unto the breach,” he muttered, meandering to the bathroom. His first class wasn’t until nine, but he wanted to get to the college well in advance, read his lecture notes, and have that all-important first mug of coffee.

  Myron arrived at his office by eight. He was surprised that Ted’s door was closed; the tax man cum instructor was usually on the scene, ready to talk shop and/or gossip. Shrugging off his parka, Myron yanked out the appropriate set of notes from his world history folder and placed them on the desk. Next, he grabbed his distinctive Great Plains College mug featuring the institution’s motto, “Raising the Bar” (there was a Latin equivalent, but Myron couldn’t remember it) and headed for the cafeteria. The universe was unfolding as it should…

  Today, however, there was a slight glitch in his routine. He had forgotten to clean out the mug from the previous week, and he noticed that added to the emblazoned orange and purple school colours was a bluish mould that had magically materialized at the bottom. Thinking that it could be hazardous to his health, Myron made a quick detour to the washroom. There he encountered Charles Leaper filling up his electric kettle. The dean of Arts and Sciences was nattily dressed in a dark three-piece suit matched to a rich, red tie. His hair was slicked back, indubitably, Myron thought, with that “little dab’ll do ya” hair gel.

  “Morning, Myron,” he said brightly, taking a sneak peek at himself in the mirror above the sink. “A bit of a blustery day.”

  Myron took up his position at the adjoining sink and ran water into his soiled mug. He saw that his own hair was an entangled mess. Blustery, indeed; maybe he should get some of Charles’s gel, along with Grecian Formula while he was at it. “Yeah…sort of blows you away.”

  Charles laughed good-naturedly. Myron did not like Charles, and he was sure the feeling was mutual. It was nothing personal (in fact, they had never really locked horns over any substantive issue and had generally been quite civilized to each other); rather, it was instinctive and intrinsic. Charles’s chief asset was his innate cunning not only for survival but also for advancing his cause — namely himself — at the expense of others. It was a harsh judgement, and perhaps unwarranted, since to a greater or lesser extent, there was a bit of Charles in everyone, including Myron himself.

  “You’re in early,” Myron said, shutting off the tap and vigorously wiping the inside of his mug with a paper towel. Charles usually arrived at nine every morning and worked late if he had to.

  “A little earlier than usual today. Can’t sleep when the wind howls… never could.”

  “Well… she sure howled last night.”

  “Loosened a shingle or two, no doubt… How’s it going with you?”

  “Comme ci, comme ça,” Myron responded. He was pretty certain that Charles was aware of his matrimonial problems, even though he tried to keep it discreet. It was one of those institutional phenomena — that sort of news travelled quickly, providing excellent fodder for the gossip mill.

  “Hanging in there is three quarters of the battle, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Myron acknowledged, not sure in what context he should take Charles’s remar
k.

  Myron studied the bottom of his mug, now devoid of its organic growth; he suddenly thought of Dworking’s journal and her comments concerning Charles’s upcoming sabbatical. How did that now fit into the scheme of things? Was there a chance that Charles would forgo a shot at the presidency for a year’s leave from the college? Not likely, but he decided to find out, albeit in a circuitous fashion. “How are your sabbatical plans coming along?” he asked casually.

  “Ah…funny you should mention that…mulled it over just last night.” Charles wrinkled his brow. “I had hoped to begin doctoral work at the U of Edmonton — in fact, have it all set up — but with the unsettled state of affairs here, that might be put on hold for a while, depending…” He shrugged.

  Myron understood that Leaper would have a growing desire, if not need, for a PhD for status, as well as professional reasons as he moved up the administrative food chain. In fact, it was a common practice; a number of individuals had taken a similar route over the years. The accepted standard was a degree from the Faculty of Education, University of Edmonton, or, less so, the rival university in Calgary.

  No doubt, Charles had his dissertation topic staked out: a qualitative and/or quantitative analysis on some aspect of the college system in the province. It could range from college comparisons, to institutional leadership, to university transfer programmes, to the Faculty Association(s) and collective bargaining rights. Myron could attest to this pattern, having perused a number of these theses penned by colleagues in the college library.

  As in the case of Sidney Sage, Leaper was aspiring to enhance his upward mobility in academia with a doctorate added after his name, but unlike Sage, he planned doing it with a bona fide degree.

  “You’re going for the acting president’s position, I take it?”

  “Yes. I’ve applied. With my experience and length of time here, I think I have something positive to contribute. I hope that the selection committee and the members of the board agree,” he added meaningfully, a shrewd smile sliding across his face.