A Death Most Cold

by Petryshyn, Jaroslav (Jerry)

  “What is?”

  Myron sighed and stated without further preamble, “Charles killed Dworking — that’s the way it looks to me. Still does, even if he was poisoned — how’d you know he was poisoned, by the way?”

  “Burnt almond. Didn’t you smell it?”

  Myron nodded. “I couldn’t quite identify the odour. I just thought Charles had a bad case of halitosis.”

  “I am pretty sure it was potassium cyanide. It’s fast-acting and more often than not gets the job done. But back to your comment. You say Charles killed Dworking. How did you arrive at that conclusion?”

  “As I started to tell you earlier last evening, he actually gave himself away, but I didn’t pick up on it at the time. It was only when I was marking student essays with my ‘what’s wrong with this sentence’ mantra that it suddenly dawned on me. The other day he said something to me about how tragically Dworking died strapped in her seat. How’d he know that? No one knew that Dworking had her seat belt on. I checked the newspaper accounts and talked to Merle Morgan. He swore he told no one. Said the police — you — gagged him.”

  “That’s right,” Freta said, frowning. “We didn’t want the details released — we rarely do in such suspicious circumstances.

  “And I knew only because you told me. And you certainly didn’t tell Charles.”

  “I broke protocol or worse by telling you, and no way would that have been slipped to Charles.”

  “So, how did he know if he didn’t do it?”

  Freta thought about that for a moment. “I don’t know — could have assumed it, I suppose,” she added unconvincingly. “When did he tell you exactly?”

  “It was Monday or Tuesday, before he was selected as acting president. The conversation — more like a quick exchange, really — took place in a washroom with no one present that I was aware of, anyway. So it would be my word against his in the end, but I remember clearly what he said; I just didn’t digest it until a couple days later.”

  “Okay suppose that’s true…?”

  “As I figure it,” Myron plunged ahead, “he went to her office that night after Spinner’s dismissal. You already established that Leaper was at the college that night.”

  Freta nodded. “Said he worked late in his office.”

  “Right. Well, he paid the president a visit. Must have argued about something — his future employment, maybe. There was no love lost between them, as far as I can tell, and my theory is that he followed her to her car, perhaps still arguing or pleading his case. I don’t see him smacking her in her office and then carrying her out.”

  “No — there’s no evidence of that.’

  “Anyway, he followed her out and hit her from behind with some object. You said that there was a contusion on the base of her skull.”

  “That’s right, and that’s why the death was deemed suspicious, but not conclusively a homicide.”

  “Actually, come to think of it, I haven’t seen Charles’s fancy briefcase he always takes to meetings.” Another small but possibly significant detail. “At any rate, I don’t think it was premeditated — maybe a case of spontaneous rage. Dworking fell against the door. He caught her, eased her onto the seat, and in a moment of insight strapped her in and stuck her keys into the ignition. And that’s how poor old Merle found the car, unlocked and occupied by our late president. Charles probably thought she was dead and tried to make it look like a natural death. What do you think?”

  “We may never know if he dies,” Freta said, “but your theory makes sense in a perverse sort of way. At the very least I can get the forensic guys to search his office and home.”

  “Look for his briefcase,” Myron added with emphasis.

  “If it is the murder weapon and he didn’t get rid of it,” said Freta.

  “Charles did it. I know I’m right!”

  “Maybe, but we still need proof. And how does Sheila Penny fit? She was my number one suspect for Dworking, never mind what just happened to Leaper and your theory notwithstanding. She’s still in the running. And you practically accused her of poisoning Leaper — why?”

  “That was an intuitive deduction. Throughout the evening, she seemed preoccupied — on the verge of some great cathartic moment or breakdown. I can’t explain it totally. Spoke with her briefly and observed…” He paused, reflecting. “She seemed far-off, distracted, certainly not herself. I don’t know…but when you said poison, it clicked into place, as I said, intuitively. How come you know so much about poisons — that it was potassium cyanide?”

  “I read lots of whodunits and took a forensic course at Penhold. It’s one of the more common poisons with the odour giveaway I mentioned. But back to Penny.”

  “Her name automatically came to mind. And my mouth uttered what my brain formulated. And then she rushed off.”

  “Well, she sure looked like the cat that swallowed the canary.”

  “You interviewed her?”

  “Got a brief statement,” Freta said. “She didn’t notice a thing. Like everyone else, she thought that Leaper had a heart attack or some other medical condition.”

  “Odd behaviour for a former nurse trained to react to medical emergencies,” noted Myron. “But then she really, really didn’t like Charles.”

  “Not exactly Florence Nightingale, that’s for sure. And you’re right; I got a sense of dislike between the two, talking to some of your colleagues. It seemed they were close, very close for a brief time.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” said Myron. “Sheila and Charles have a history, which escalated dramatically after his elevation to acting president.” He proceeded to fill Freta in on his last conversation with Sheila and the apparent hold Charles had over her.

  “Sounds like a pair who deserve each other. Looks like I’ll have to dig deeper into Penny’s past.”

  “Well, there’s some sordid secret that Charles found out and has over her. That’s my impression. What did she say about not aiding Charles as a medical professional?”

  “Said she felt sick and had to go to the washroom.”

  “She did appear stressed, and perhaps she wasn’t well,” said Myron.

  “Well, at this point, all I can say that as a ‘medical professional,’ to use your words, she would know about lethal drugs, and a washroom is a good place to get rid of any residual evidence.”

  “So where do we go from here?” asked Myron

  “I don’t know about you, but right now I’m too tired to think, so I’m going to bed.”

  “Good idea, let’s sleep on it,” Myron agreed.

  Chapter Twnenty-Two

  Five weeks later

  “You’ve been holding out on me,” Ted declared ruefully as he marched into Myron’s office and plopped down into the only available empty chair.

  “I have?” Myron looked up from his notes and laid down his pen.

  “Yeah, but before I get to that, I need advice on toilets.”

  “Toilets?”

  “More specifically, toilet bowls. Ours cracked and sprang a small leak — went shopping for a new one. You wouldn’t believe it—”

  “I don’t know a thing about toilet bowls,” Myron interjected.

  “That’s the point,” Ted said. “I didn’t think there was that much to know — boy was I wrong. I need advice.”

  “Advice?” Myron repeated, mystified.

  “Decisions that must be made — round or elongated, dual flush or regular, liner or no liner, tall or regular? Then there’s the flush capacity, the brand, and price range and where it’s made — Mexico or China? What should I pay for a toilet bowl anyway?”

  “I can’t help you on any of the above,” stated Myron. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  “Then I’ll cut to the chase. Do you know a good plumber? This is not a project I want to ‘plunge into.’”

  Myron ignored the bad pun. “I know a plumber, but whether he’s good or not, I couldn’t tell you—”

  “I’ll get his name, but back
to the issue at hand…”

  “Which is?” Myron prompted.

  “This.” From a pile of papers wedged precariously dangling from his left armpit, Ted produced the most recent copy of the Great Plains Daily Reporter, where the largest headline read, “College’s Acting President Charged with Second-Degree Murder.”

  “You’ve been holding out on me,” Ted repeated. “You knew this was coming, right?”

  “Wow!”

  “Wow? Is that another of your learned comments?”

  It wasn’t that Myron was overly surprised. Freta had indicated that the Crown had enough evidence (albeit circumstantial) to charge Leaper. He was, however, still taken aback that it materialized so quickly. Of course, he had to keep Ted in the dark.

  “I had only a vague idea, Ted — which I couldn’t even speculate on.”

  The month or so after Leaper’s sudden collapse had been a whirlwind of activity on numerous levels. While Freta and her colleagues proceeded — quite vigorously, evidently — with their investigation, Leaper made a slow but sure recovery from his close brush with death. Sheila took a sudden personal leave of absence (totally understandable from Myron’s point of view) while the college administration limped along without a functioning CEO — almost. Reginald Mercur, the rather unassuming dean of Student Affairs, was next in the chain of command and became the de facto acting president while Leaper was incapacitated. This was before the revelation that the duly chosen acting president was charged with his predecessor’s murder. With this latest development, Myron presumed that he’d shortly receive a notice of another “special” board meeting.

  While the police buzzed about the institution, quarantining and searching Leaper’s office and conducting another round of interviews, faculty and staff gossip escalated from salacious titillation to frenzied hysteria. Still, the business of higher learning continued. The students showed up in classes, and the instructors, unlike the staff, found diversion or in some cases relief (comic or otherwise) in delivering their lectures.

  Myron, not having a chance to read the Reporter story, wondered how much detail it contained. He doubted that there was much — a cursory background on Dworking and her years as president, her death, Leaper’s long history with the college, his elevation to the presidency and the shocking announcement that he had been arrested and charged with her death. Freta, no doubt, would shed further light on this latest turn of events when he took her out to dinner that evening. They hadn’t seen much of each other since that intense night.

  “Your wife wrote the article,” Ted said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Well, she sure didn’t talk to me!” Myron retorted.

  “But you’re pretty tight with Corporal — I’ve forgotten her name…”

  “This kind of thing the RCMP — in this case Corporal Osprey — plays close to the vest,” Myron said. “Besides, it’s the provincial Crown prosecutor that lays the charges.”

  “So, you don’t know any more?”

  “I haven’t read the article, and I’m sure I don’t know any more than was reported.”

  “Okay, okay.” Ted sighed. “I believe you. The story doesn’t really say much other than Leaper was at his home recovering from his ‘mysterious’ illness when he was arrested and charged.”

  “I’m sure the sordid entrails will emerge soon enough,” said Myron, feeling like he narrowly escaped Ted’s tenacious scrutiny.

  “And what about Charles suddenly keeling over at his inauguration? Rumours are circulating that he was poisoned, and you know by whom!”

  “Rumours are just that — rumours. No one has been accused or charges laid — if Leaper was poisoned.”

  “You knew something was up, though,” Ted challenged. “You were mighty curious about Sheila and Charles’s relationship. And why would Sheila suddenly take a leave of absence?”

  “I have what you have, suspicions, and not much else,” Myron answered truthfully, as far as it went. “And that’s what everyone at the college has indulged in for the last month or so: suspicion and speculation.”

  “You’re no fun,” Ted grumbled.

  Time to divert Ted into a scenario he can really run with. “There’s a more pressing concern for the college community that nobody seems to have considered.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Think about this. There were three candidates for the college’s top position. Two are out, which leaves only one left in the field.”

  “Oh my God!” exclaimed Ted.

  “Yep,” Myron chimed in. “None other than Sidney Sage.”

  “They wouldn’t.”

  “To be honest, I can’t prejudge the board. It’s a real possibility that he will be seriously considered this time.”

  “Holy lentil farts!”

  “Exactly.”

  ***

  “I bet this is the first time in any college’s history that senior administration did itself in completely. Maybe I should contact the Guinness Book of Records people,” Myron mused, popping a stray black olive into his mouth. He and Freta were having dinner at Pietro’s, reputedly one of Great Plains’ better establishments for Italian cuisine. Of course, there were only two others to pick from.

  “Any idea what’s going to happen at the college, now that it’s leaderless?” asked Freta, occupied with cutting her veal parmigiana into manageable portions.

  “It’ll probably run better.”

  “Honestly — be serious.”

  “All right…all right…” Myron put his hand up in mock surrender. “Blythe will call an emergency board meeting, and we’ll be searching for a president and at least two deans. In the meantime, quite possibly there’d be a government-appointed interim chief executive officer to run the show — the second-worst possibility.”

  “What’s the first?”

  “That the last applicant left standing should become president.”

  Freta looked puzzled.

  “Never mind, it’s a long story and inside joke. Let’s hope a viable candidate steps into the breach for the short term.” Myron brightened up, sat up, and abruptly changed the topic. “So tell me all about Charles’s arrest?”

  “He hasn’t confessed, if that’s what you want to know, but the evidence against him is pretty solid. I do really have to thank you, Myron. Your notice of a seemingly trivial slip of the tongue proved the key — and saved my ass.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  Freta paused and laid down her utensils before addressing Myron. “I was in over my head, and the top brass wasn’t happy about it. The truth is I stalled — delayed my report much too long and was about to be reprimanded or worse.”

  “I don’t understand,” Myron said, frowning.

  “I should have called in the detectives without delay. I convinced Rob not to — not until we poked around. He was nervous about not following protocol and said we were jeopardizing a potential homicide case and our own careers in the process. And he was right! It was a suspicious death, and Major Crimes should have been called in right away.” She leaned closer across the table toward Myron and continued. “Thanks to you, I — we, Rob and I — missed biting the bullet. As I said, you saved my ass.”

  “In that case, I was happy to oblige,” Myron said.

  “At any rate, since the search of Leaper’s office and home — well, all’s well that ends well. My superiors have been forgiving, if not completely mollified, Major Crimes detectives have taken over, and maybe I get to play investigator another day!”

  “I’m glad that I could be useful.” Myron raised his wine glass.

  “Me too, Dr. Watson. You were absolutely right.”

  “Dr. Watson?” Myron raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m Ms. Holmes, don’t you know.”

  “Exactly what was I right about?” asked Myron. “Fill me in.”

  “Most of it, actually. While Leaper was in the hospital, we searched his office and found a rather pointed letter from the late president that informed him he’d
best take his sabbatical, after which the college would no longer need his services.”

  “Ouch!”

  “The alternative of forgoing his sabbatical would be a reorganization and a re-evaluation of his position at the end of the term,” Freta continued, taking a sip of her wine.

  “I guess that was her way of giving Charles fair warning and giving him a year to find another position,” Myron said, reaching for a crouton on his Caesar salad.

  “Motive clearly established.”

  “Charles would have been absolutely furious,” agreed Myron.

  “But that’s not the clincher. We also searched his home, and, as you suggested, the forensics team looked for that missing briefcase. Surprise, surprise, surprise, it was discovered in a storage box underneath the stairs leading into the basement. And you were right: it is a very impressive silver aluminum hard-shell case with reinforced metal corners and sturdy protective rubber feet.”

  “I guess he couldn’t bear to part with it.”

  “Or didn’t have a chance to get rid of it. Anyway, it has a slight dent in the right upper corner and microscopic blood and hair samples match that of the late president — hence the second-degree murder charge. The Crown prosecutor thought that the burden of proof for first degree was too high.” Freta shrugged.

  “I would agree. My conjecture is that he argued with her and in a moment of rage — now, no doubt, regretted — he whacked the back of her head as she was opening or getting into her car.”

  “That’s the scenario the prosecutor is going with. Of course, Charles is not talking except through his lawyer, who says his client will plead not guilty.”

  “What about Sheila and the investigation into Charles’s poisoning?” Myron asked before shoving a forkful of romaine lettuce into his mouth. He had ordered pasta primavera, which was good but not as inviting as Freta’s cut-up veal.

  “Still ongoing,” Freta replied with a shrug. “Leaper was poisoned, no doubt about that, but nobody saw a thing, and Penny sure isn’t admitting it. She has a good chance of getting away with it.”