A Death Most Cold

by Petryshyn, Jaroslav (Jerry)

  Myron leaned forward, hands clasped together. Mona was audacious, he’d give her that, but where was she coming from? She seemed wound up tighter than a cork.

  “By agreement with the board as a whole,” Blythe explained tersely, “it is the prerogative of the Selection Committee to bring forth tonight one name. The committee, after all, interviewed the candidates and made their best choice based, in large part, on those interviews.”

  Blythe was beginning to sound exasperated and redundant. He hadn’t anticipated a challenge — least of all from the student rep.

  But Mona was unrelenting. “I should like to know who the candidates are, not just the one who is to get voted on.”

  The board chairperson glanced at the faces around the table, perhaps assessing them for direction or hoping that someone would interject, help him out, and straighten this female out. Most were perplexed; the rest appeared both puzzled and slightly amused, Myron noted. He considered himself the latter; certainly he wasn’t overly distraught with Blythe’s obvious discomfort.

  Hoar took up the challenge. “The Selection Committee hadn’t intended to release the names of all the candidates, just our choice. There may be an issue of confidentiality here. They applied in strict confidence and may wish to remain anonymous if they aren’t successful.”

  Mona remained petulant and unconvinced by Hoar’s rather feeble argument. “I don’t see why we can’t be given the names.”

  “Well…” Hoar ran a hand through his silvery locks. “If that’s a real concern, and feeling around the table and the other members of the Selection Committee agree, then I suppose we could provide the names — as long as it is understood that this is provided strictly in camera.”

  Like most board members, Myron was mystified about this strange wrinkle thrown in by an obstinate student, who, Myron was sure, the board chairperson believed should have been seen but not heard, at least on this matter.

  Blythe cleared his throat. “That’s fine by me. Cecil?”

  “I’ll go along with the committee,” Cecil responded as if by rote.

  “What is the wish of board members?” Blythe asked, clearly annoyed by the turn of events.

  “I don’t really see any harm in naming the candidates,” said Bowell. “Probably general knowledge in the college community by now.”

  Myron couldn’t argue with that. News in an institution leaked out through telephones, vents, cracks between the doors; it scurried along the floors, darted across ceilings, and hovered in the air. Indeed, it could be found in just about every area where the human voice could penetrate.

  “Is that the consensus around the table then?” Blythe asked.

  Board members either nodded or shrugged. It didn’t strike most of them as a major issue. Certainly, it wasn’t for Myron.

  “Very well then…” Blythe conceded. “I will release the names, but as agreed to by the board as a whole, I will insist that board members vote only on the candidate recommended to it by the Selection Committee. We had three…er worthy candidates: Charles Leaper, Sheila Penny, both of whom you are all familiar with, and Sidney Sage, instructor in the Department of Humanities and Social Sciences. After due—”

  “I vote for Dr. Sidney Sage,” Mona announced, cutting Blythe off in mid-sentence.

  Bingo! Myron suddenly understood in the momentary silence that followed. He wasn’t the only one Sidney had lobbied. Myron was willing to bet a year’s supply of Sail pipe tobacco that Sidney had approached Mona. She was probably taking a course from him. She’d be an easy mark for him; a little chat after class was probably how it started. He wondered what inducements Sidney had offered to the impressionable, most certainly naïve student representative. Whatever it was — flattery, flatulent rhetoric on his own behalf, offer of a better grade, perhaps (he hoped it didn’t go to that) — it raised serious ethical questions. Myron wondered how many others sly Sidney had attempted to influence…

  “Ms. Radcliff, you are out of order,” Blythe stated indignantly. “The Selection Committee has not endorsed Mr.…er, Dr. Sage.”

  “I…I object!” Mona’s voice quavered slightly. Her steadfast resolve was showing signs of faltering.

  “Your objection has been duly noted and ruled against from the chair,” Blythe snapped back. “Now, can we get on with the meeting?” Giving her a hard look, he waited.

  Having apparently shot her bolt on Sage’s behalf, Mona clammed up. Her eyes moistened but her repose remained defiant, arms folded across her chest. Myron felt sorry for her and angry that she had been put in such a position.

  Receiving no further response from the wayward board member, Blythe continued, straining to keep his voice normal. “It was a difficult choice, but in the end, the committee recommends Mr. Charles Leaper as its nominee for acting president. The decision was based on his experience, his administrative skills, and his overall knowledge of the operations of this institution. The committee felt that, on balance, in this interim period of stress and uncertainty, Charles will provide prudent management. Now, I will entertain comments, discussion at this point and then put it to a vote — a simple majority.”

  The discussion that followed was perfunctory. Chorney summarized the feeling of most around the table when he remarked, “I don’t see any need for a lengthy debate. The board mandated the Selection Committee to make a choice — they have. I therefore move that we accept the committee’s nominee and thank them for their diligent work.”

  “I second that,” said Prybiewski. “And call for the question.”

  For his part, Myron remained mute. Whatever his feelings about Charles, he could not logically object, and he wasn’t about to engage in spurious character innuendos. His reservations aside, he recognized that this was not the hill he wanted to make his last stand on. He was still disturbed by Mona’s misguided attempt to promote Sage. She seemed deflated now, head down, eyes reddened.

  “Question has been called,” Blythe said, casting a wary glance around the table. “All in favour of the committee’s recommendation.”

  Five hands raised. Blythe looked at Whitford, who made a note on her steno pad.

  “Those opposed.” Myron’s hand went up, along with Mona’s and Stanley’s.

  “Abstentions.”

  One — Sarah Libalsmith. “I’m too new to cast an informed vote,” she said apologetically.

  “Do you wish to have your opposition recorded?” Blythe addressed the question in Myron’s general direction.

  Myron shook his head. That would be counterproductive. The vote had been taken; he had registered his protest, and there was no point in belabouring it officially.

  Stanley also said no, while Mona whispered a yes. At least she was consistent to the end. Myron gave her credit for that.

  “Mr. Leaper is Great Plains’ new acting president,” Blythe announced with finality.

  The rest of the board’s business was anticlimactic. Blythe indicated that Charles would carry on with his dean duties as well as acting president for the time being. (He apparently agreed to this in the course of his interview with the committee in the event that he was chosen.) Furthermore, Blythe informed members that the first item on the acting president’s agenda was to resolve Oliver Spinner’s case one way or another so that a dean of Financial and Administrative Services would be in place as soon as possible.

  With that, the meeting adjourned.

  Thereafter, Myron turned to Stanley and in a low voice said, “I noticed you voted against Charles as well—”

  “Not my favourite, that’s for sure,” affirmed Stanley, a small man with a rough face seeded by greying stubble. He worked in maintenance — an electrician by trade. “A bit of a prick,” he added in a whispered aside. “Been proving that in his negotiations with the Employees Association.”

  Deans were obligated to sit on the administration negotiations team, of which there were two: one for the Faculty Association and the other for the Employees Association. Leaper was on the latter, while
Sheila was on the former. Apparently, Stanley and the Employees Association negotiating team were not happy with the progress to date.

  “I heard about that,” Myron said, making a mental note to ask Ted for details. He would be up on all manner of collective bargaining at the college. “Something about rewriting a number of clauses in the collective agreement…”

  “More like gutting them in the name of management rights. We’re arguing over definitions and workloads. Haven’t gotten to the salary grid yet. Probably end up in mediation.”

  Myron nodded. The college–faculty negotiations were coming along more amicably, but then they were not as far along as the employees. “Charles can push the limits of reasonableness,” he said diplomatically.

  “Treats our side like we were some union thugs to be cajoled and controlled, and I don’t trust him to negotiate in good faith as far as I can chuck him.”

  “I hear you,” said Myron, appreciating that both the Faculty and Employees Associations were loathe to be treated as unions, regarding themselves as professional bodies with all the nuances that went with that. Myron suspected that to Charles and indeed most of the board and the late president, the distinction was mostly moot.

  ***

  Myron caught up with Mona in the hallway, thwarting her attempt to disappear unobtrusively. He had to confirm his suspicions about Sidney’s influence on her behaviour at the board meeting.

  “The selection process didn’t go quite the way you would have wanted?”

  “No,” she said weakly, not meeting his eyes.

  “But you certainly said your piece, and that’s commendable under rather intimidating circumstances. Are you taking a course from Mr. Sage?” Myron couldn’t quite bring himself to addressing him as “Dr.”

  “PO 201— Canadian politics,” she said a little more spritely.

  Myron nodded. “Did he, ah…encourage you to speak up on his behalf at the meeting?”

  “Well, he mentioned it,” she said.

  “He talked to you about his running for the presidency and perhaps suggested that you promote his cause?”

  “Dr. Sage is a wonderful prof and would have made a great president,” she offered with renewed enthusiasm. “He outlined some wonderful plans for a student-oriented college.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Myron said. “And as the student rep, he counselled you to support a student’s candidate?”

  “Y–yes, but I wouldn’t have if I didn’t want to. I mean — I just think he would have made a super president.”

  Myron left it at that. He had learned all he wanted to know. Down the road, Sidney would have to be held accountable for his sleazy exploitation of Mona. He filed that thought away; an appropriate moment would arise, and he planned to be there to do it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thursday

  After his class that morning, Myron kept an eye out for Ted. Ever since Sheila marched out of Charles’s office the day before, he had been curious about the source of the obvious animosity between them. Indeed, it had been evident at the board meeting a week ago, but Myron had let it slide to the back of his subconscious. Now, with Charles in charge, a confrontation of some sort was probably in the air — over Oliver’s job, if nothing else — but the crosscurrents of dislike, particularly on Sheila’s part, seemed to have deeper roots anchored somewhere in the past. Ted was the self-appointed rumour guru of the institution, and if anyone would know, it would be the intrepid tax expert.

  Ted finally arrived at his office midmorning. Myron let him get settled in (the rustling of paper and the banging of file cabinet drawers usually signalled that preparation for a class was in the works) before stepping out of his office and entering Ted’s. The big man was seated at his chaotic desk, strewn haphazardly with files and books; he looked harried and dishevelled.

  “You’re a little late today,” Myron said, leaning against the open door frame.

  “Yeah. The trials and tribulations of being a parent,” Ted answered, rifling through some notes in an attempt to put them in some manageable order. “My eldest son just got his learner’s permit, and the first thing he does is go for an unauthorized joy ride with his buddy in my car — the same car that, according to him, fell off the road and ended up on its side in a ditch!”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Fortunately, no, but the car sustained over a thousand bucks worth of damage. The police want to charge him with sundry offences including careless driving, and the insurance company isn’t too happy either — of course, they’ll simply jack up the rates!” Ted shrugged. “What can you do? Told him he’s grounded for a month, and hopefully he’ll learn from experience.”

  “Well, thank heaven he and his friend survived intact.”

  “Yeah. I would have killed him if he really got hurt. So, it’s official — Charles is our boss.”

  Myron nodded. “News travels fast.”

  “Heard Blythe on the radio,” Ted said by way of explanation.

  “Well, it was to be expected,” Myron said, resigning himself to the decision.

  “President Leaper.” Ted let that roll off his tongue. “Does have a ring to it.”

  “Acting president,” Myron corrected. “And it’s a foreboding ring, I fear. I know you’re busy getting ready for your class, but since you’re the deep throat in this college, I need to ask you a quick question.”

  “Deep throat, eh…” Ted seemed to like the sound of that. “Okay — shoot.”

  “Sheila and Charles don’t like each other, I’ve noticed, and that’s putting it mildly. There’s definitely a strain between them. Do you know anything about the background? With Charles in charge — well, wherever is going on between them is bound to escalate.”

  “Hmm…. Almost forgotten about that,” Ted scowled. “They were close friends once upon a time, if you get my drift.”

  “Really?” Myron was more than a little surprised.

  “There you go again, dazzling me with your verbal profundity.”

  “Well, elaborate?”

  “That’s it. Don’t know much more. They were a hot item a few years ago — before your time, I guess.”

  “Charles and Sheila — an item?” Myron asked, his eyebrows arching.

  “That’s the story. Charles’s wife left him and took their two boys to Calgary, I think. Sheila either eased the pain or contributed to the breakup, or both! I’m not sure…” Ted shrugged. “Never heard much after that, but it must have been a short fling. I vaguely recall hearing that she dumped him.”

  Only later to take up with Oliver. “So ’ole Charles is batting below average with his love life,” Myron quipped, immediately realizing that he wasn’t exactly a winner himself — although his prospects had greatly improved of late. That would explain both Charles’s unsympathetic attitude toward Oliver and the nasty interplay between himself and Sheila.

  “This is all rumour, mind you,” Ted said. “And that’s all I know. Why? Is there something else I should know?”

  “No, not really,” Myron assured him. “Just vibrations, bad vibrations I’m picking up, which are about to get much worse, I think.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised, but they’ve managed to stay out of each other’s way, or at least I haven’t heard anything since.”

  “Until now. Thanks, Ted. Your reputation as the source of impeccable rumours is well deserved.”

  ***

  Back in his office, Myron decided to tackle the essays for a while, but his thoughts were ajar and diffused with this latest revelation. What did it all add up to? Or was it a non sequitur to what was really going on, like the sentence in the essay he was reading: “Louis Riel was mentally unstable, so he went to Montana and taught school.” Myron sat up with a jolt; his mind made a sudden leap like grease across a hot griddle. Non sequitur, or was it an incongruity — a detail that shouldn’t be there? Myron’s adrenaline shot up a notch. It may be nothing — or the key to solving a murder!

  However, he ne
eded to check out a couple of things before he could get too excited. The first necessitated a trip to the college’s Learning Resource Centre (aka the library).

  Great Plains College was most fortunate in possessing its library. For a small community college, it had an impressive almost 40,000 volumes. Much of the credit, at least as far as Myron was concerned, went to Anne Balatok, the head librarian. She could be crusty and not always easy to get along with, but she liked Myron and was good to him when it came to obtaining books for his subject area.

  It helped immensely that he was helping Anne with her major project: the establishment of a regional archive. She was adamant that besides the local museum, the city and its vast hinterland needed a professional archive to preserve the historical record of the area. What better place to house it than the college, where collections could be properly catalogued and preserved under “environmentally correct” conditions?

  Myron agreed; archives were necessary grist for the historian’s research mill. As part of the college’s “master plan,” he had advocated that “significant archival space and resources” be included in future expansion planning of the Learning Resource Centre. In promoting such ambitions, Anne and Myron met with the long-time MP for the northern constituency with the goal not only of gaining his support in general but also of obtaining his papers when he retired, which, it was rumoured, would be at the end of his term two years hence.

  “It would be a coup,” Anne emphasized to Myron en route to a luncheon meeting with the long-serving politician, “if he deposits his papers at our archives rather than the National Archives in Ottawa…” Of course, this was all predicated on getting an archive approved.

  Being an ally had its rewards; Anne always found the money, even after the history books budget was used up, to fill Myron’s often lengthy requests for titles and journals, no matter how esoteric.

  Today, however, he didn’t need an obscure reference or a computer search; what he wanted was more straightforward: local newspaper accounts of Dworking’s death and the follow-up stories. Two sources, in fact: the Daily Reporter and the Great Plains Weekly Standard. Back copies of both, he knew, were stacked in a small room off from the microfilm readers on the main floor. The library policy was to store newspapers, local or otherwise, for three months before disposing of them.