A Death Most Cold

by Petryshyn, Jaroslav (Jerry)

  However, by mid-afternoon he could hardly keep his eyes open. It wasn’t his late night escapade that was doing him in but rather the wretched essays he was reading. He’d start one, but almost imperceptibly, the words would begin to run into each other, and then the next thing he knew, his head bobbed, his eyes popped open, and he hadn’t the foggiest notion of what he had just read.

  Maybe he should take the afternoon off. His apartment needed cleaning, he was down to his last pair of Stanfields, and the fridge was getting mighty empty. While he was at it, it wouldn’t hurt to shop around for some furniture and maybe a stereo. The college was getting to him; besides, he’d have to come back for the big board meeting that night.

  He laboriously completed reading the essay he had started three times before, assigned a grade, and scribbled a couple of comments about how it contained the germ of a good discussion that unfortunately never came to fruition because of content errors and the inability of the student to write a sentence. He tossed it on the finished pile, which to his dismay was only approximately half of the “to-do” stack.

  “That’s it,” he muttered to himself, “I’m outta here.”

  But before he could make good his escape, Ted ambled in and plopped himself into a chair, dropping with a thud his Canadian Tax Law text (23rd edition) on the corner of the desk.

  “Got ten minutes before class,” he announced, scratching his bulbous nose. “Just received some news hot off the hall waves that you might be interested in. This is a scream.”

  “Okay, so lay it on me.” Myron leaned back in his chair, stretching.

  “It’s Wishert — he’s gone off his rocker.”

  “That’s hardly news. He’s been off his rocker for years!”

  “Yeah, but this time he’s really done it. He’s gone AWOL!”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Get this. According to a couple of students I just spoke to, about midway through his class he lay down on the floor, yelling something about police harassment and that he couldn’t take it anymore. He then quite calmly told one of the students to call an ambulance. And it took him away!”

  “What?”

  “I kid you not!”

  “When did this happen?”

  “About an hour or so ago.”

  “Well, that’s just…peachy!” said Myron.

  Ted blinked at him. “You, who has studied for years, who has read books, who has a PhD, and that’s all you can say — peachy.”

  Myron shrugged. “What else is there to say? Somehow, I’m not surprised.”

  Ted shook his head. “I’ve got to go, but don’t say I’m not keeping you informed.”

  “You’re a regular news bulletin, Ted.”

  ***

  Myron had just gotten his toe shoes and parka on when the phone rang. With a sigh, he sat back down and picked up the receiver. Freta was on the other end. “We may have gotten the break we needed in the Dworking case,” she said excitedly.

  “Oh?”

  “Penny lied. I checked with Air Canada. She took an earlier flight from Vancouver. It landed in Great Plains at eight thirty, not twelve forty-five. She phoned Spinner, all right, but not from the Vancouver Airport, as I assumed. It was from the Great Plains airport when she got in on the early evening flight!”

  Myron had a sudden lurch in his stomach. When Oliver had told him that Sheila phoned from the airport, he got the impression that it was after her late arrival. What did he miss? Was he misled? Or did Oliver not know? Sheila was one of the good guys, as far as he was concerned. “Why would she lie?”

  “Because she did it?” Freta prompted.

  “She lied to Oliver then,” Myron said, frowning into the telephone.

  “Did she? He could be covering for her.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Why would he even mention the telephone call to me? Why not let the alibi stand on its own? It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Slip of the tongue? You said she was upset that he mentioned it to you.”

  “Yes, but we could be jumping to conclusions.”

  “Well, I’m about to go and find out,” said Freta with determination ringing through the line. “It’s about time I had a serious chat with her.”

  “Yeah,” Myron said, disheartened. “Oh, before you go, a bit of news that will probably catch up to you. Wishert had a mental breakdown — I think.” He told her what Ted had related to him complete with Wishert’s comments about the cause of his distress. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the RCMP got a call from his lawyer and you from your superior. Just a heads-up.”

  “Great!” she exclaimed. Myron could almost visualize her rolling her eyes.

  Myron’s office was on the third and top floor, one of a dozen enlarged cubicles along a relatively narrow corridor with an expansive view of the college grounds and the city beyond on one side and dead space on the other, where one could lean on the railing and look down on the to-and-fro movements of the Lilliputians on the main concourse level. He had inherited C 308 from his predecessor and couldn’t think of a better location, even if given the choice. It escaped the usual human bustle of the floors below, replete with numerous classrooms, was centrally located to the stairs and elevator, and strategically positioned just above the deans’ and departmental offices on the second level.

  The only drawback was that with a vast cavern of open space, an echo chamber was created where bits of distinct conversations on the first floor could often be heard intermingled with a constant general din. Myron had gotten used to it, and if he really wished a quiet zone, closing his door usually did the trick. He liked to keep his door open — not as claustrophobic, especially when he worked alone late at night. At those times, with the concourse emptied of its jabbering humanity, he could hear the faint, vibrating sounds of the edifice’s mechanical soul providing for its own regeneration — an entity that was somehow unto itself hermaphroditic.

  However, at that moment his attention was on activity on the second level. As he made his way down the stairs, pondering the ramifications of Freta’s phone call, he spotted Sheila leaving Leaper’s office. The dean of Career Studies wore a very grim expression, and if looks could kill… Leaper came out seconds later with a smug smile; he walked in the opposite direction into the men’s washroom.

  What was that all about? Myron wondered. He was tempted to catch up with Sheila and ask her but thought better of it. The lady appeared extremely cross and undoubtedly upset. And Freta was hot on her trail. Best not to press — at least at that moment.

  Instead, he went into the men’s room and parked himself beside Leaper in front of the urinal.

  “We meet again,” the dean quipped.

  “It must be the pressure,” Myron retorted. “Sheila looked fit to be tied just a moment ago?”

  Charles gave Myron a shrewd sideways glance. “Women can be like that,” he said, giving himself a vigorous shake before stuffing himself back in and doing up his fly. “But she’ll get over it,” he added in a nasty tone.

  “Over what?” Myron asked.

  “Oh, you’ll have to ask her.” He gave Myron a twisted smile, washing his hands. “You know, Myron…you’re a very inquisitive fellow.”

  But…Myron waited for Charles to elaborate. Leaper, however, seemed to change his mind about finishing the sentence. Instead, he said, “Don’t forget about the board meeting tonight.” And he was gone through the swinging door.

  ***

  Myron neither went shopping nor did he clean his apartment or do his laundry. When he entered his abode, he took off his winter wear and his rumpled tweed jacket, marched straight to his bedroom, and fell into a deep sleep infused with a bizarre dream…

  Myron/Alice was in Dworkingland, with Dworking the Queen of the Kingdom. She adorned a velvet throne at the head of a huge table, around which were gathered some very familiar subjects drinking tea.

  “Welcome to the Mad Madame’s tea party. Care for some?” The speaker was Ralph Sorrey, dressed in a
butler’s uniform.

  “Ralph! What are you doing here and dressed like that!”

  “Hey — it’s a job!”

  At the end of the table sat Orville, Sheila, and Sidney.

  “The queen’s a bitch,” whispered Sheila.

  “She’s a witch,” corrected Orville.

  “It’s all a matter of degree,” explained Sidney.

  Opposite them were Streuve and Nadia. He had her in a choke hold, while she battered him with a cup. “What could I do? She threw herself at me. Now she doesn’t like me,” exclaimed Streuve.

  “I just need time to sort out my life,” wheezed Nadia.

  “And I protest!” shouted Oliver. “I did not see this coming.”

  “What?” the queen bellowed, incensed.

  “I protest!” repeated Oliver.

  “Off with his head!” commanded the queen.

  Charles scurried forward in a black academic gown and bowed low before her. “Yes, Your Majesty — right away… Guard!” he shouted.

  Blythe appeared, replete in conquistador garb. “Take the protestor away to the scaffold.” Charles pointed at Oliver.

  “She can’t do that!” wailed Sheila.

  “Oh, yes she can,” pronounced Charles.

  “Tea! Give me some tea!” shrieked Dworking.

  “The queen wants some tea,” ordered Charles.

  From a huge copper kettle, a cup was poured, and a multitude of hands hurriedly passed it on to Charles, who delicately placed it before her. “Your tea, Your Royalness.”

  She took a slurp. “It’s cold! My tea is cold!”

  “The queen’s tea is cold,” came the hushed chorus from the crowd. “How can that be?”

  “You did this to me.” She pointed an accusing finger at Charles. “You’ve cooled my tea!”

  “Oh no…not me.” He quivered.

  Dworking shivered violently. “I’m cold…so very cold.”

  “The queen’s cold…so very cold,” they all chimed in.

  “I’m freeeeezing,” she declared, getting up from her throne at the head of the table and stretching her arms out. “I’m freeeezing.”

  Her breath swirled in the air, and she turned into an ice statue.

  Timidly, Charles moved closer and gave her a nudge with his hand. She did not budge. “I think the queen is dead!” he said.

  “The queen is dead?” they asked.

  He nudged again with more force. “Definitely dead.”

  “The queen is dead,” they sang. “Long live the queen.”

  “We need a new monarch,” someone shouted.

  “Precisely,” said Sidney.

  “Yes, the kingdom needs a new king,” Charles averred. He hugged the throne, and others rushed toward it.

  Meanwhile, Myron/Alice began to fade away. His last image was of the frozen queen toppling over and shattering into a million, Technicolor pieces.

  He woke up with a start; that was about as weird a dream as he could ever remember having. He couldn’t even begin to interpret it or assign any meaning other than his stressed brain rerunning a collage of events through the prism of Alice in Wonderland — and he didn’t even particularly care for Lewis Carroll! The subconscious psyche was a funny thing, he decided, and let it go at that.

  Getting up, shaking the cobwebs of his dreamland experience, Myron checked his watch, noting with relief that it was only five thirty. The board meeting didn’t commence until seven (an hour later than usual; presumably it wouldn’t take long to dispose of the one topic on the agenda), which gave him plenty of time to freshen up and grab some supper. He lit his battered Brigham and pondered whether he should settle for a burger at the “Golden Arches” or try something more exotic. First, though, he wanted to get a hold of Freta and see if she had tracked down Sheila. When he got no answer at her apartment, he tried the cop shop. He was put on hold while someone located her.

  “Osprey,” said an officious voice.

  “Freta… It’s Myron.”

  “Oh, hi. Won’t be home for a while yet.”

  “I won’t be either. Board meeting tonight, remember. Did you talk to Sheila?”

  “Hang on a sec…” she said. “There, don’t want this conversation recorded, do you?”

  “No…”

  “Okay, I interviewed Penny less than an hour ago. A woman under tremendous stress, I’d say.”

  “Yeah. I think she had a rough session with Leaper today. Don’t know what it was about, though.”

  “She didn’t mention it to me, but anyway, she admitted that she took an earlier flight than the one she was scheduled on. Arrived in Great Plains at eight thirty or thereabout. Said she never mentioned this because no one asked her. In my initial interview, like you, I certainly got the impression that she was in Vancouver or in the air when Dworking died—”

  “Then she didn’t actually lie,” he interjected.

  “A very moot point, Myron. Deliberate omission is almost as bad as commission. She misled us into thinking she had an alibi.”

  “Something doesn’t add up. Why didn’t she tell Oliver that she got in early?” Myron asked.

  “Why indeed! If he was telling the truth, that is.”

  “I’m sure he was.”

  “Her story is that she phoned him to tell him just that — that she managed to get on an early flight and would stop by. But before she could, Spinner, of course, told her about his being fired. After that, the conversation turned to his woes and what she should do about it, and, according to her, she simply forgot to mention that she was already in town before she hung up. She then drove to the college to pick up some papers from her office for a meeting next day. She also admitted that she stopped by the president’s portable on the off chance that Dworking was still around.”

  “And?” Myron held his breath.

  “No, she didn’t confess.” Freta sounded disappointed. “Apparently, Dworking wasn’t there.”

  “What time was that?”

  “A little after nine. Then she decided to go home rather than bother Spinner. End of story.”

  “Well, it could be the truth.”

  “Weak, Myron, weak. She’s my prime suspect. Look, I’ve got to go. I probably won’t see you until that tribute Friday night. Remember, I’ll be late.”

  “Okay. I better get going too… Oh, by the way, thanks for those sexy briefs — very timely; all my other shorts are in the laundry.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  After his dinner “chez McDonald,” Myron drove hurriedly to the college. He had enough time to hustle up to his office, get rid of his winter wear, and grab a pen and notepad — a psychological if not always necessary item, he discovered, for any meeting — and retrace his steps down a floor to the boardroom.

  He made it at seven on the dot, and it appeared that so had everyone else. The room was buzzing with conversations as members spread themselves out in little groups around the large conference table. Bowell was saying something about his “great Bowell movement” on skis to Prybiewski, the “grocer king,” and Chorney the sleazy lawyer. Prybiewski seemed distracted, while Chorney expressed interest in acquiring a new pair of cross-country skis, and what kind of deal could Bowell give him? Blythe and Hoar were quietly conferring in a corner with Cecil Mackay hovering nearby, coffee in hand, studying his shoes. Sarah Libalsmith, the newest member of the board, was chatting with Whitford, while Stanley Piech, the soft-spoken Employees Association rep, and Mona Radcliff, the student rep, looked on immersed in their own thoughts. The two deans were, of course, absent, waiting no doubt somewhere in the wings to see which one the Selection Committee favoured.

  Blythe glanced at his watch and made his way to the table; as if by radar, the groups broke up and individuals zeroed in on their preferred sitting places. Myron found a vacancy between Stanley and Libalsmith, directly across from Blythe and Hoar.

  Blythe, seeing that everyone was accounted for, promptly brought the meeting to order. “We all know why we’re here, b
ut before I get to tonight’s agenda, I’d like to make an announcement concerning a tribute for our late president.” Blythe went on to state that he, on behalf of the board, had agreed to sharing with the Faculty Association one half the expense of putting it on. It was an executive decision, and he trusted that there were no objections. Noting none, he then strongly suggested that board members attend and perhaps even partake, with a few appropriate words about how Dworking may have influenced or impressed them.

  “Mull it over for Friday night,” he urged. “Now, for the main business at hand—”

  Mona Radcliff shot up her hand.

  “Yes… Ms. Radcliff?”

  The student representative was a large, bespectacled adolescent whom Myron had in his Canadian history class. She wasn’t exactly an A pupil, but she wasn’t shy about speaking her mind in Myron’s class, and evidently she had something on her mind now.

  “I have a procedural question. Will we be presented with a list of candidates?”

  Blythe looked puzzled. “A list of candidates?”

  “From which to vote on,” Mona prompted.

  “Er…no, Ms. Radcliff. There were a number of candidates from which the Selection Committee has made a choice, and which we will submit to the board for ratification.”

  “Is that fair, I mean, shouldn’t we know those in the running?”

  Blythe favoured her with a “say cheese” smile. “You weren’t here at the last meeting, but it was decided then that the Selection Committee would be responsible for inviting applications, interviewing, and selecting a candidate to be brought before the Board as a whole. That process is now complete, and we are now ready to proceed.”

  “I don’t think that’s fair,” Mona persisted.

  Blythe stirred uncomfortably in his seat. “In what way is it not fair?”

  “I think we all should know who the candidates are and vote on who we think is the best. I mean — isn’t that fairer?”