A Death Most Cold

by Petryshyn, Jaroslav (Jerry)

  “Maybe I should have attended this talk. I’ll be giving a night course on the Soviet Union next year. I didn’t realize the Russians were such an economic force globally.”

  “They’re not,” said Ted, “quite the opposite. I’m just giving you the highlights of our witty speaker’s comparison of large countries’ economies, of which the USSR is the butt end. Maybe, I’ll take your course, find out what’s wrong with them.”

  “To really understand the Soviet communist system, the most important thing is to learn alternative facts,” said Myron with a smirk.

  “How’s that?”

  “Oh, it takes a bit of preparation. I’m working on it. Come to the first class for a demonstration.”

  Ted raised an eyebrow. “Pray do tell, what do you plan to do?”

  “I haven’t worked it all out yet but it involves a few basics…”

  “Like?”

  “Sitting in the dark to create a feeling of anxiety and tension. Make comments like students will be targeted for failure if they ask too many questions or not correctly phrase them or don’t believe that black can be white if the occasion requires. They’ll get the drift of how things work in the Soviet Union as the course progresses.”

  “Wow! Can’t wait.”

  “I knew it’d turn your crank,” Myron said in a bemused tone. “Tell you everything you wanted to know about the Russians.”

  “Speaking of knowing, what did our illustrious Poli Sci prof have to say?”

  “Ah, let me tell you a tale of my day so far.” Myron proceeded to inform Ted about Sage’s bid for the presidency (Sidney never mentioned anything about confidentiality — probably because he never practised it himself) and the latest tabloid on Nadia.

  Ted shook his head. “Very funny on both accounts, if it weren’t so sad.”

  “Yeah, ain’t it…” Myron glanced at his watch. The afternoon was wearing on. “I think I’ve had enough of this place for one day.”

  They both got up. Ted, a towering lump over Myron, put a hand on his shoulder in a fatherly fashion. “What you need is a good stiff drink. I’m finished here as well. Say I meet you at the Corral downtown — quaff a couple.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll meet you there shortly. Gotta hit the can…”

  It was there that Myron came upon his last unseemly revelation before exiting the college. Orville Wishert had his back to Myron, facing the urinal. His pants and boxer shorts were wrapped around his ankles, two wrinkled buns exposed. Myron stopped dead in his tracks; no way was he going to stand cheek to cheek with this strange little man. He made a 180-degree turn out the door, deciding that he could stand the pressure until he got to the bar.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Freta greeted him wrapped comfortably in a full-length mauve bathrobe with a pair of matching slip-on slippers. He gave her a casual hug and modest kiss, a far cry from their torrid session together over the weekend. But then having known each for only a few days, Myron didn’t have a feel for what was an appropriate greeting between them. She disengaged herself and ushered him into the living room. He staked out his favourite love seat.

  “Coffee, tea, or something stronger?” she asked from the tiny kitchen.

  “I’d go for something stronger, as long as it isn’t a drink of any kind,” he said teasingly. (Two hours and three beers with Ted had put him in a jocular mood.)

  She poked her head around the corner. “Hold that thought — for later.” She gave him a wink.

  “In that case, tea would be nice.” He had coffeed himself out and didn’t want an alcoholic beverage at that moment.

  Freta came in with a tray of cheese and crackers. “Something to nibble on if we get hungry. So, let’s get caught up. What have you uncovered the last couple of days?”

  “Not a whole lot,” Myron admitted. He told her about his visit with Oliver and his chat with Sheila.

  Freta mulled that over. “She was agitated about you speaking to Oliver and the ongoing police investigation?”

  “Seemed to be, wants to protect him, I think, in any way she can.”

  “Don’t know why she would be overly concerned.”

  “Sordid rumours are floating in the college to the effect that Oliver did Dworking in for firing him.”

  “How do these things get started?”

  “Very easily, believe me.”

  “Well, I talked to him again. Told me pretty much the same thing he told you regarding why he was fired.”

  “When was that?”

  “Monday morning — the first person of interest I managed to reach. He didn’t mention Penny’s telephone call, though.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. They both want to keep their relationship discreet.”

  “Well—” She was interrupted by the kettle whistling in the kitchen.

  Myron got up. “Relax, I’ll make the tea.”

  “Thanks…the tea bags are on the second shelf in the cupboard nearest the fridge.”

  “Right…you were saying,” he called from the kitchen.

  “I’m going to do what I should have done much sooner.”

  “What’s that?” He brought in a brown teapot and two mugs.

  “Confirm Penny’s story through airline and telephone records.” She poured her tea into a mug. “Want yours now too?”

  “No, let it steep a while longer.”

  She settled back into her chair, sticking her feet underneath her. “If it checks out, I’ll forget about her and drop Oliver down a notch on my list as well.”

  “It’ll check out,” Myron said. “Sheila arrived in Great Plains after midnight.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I guess I forgot to mention this part. Oliver told me that she was on the last flight in, and that was 12:45 a.m.”

  “Well, that’s good to know,” Freta said, surprised with a touch of annoyance. Myron couldn’t be sure whether it was because he forgot to mention it or that Sheila’s stature as a suspect was suddenly greatly reduced. “I’ll have to confirm that,” she added.

  “That sounds reasonable to me. Oh, before I forget, there is a tribute to Dworking Friday night. I’m sure all the suspects will be there. Might be worth attending — get some impressions. Sugar — can’t drink tea without sugar.”

  “Same cupboard, bottom shelf.”

  “Right! Don’t police usually attend wakes and funerals of homicide victims?” he asked, making his way to the kitchen again.

  “Potential homicide victims,” she corrected him. “Unless I get a break soon…” She shrugged as he came back. “We haven’t proven conclusively that she was murdered, although I can’t shake that feeling, just intuitively, you know… And there’s nothing in the RCMP procedural manual about attending funerals or wakes. Ugh! How can you drink that?” She eyed Myron with mock disgust as he put two spoonfuls of sugar in his cup before pouring the tea.

  “I like a little tea with my sugar,” he said, settling back and taking a tepid sip.

  “Each to his own, I suppose. But you’re right.” She returned to the business at hand. “It might prove productive to attend this tribute/wake/whatever. Rob and I are quickly running out of leads and ideas. What time?”

  “Seven. In the concourse area. Free food, cash bar.”

  “Nice touch. Oh, wait. I will be a little late. I’m meeting Dworking’s sister, Sandra. She’s flying in from Toronto Friday night at seven fifteen, I think, to make arrangements after the release of the body.”

  “Releasing the body? That mean the coroner’s work is done?” asked Myron, a bit surprised. The unthawing process sounded complicated and lengthy to him when Freta first mentioned it.

  “No, far from it. She will have to wait for that, but there’s lots to do, I’m sure, in terms of dealing with her sister’s possessions and assets and eventually funeral arrangements — she did mention cremation.”

  Myron nodded. “Seems appropriate somehow. I suspect that’s the way Dworking would have wanted it. Probably stipulated as much in
her will.”

  “What’d you mean?”

  “To be quietly cremated, ashes scattered.” Myron waved his right hand as if spreading seeds. “Seems her style somehow.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Freta, helping herself to a cracker.

  “So there’s nothing new on the corpse front?” asked Myron, changing the focus of the discussion.

  “No developments, no — or at least nothing really new. Only odd note was what I mentioned the other day. Dworking sustained a bruise at the base of her skull, forceful enough to possibly kill her, but it gets a little too speculative after that. Maybe she slipped, fell, managed to get up, climb into the car, and passed out and froze. Problem is I don’t buy that,” Freta said in a grim tone.

  I think we’ve covered this already. “Neither do I,” he agreed. “Someone whacked her and placed her in the car — arguably it’s just as, if not more, plausible.”

  “The blow to the back of her head had a very definite shape to it like it was made by a rounded blunt object. Forensically speaking, that’s clear, but how it came to be inflicted, not so clear, and there it sits. If we could just find the object that bruised her skull, that would help immensely, but no such luck.” Freta paused, exasperated. “At any rate, I’ll meet you at the college after I pick her up from the airport. Maybe she’d like to attend.”

  “Okay…so what have you learned from Dworking’s journal?” Myron asked, curious about the names mentioned and any bits of other information it contained. Freta had kept it for further perusal.

  “Talked to those on her naughty list. Let’s see… I didn’t get very far with Leaper. Yes, he was well aware of the Primrose incident. No, there was no personal animosity between them — Primrose was let go as part of the college’s downsizing, to use his words, in certain areas where there was an evident redundancy. Yes, Dworking spoke to him about his initial handling of the dismissal, but for clarification purposes, and no, she did not chastise him for doing his job. Yes, he was granted sabbatical — he hadn’t decided whether or not to take it, and no, he was not aware of any pending reorganization with or without him. And why was I asking these questions anyway?”

  “In other words, he said nothing — totally stonewalling.”

  “Something like that. Next was Wishert…” She paused and shook her head. “How can any institution let a man like that loose on unsuspecting students? He’s a psycho. First, he raved on about Dworking as some sort of demented monster literally foaming at the mouth; then he started on me. Why was I bothering him, asking stupid questions. Was I accusing him of killing her? Was I out to pin it on him? Really, on and on he went. Pretty weird reaction. I left him threatening to sue me for false accusations!”

  “That’s about par for Orville,” Myron commented, thinking about his last rear-view of the mathematics instructor. “What about Sidney Sage?”

  “Bit of a pompous ass — said that his degree was widely accepted in institutions throughout North America, that it was perfectly legal and he didn’t see what the fuss was all about, other than a few of his so-called colleagues trying to discredit him for reasons related to professional jealousy. According to him, Dworking had not talked to him about it at all.”

  “That figures too,” Myron said with a sigh.

  “The most embarrassed was Blythe.”

  “Oh, yeah? How does he fit into the picture?”

  “He did some investing for Dworking, about $80,000 worth that she had to play with.”

  “Must be nice.”

  “Maybe she won the lotto. Who knows, but she found out that Blythe was under investigation for an alleged misappropriation of funds — at least his licence was under review. He told me that it was all a misunderstanding and that all the charges were dropped. I checked, and essentially, that’s half true. Although no criminal activity was established, contrary to a client’s wishes, he redirected some funds into a questionable venture. It wasn’t so much a breach of trust, apparently, as negligence or incompetence. He did end up making restitution and paying a hefty fine. Dworking found out and had a chat with him about her portfolio. Maybe that note in her journal was just a reminder to herself to do that. According to Blythe, Dworking had complete confidence in his ability to manage her money and chair the College Board of Governors, and that was that.”

  “Hmm…but it does give Dworking quite a hold over Blythe. After all, she needed his compliance both as chairperson of the Personnel Committee and the board to get rid of Oliver.”

  “True, but it still doesn’t lead us anywhere. You know,” she said with a note of exasperation, “as of this moment I’m not any further ahead in this case than I was last week!”

  ***

  They continued to talk about the investigation without any further insights or ideas. After a while, Myron excused himself to use the little boys’ room. Freta put the teapot and mugs on the tray and carried it to the kitchen. When he came out, she stood in the hallway, her eyes bright.

  “What?” he asked, looking down. “My fly undone?”

  “Try again.”

  “Ah…you promised me a surprise!”

  “And here it is,” she said, smiling mischievously, untying the cord of her bathrobe and opening it up.

  “Wow!” Myron exclaimed. Revealed was a lacy black bra with a fancy frill around the edges, which although supportive, didn’t exactly hide Freta’s endowments. Also very evident was a red garter belt connected to long, sheer black stockings that almost reached the top of her thighs. All in all, a most enticing display that at the same time left precious little to the imagination.

  “And I got something for you,” she said in a sultry voice. From the pocket of her robe, she pulled out flashy red briefs. She twirled the merchandise around her index finger and threw it at him, turned around, and slowly walked down the hall. Myron stood mesmerized for a few seconds — just her hip motion seemed to have rarefied the air.

  Minutes later, Myron entered the bedroom with nothing on but the briefs. Freta was lying on the bed, turned sideways toward him with one leg raised provocatively in the air, waving her toe at him. “Not bad,” she remarked. “A bit of a tight fit, I bet.”

  Myron pounded his chest. “Me Tarasyn, you Jane!”

  With that, he bounded across the room, leaped onto Freta’s bed, and almost fell off the other side.

  “Very clever, but don’t hurt yourself, or Jane will be disappointed.”

  Undaunted, Myron recovered his balance, raised himself up to his knees, and took a hold of her foot. He gently began massaging as Freta lay back. “I’m going to work from the bottom up…slowly stopping at all the right spots,” he promised, letting his fingers do the walking.

  Almost an hour later, they were both under the covers, quite spent.

  “Tell me,” Freta murmured, her eyes half closed. “Did you and Nadia indulge in such sexual frivolity?”

  “Why?”

  “Oh…just curious.” She moved up against the headboard.

  “Well, we did stay in one of those theme rooms in the Fantasy Hotel at the West Edmonton Mall once.”

  “Really! What room did you pick?”

  “The Polynesian room, I think it was.”

  “How was it?”

  “Just an ordinary hotel room with a high price tag. The main attraction was a huge hot tub decorated like a volcano. You could create your own steam via one of those humidifiers. The bed was themed too. Supposed to be one of those Polynesian reed boats, but it looked more like a gondola to me, with all sorts of ornaments sticking out the sides. Actually, come to think of it, our night there was a bit of a comedy of errors.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well…” Myron realigned himself, moving up so that he would not have to continue speaking into Freta’s bosom, “to begin with, I filled up the tub with too much hot water. Guess I wasn’t paying attention. I couldn’t get it to drain, so we waited for it to cool — watched some romantic comedy on TV. Took some time to cool but I still felt
like a lobster being boiled after I got in. So did Nadia. The real killer was the bed, though. I stubbed my toe on the ornamentation and then proceeded to bang my knee on the sideboard getting in. Hurt like hell.”

  “It sounds like you were lucky not to have injured another vital part of your anatomy,” Freta mused.

  “Yeah, I think the hot water shrivelled it enough that it didn’t get in the way of anything. Oh, and did I mention the ceiling mirror above the bed?”

  “Was that exciting?”

  “Could have been. I didn’t have my glasses on. Couldn’t make out much of what we were doing.”

  “You know,” Freta chuckled, “you’re such a card.”

  “Nadia called me a klutz.”

  “Speaking of which,” her tone became a little more serious, “Nadia is in the clear. Her appointment with the president had been cancelled; she didn’t see the president that night. And besides, she has a solid alibi — you and your friends and someone else. Want to know where Nadia went when she left your apartment?”

  “Either Sally Barlow or Conrad Streuve,” Myron stated flatly.

  “How’d you know? She and her helpers dropped off the stuff she collected from you at Barlow’s place, after which she visited Streuve. According to Rob, he lives some distance from the city in a mobile home trailer park and — short answer — time frame doesn’t work, Nadia didn’t leave till after midnight.”

  Myron nodded. “Great. Takes her off the list.”

  “Are you being sardonic?” Freta asked. “Your tone—”

  “Yeah, just a bit…” He proceeded to tell Freta about his unexpected encounter with Nadia and Sidney’s subsequent clarifying addendum.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wednesday

  Myron didn’t leave Freta’s apartment until about 2:00 a.m., but then he was normally a night owl, and he still obtained sufficient sleep to get through a couple of morning lectures without dragging. In fact, his energy level was quite high.