“You go on ahead and save a — two spots for me. Someone will be joining us later. I’ll be there in a moment,” he told Ted.
Myron made his way to Sheila. She was intently surveying the seating arrangements at the head table. There were name tags beside each chair. He noted that Leaper would be on one side of Blythe, while Sheila would be on the other, flanked by Board Vice-chair Hoar and the inconspicuous dean of Student Affairs, Reginald Mercur. With Leaper about to be elevated to acting president and Spinner no longer there, the ranks of top brass at the head table had indeed shrunk.
“Don’t like the seating arrangements?” he asked.
“It’ll do just fine,” she said distractedly, her fingers playing nervously with the clasp on her purse. She was wearing a conservatively cut black dress with a smart grey cashmere cassock and low-heel black shoes. She had a certain gravitas, which Myron couldn’t quite put his finger on.
“Sorry again — the way things turned out,” Myron offered rather lamely.
“Pardon? Oh…so am I.” She was certainly jumpy and tense — like a cork ready to pop!
“Well, I wish you the best and hope that Oliver can still be a member of this institution.”
“Not with Charles as president,” she said, her lip curled in distaste.
They just had this conversation earlier, and Myron did not want to rehash that particular part. Putting on his optimistic smile, he said with an assurance he did not feel, “Don’t give up; it’s not a fait accompli yet.”
“It will be soon,” she said in a small, muted voice.
Myron, beer cup in hand, was still digesting Sheila’s remark when a voice boomed over the PA system.
“Ladies and gentlemen. We’re just about ready to commence. Please, if you could take your seats…” It was Harold Wisenburg, the evening’s master of ceremonies, if that was the proper title for such an occasion.
Myron gave Sheila an encouraging smile and excused himself. He found Ted sitting with Benson McDougall and his wife Barbara, a stout woman with a regal bearing.
“Sheila doesn’t appear overly happy,” commented Ted.
“No,” Myron said, watching her proceed to the head table as if she was about to encounter a dreaded abyss from which she could not retreat.
“Would you if you just lost out on the presidency to Charles?” Benson piped in, taking a sip from what Myron presumed was a plastic glass of Scotch.
“You’ve got a point there,” said Ted, observing Blythe, Leaper, Hoar, and Mercur joining Sheila at the head table.
If only it were that simple. Murky waters could run deep, especially if his suspicions about Dworking’s death were correct. Until Myron could talk to Freta, however, he endeavoured to rein in his wild thoughts. He needed a second, sober opinion…
Myron was right about the roast beef but wrong on his choice of strategic seating. Wisenburg, after officially welcoming everyone, suggested that the dinner queue make its way to the buffet table, starting from the table on the far side of the podium, and work their way across the room. Ted sighed, resigned to being among the last to be fed.
“So…” Ted said after a while, “who’s this mysterious guest we’re saving the chair for? Someone we know?”
“You’ve seen her around,” said Myron casually. “Corporal Osprey.”
“The officer in charge of the investigation?”
“The very same.”
“Why would she come?” Ted persisted.
“I suggested it. Give her an overview of all the suspects in one place and all that,” Myron said in a light tone, not wanting to make a big deal of it.
“You’ve been watching too many cop shows,” Ted said.
“They still think one of us knocked off the president?” asked McDougall, clearly surprised at the notion.
“Benson!” his wife interjected. “That’s a very crude way of putting it.”
McDougall gave his wife a slightly aggrieved look. “Just wondering if the coppers still believe someone gave Dworking a doing — that’s all.”
“I guess they haven’t ruled it out,” Myron responded..
“Well, if they haven’t uncovered foul play by now, they won’t,” McDougall said. “The trail will be cold by now.”
“Couldn’t be colder than it was that night,” Ted contributed with a mirthful snort.
“I think that all this copper activity during the last few days is much ado about nothing. It just leads to nasty speculation and gives the college a bad name,” McDougall said. “No one had a go at her. She probably had a seizure of some sort and without help froze in her car. She should be given a proper send-off tonight and leave it at that!”
Twenty-five minutes later, it was their turn to serve themselves at the buffet tables. Myron kept an eye out for Freta, but she had not arrived. Too bad, she might miss out on the highlight of the evening, and the roast beef didn’t look that bad…
After the guests finished the main course and were working on a variety of desserts and coffee, Wisenburg rose to the podium. He thanked everyone for coming to pay their respects to the deceased and coincidently to welcome the new president. He then launched into a humorous story, presumably to show the human side of Dworking. Having just returned from the call of nature, Myron missed the punch line (which had something to do with Dworking’s ability to give and take off-colour jokes). It was effective, since it drew the intended chuckles. Wisenburg then invited others from the audience to make a contribution to the memory of the president.
There was an awkward silence before Bowell stepped in to the breach. Wisenburg gladly relinquished the microphone.
“As you know,” the sports goods store owner began, “I am the head of the board’s negotiations team this year.” He gave a nervous laugh. “And this year has been difficult, with the budget constraints, as those negotiating for the Faculty Association can attest…”
“No kidding!” exclaimed Ted. “We’re getting nowhere fast with them.”
“After a number of sessions of discussing offers and counteroffers,” Bowell continued, “I and my counterpart on the faculty team agreed on a figure — at least it was one we were to present to our respective constituents…”
“But they reneged,” commented Ted with a chagrined expression.
“I took it to the president, and I said, well, we finally did it! Now, I’m not one to be easily intimidated but,” Bowell smiled nervously, “she could be fearsome…” He cleared his throat. “She raised her eyebrows and asked what did I do? We made a deal, I said. Then, I proceeded to tell her. She looked at me in that stern way and said that I just better go and undo it…”
“And that’s why they reneged,” Ted uttered, shaking his head. “So much for the board’s independence when it comes to negotiations. I can’t believe Bowell would be telling us this in public!”
“The point I want to make is…” Bowell glanced uncomfortably out at the seated gathering. Perhaps he realized that he stuck his foot in his mouth, Myron thought. “President Dworking was a formidable personality who had her hands firmly on the tiller at all times. She kept us on the straight and narrow for the good of this institution — even if it meant a little short-term pain for long-term gain… er… Thank you.”
With that, Bowell hastily retreated to his seat.
“Well, that went over like a lead balloon,” remarked Ted.
“I understand his sentiments, if not his choice of examples,” Myron said.
Wisenburg regained the stage and thanked Bowell for his “enlightening insight.” Somewhere from the back table a stifled laugh could be heard, which Wisenburg judiciously ignored.
“I appreciated his candour, anyway,” stated Benson, draining the last of his Scotch. “We all knew Dworking called the shots at negotiations, just as she did with everything else around here. He just confirmed it.”
“Yeah, and handed us the ball we can run with,” Ted said excitedly. He was already plotting the next session of the yet to be completed contractu
al negotiations.
“Bet Charles isn’t thrilled by Bowell’s little reflection on Dworking’s style,” said Benson, chuckling.
Ted shrugged. “I bet he isn’t, but that’s his problem.”
Wisenburg’s tap on the microphone, followed by a sharp electronic squeal, got the audience’s attention again; he asked if anyone else cared to offer a memorable Dworking moment. This time there was silence. After Bowell’s revealing performance, it appeared that others preferred to hold their thoughts and tongues to themselves. “In that case, without further ado I’d like to introduce the chairperson of the board, Sheldon Blythe, to make a few comments and in turn introduce our next president.”
Blythe said a few well-chosen words about how fortunate he had been to work with a professional like President Dworking. He mentioned her sterling qualities of honesty and integrity and the no-nonsense fashion with which she ran the college. He then turned his attention to Charles, “who, of course, needs no introduction.” After a few more smooth phrases about how the selection committee believed and the board agreed that it had picked the right person for the job at hand, amid polite applause, Charles took the podium.
Myron was more attuned to Sheila’s reaction than to Charles’s beaming face. From his vantage point, he noted that Sheila didn’t go through the nicety of clapping. She had put her purse in front of her, and casting a surreptitious glance on either side, opened it and took out a wad of Kleenex. Given what she told him, Myron hoped that she could gamely hold it together until what was surely an ordeal was over. Her face seemed serene, though, with a thin, unhappy smile set rigidly in place.
Leaper was in fine form and to his credit gave a rather objective overview of Dworking’s contribution to the college. She was, he averred, “a competent administrator who tightened up the institution’s infrastructure to allow it to meet the fiscal uncertainties and fluctuations in provincial support over the last few years.” (For a moment, Myron thought that Leaper was describing the head of IBM or GM rather than a college president.) And finally, he noted that she didn’t so much articulate a new vision of where the institution was going as emphasize where it was and how it could be improved.
On the whole, it was a good analysis but a poor eulogy. Absent was the usual emotional content, the outpouring of sorrow, regret, sense of loss, etcetera, that one expected on such occasions. Indeed, Myron noticed that no one was overwrought, but then that was probably the way Dworking would have preferred it.
Having given his clinical presentation of the Dworking years, Leaper then spoke of his intention to build on her legacy, of taking responsibilities seriously to continue to forge a comprehensive community college with diverse mandates that would meet the emerging challenges to be faced in the 1990s. It too was masterfully done, with all the right buzzwords.
Leaper appeared to be winding down when Myron spotted Freta coming in. Excusing himself from the table, he met her at the back of the cafeteria. She was inconspicuously dressed in a fashionable winter coat and gloves, high leather boots, and tights over what Myron reckoned was a frilly flowing skirt, judging from a peek below the winter apparel. She evidently had gone home and changed.
“Sorry,” she said a little breathlessly. “My meeting with Dworking’s sister took longer than anticipated — the plane was late, actually.”
“She’s not here?” he asked, somewhat surprised. He half expected the family representative to appear.
“No. I took her to the hotel room.”
“Oh — too bad. I would have liked to meet her, see if she’s any semblance of her sister.”
“I suspect not. Sandra is quite a bit younger and, physically at least, taller, leaner, with auburn hair. Some sort of executive at a publishing firm in Toronto… At any rate, I don’t think that she was much interested in coming. She said she was tired and not up to it emotionally.”
“Well, this is hardly an emotional affair. Why don’t I take your winter gear and stick it in my office while you grab whatever’s left at the buffet table. Join Ted, Benson, Barbara, and I.” He motioned to their table. “I have something really important to run by you later, when there’s more time and we’re alone.”
As Myron made his way down the stairs from depositing Freta’s winter outerwear, there was a burst of applause. Evidently, Leaper had finished; all smiles, with the practised flair of a politician, he waved his hand in acknowledgement, stepped away from the podium, and made his way toward his seat. That was probably it, thought Myron. Wisenburg would officially wrap up the affair; people would stick around a mite longer to finish their drinks (or indulge in a couple more) and go home. Business as usual on Monday.
He met Freta at the end of the buffet table with a plate full of sliced beef, mashed potatoes, and a combination of greens in her hand. “Could you grab me a coffee?” she said.
“Black, right?” He set a mug under the spout of the urn and pulled the tap, watching what looked like oily goo pour out. Must be getting close to the bottom.
“Yeah, thanks.”
As he turned, Myron spotted Nadia from the shadows of a massive supporting pillar. She was a solitary figure, replete with a camera swung over her parka and pen and spiral notebook in her hand. She gave him a furtive glare, which captured Freta in equal measure. It quickly turned evasive when Myron nodded in her direction. She suddenly disappeared behind the pillar without acknowledgement. I guess she decided she didn’t see me, he deduced. No doubt she was there in her official capacity as a reporter. Freta, he noted, gave no indication that she had noticed her. Just as well, he concluded.
“So you were saying you had something important to tell me?” Freta broke into his wandering thoughts.
“Right — yes.” Myron instinctively lowered his voice and made sure there was no one within earshot. “It came to me out of the blue — something that I heard but didn’t connect until this morning.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dworking’s killer, I—” Myron was abruptly interrupted by a stifled scream and breaking glass.
The source came from the vicinity of the head table — the acting president, in fact. He appeared to have stumbled over his chair and fell to the floor, pulling the tablecloth with him. Myron saw Blythe reach out in horror and try to restrain Charles’s downward plunge. Charles was obviously in the throes of some sort of convulsion, his mouth agape, gasping for breath, his hands instinctively gripping his throat.
Sheila, Myron noticed in that fraction of peripheral activity that his eyes caught and his mind registered, brusquely stood up, and clutching her purse, backed away as if to dissociate herself from the scene. Not the usual reaction for a one-time nurse used to dealing with medical emergencies, which this most certainly was.
Freta, seeing the distressed man stumble and fall, set aside her loaded plate on the edge of the buffet table and rushed forward with Myron in her wake, the mug of sludge left to turn cold under the spout. He wondered vaguely if Charles had a seizure of some sort or was choking on something.
“Stand back!” Freta ordered in an authoritative tone. The shocked onlookers made room. “We need an ambulance!” she shouted, kneeling beside the prostrated man.
“On it!” Myron heard Ted’s voice ring clearly from behind.
Myron crouched behind Freta, who now placed two fingers on the side of his neck, checking for a pulse. Frowning, she said to Myron, “Help me turn him over.” His face appeared flaccid and clammy, his body inert. She put her ear to his mouth, observing his chest for any tell-tale signs of breathing. For Myron it was impossible to tell. Freta proceeded to pinch his nostrils and brought her face close to his mouth as if to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, only to pull away abruptly.
“I think he’s been poisoned,” she whispered
Myron leaned closer and got an acrid whiff of something he couldn’t identify.
“Oh my God — Sheila.” The name automatically popped out of his mouth.
“What?”
My
ron looked up, and Freta followed his eyes. They saw an ashen but otherwise blank face staring at them from the edge of a traumatized crowd. Sheila Penny held their gaze for a fraction of a second, then, as if suddenly coming out of a trance, turned and hurried toward the ladies’ room.
Chapter Twenty-One
“I thought I had figured it out, but not this,” said Myron, shaking his head and slumping farther into Freta’s couch. It was well after three in the morning before they left the presumed crime scene. Paramedics had arrived within twenty minutes, and Leaper was strapped up and whisked away with admirable dispatch, still alive, as far as Myron could tell. Freta spoke briefly to the attendants, called in for backup, and proceeded to secure the incident area.
“Don’t let anyone touch anything here,” she motioned to the head table, “particularly the drinks,” she told Myron. “The forensics people need to go through it.”
Then she spent most of her time taking down names and asking questions of those at the head table. Did anyone notice anything unusual? How was Mr. Leaper before his collapse? Did he take a drink after his talk? What did he drink? The questions produced no concrete results. It appeared that nobody — at least at the head table — noticed anything unusual.
Myron noted Nadia amid the other aghast guests. She seemed just as stunned as those around her. For a brief moment, they made eye contact, a viscerally haunting glance that reached his core, before she turned away. She’ll get a hell of a story, with photos if she’s discreet about it.
“Okay, just what had you figured out?” Freta asked tiredly.
“It’s a small detail really, but the more I thought about it—”
“It’s in the minutiae of details that cases often get solved. That’s why Rob and I have been asking questions, and then more questions these last few days, and why I asked for your help — well, part of the reason…” She let the thought trail away. “So, what have you got?”
“It seems a bit anticlimactic now,” Myron said. He had been eagerly waiting for the opportune moment to tell Freta that he had solved the Dworking case, but now there was a smidgen of doubt.
A Death Most Cold Page 20