Death in Cold Type

by C. C. Benison

  “Look,” he said, “is this painful to talk about?”

  “You could have picked a better day.”

  Leo looked down at the table, then back up at her. “How about tomorrow?”

  Caitlin shrugged. “It’s okay. Actually it’s interesting that a journalist is asking questions about this. Nobody did then. What is it you found troubling?”

  “There were several hours between Michael’s flight and yours. That means the Rossiters must have stayed in the airport long after he’d flown out.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And given what I know about Thomas Rossiter’s alcoholism—”

  “He stayed at the airport drinking. He was blind drunk, well over the speed limit, and, therefore, criminally negligent. He, in effect, murdered my parents and his own wife. Have I gotten to the point?” She regarded him with her remarkable eyes. Her voice held no bitterness.

  “Quicker than I expected,” he replied, startled. “And yet—”

  “Nothing was done about it? Guy and I called it Chappaquiddick North.” She smiled.

  “Cover-up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow.” This was more than Leo had expected. “And you didn’t try to—?”

  “I believed what was told me at the time, what you read in the paper.”

  “Then how—?”

  “Michael figured it out pretty fast. And then his uncle, your boss—”

  “Martin?”

  “—as much as told him he’d made certain arrangements to protect his father. Apparently, the police had encountered a drunken Thomas Rossiter in the past and been instructed to get in touch with Kingdon should anything happen. Which they did. I assume, and Michael assumed, that a certain friendship existed between Kingdon and someone well-placed in the police.”

  What a surprise, Leo thought. The old story of elites moving quickly to protect their reputations safe in the assurance that few—including journalists—had either the will or the opportunity to question received wisdom. He said, “I take it from your tone Michael wasn’t all that grateful to Martin.”

  Caitlin ran her hand down a crescent of blonde hair. “Michael was…confused, troubled. He felt guilty. He and his father had had a terrific argument at the airport. He was pretty wild in our first year at the Curtis. He had some heavy thing going with a German girl who was there, like me, on a scholarship, and he was drinking a lot.” She paused in her stroking. “Anyway, one night, after he’d had a few, he told me what he knew about our parents’ deaths.”

  “Shocking.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why—”

  “Didn’t anything happen? He wanted to pursue it, call for a new investigation, even though it was his own father and involved his own uncle. But I asked him not to. It’s that simple. I didn’t want my life turned upside down. I was still having nightmares. And—I know it’s a cliché—but nothing was going to bring my parents back.”

  “And Guy?”

  “What about him?”

  “Did you tell him?”

  Caitlin sighed. “Finally, I did. He was a teenage newspaper reader, which must be pretty rare. And he’d started to piece parts of it together. When I was back here during school breaks—my grandmother took care of Guy—he would pester me with questions: didn’t I think this was weird, and so on.”

  “And how did he take it?”

  “Mostly he was angry at me for not telling him, and for stopping Michael. It was sort of the beginning of our estrangement.”

  “I wonder why he didn’t do something about it—your brother, I mean.”

  “He was very young.”

  “I mean later. It’s not too late, even now, to call for a new investigation.”

  Caitlin turned to look at a flurry of leaves that a gust of wind had blown against the glass walls of the sunporch. She hugged the jacket of her suit closer, shivering. “Well, maybe the passage of time has worked for him, too. Anyway, we don’t talk about it anymore—when we talk, that is. And I have no more interest now than I did all those years ago in revisiting this. I don’t really want to be in Winnipeg.” She paused. “It’s a place of death for me, really.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Part of it was Michael’s doing. When the Atlantic Symphony collapsed last spring, he suggested coming back to Winnipeg. He thought he might be able to use his influence with the WSO. Which doesn’t seem to have worked out, since he spent most of the summer in Europe. And Guy was here, and my grandmother was in a nursing home here. Although she died last month—”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Caitlin shrugged. “And now Michael’s gone. There are few attachments for me here now. You see, we were air force brats. I was born in England. Guy was born in West Germany. We lived in half a dozen places in Canada before moving here, where my mother’s mother lived. I really only spent my undergraduate years here. And I hated the winters.”

  “But it’s a dry cold.” Leo whined.

  Caitlin laughed. “Print it on a licence plate. I’ll take the San Francisco fog.”

  Leo shrugged. “Guy seems to have gotten used to it.”

  “He’s done well here.”

  “Very well.”

  Caitlin regarded him slyly. “I know where your little journalistic mind is going. You’re thinking Guy’s used what he knows about Martin Kingdon and the Rossiters for some advantage.”

  “No,” he lied.

  “He’s still my brother,” she responded evenly.

  Leo could see that she didn’t believe him. “Well, you’ll allow that he’s risen far, fast.”

  “I’ll allow that he’s a little obsessed with the Rossiters.”

  “I think the thing with Merritt is over.”

  “Really? I hadn’t heard.” Caitlin abruptly turned her face to stare out across the lawn and the coils of wet leaves. “Just as well,” she added. The sun porch was getting darker with the darkening day. Before many weeks were out there would be no light at five o’clock in the afternoon. But on this gloomy afternoon, the last day of September, there was sufficient light to sharpen the contours of Caitlin’s face and define a set in her jaw. And then, as suddenly as she had averted her gaze, she turned back to him.

  “Are you intending to open up this can of worms?”

  “In the paper?” Leo paused. He thought about the gatekeepers: Martin, who surely had stripped the clipping file and removed the microfilm roll; Guy, who would, on Monday, be his immediate superior. “I haven’t a clue,” he replied.

  Caitlin shrugged. “Well, I’m getting a little chilly out here.” She began to rise from the chair.

  This time it was Leo’s turn to touch her hand. “Wait,” he said, again feeling a spark, “you don’t have any idea who might want to murder Michael?”

  She sat back down. Her eyes searched his. “Who? No. But—”

  “But?”

  “Well, I know something about the why.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The story I read in the paper—your story, I presume—is wrong.”

  “How so?” said Leo, affronted.

  “It was full of speculation about a stolen Guarneri del Gesu. I guess I should go to the police.”

  Leo stared at her, puzzled. “Why?”

  “Simple.” In the light coming from the kitchen, Leo could see flecks of green glowing in the depths of blue. God, she was cool hot. How could Michael have resisted? He barely heard her say: “I have the Gaurneri.”

  25

  Bumpf

  Liz ground her cigarette into the ashtray with a fierce satisfaction, which she usually did when she’d completed a story. She scrolled the words up and down the computer screen a few times to check for spelling and punctuation errors, detected none, and then hit the send button. Across the room, copy editors waited with machetes.

  They can hack it to bits, she thought; it’s nothing but crap anyway. The Citizen was putting out yet another advertorial supplement to mark the gala opening of Galle
ries Portáge—there seemed to be one every day—and she’d got stuck at the last minute filling in some of the spaces between the ads with her deathless prose. She’d been assigned a piece on what the local elite would be wearing to the opening—of a shopping mall, for chrissake. It’s the kind of thing Merritt Parrish should have sunk her pointed teeth into, but since she was on bereavement leave, Guy had assigned the stupid thing to her. Deliberately, she presumed. Just to irritate her. She’d ended up phoning old sorority sisters and the wives of Spencer’s cronies and wives of symphony board members—people she thought might comment after much begging, the topic being so asinine. But, as it happened, no one needed to be begged to discuss her gown or her jewellery. How happy people seemed to be to talk about themselves and their possessions! How thrilled to see their names in print, not realizing that in print their bright telephone chatter would look foolish and frivolous.

  Even a week ago she would have judged the assignment the nadir of her career but this gloomy Friday afternoon, she found she was just as glad to have something innocuous to do. Her mind was occupied elsewhere. Since Tuesday night, she and Spencer had spoken only as necessity required. They had taken last night’s dinner separately and each had contrived not to be in the same part of the house for rest of the evening. Of course, she had moved to the guest bedroom. Even though it was Spencer who had precipitated the argument by failing to notify her of his election plans, it was she who was made to feel blameworthy for challenging him. The atmosphere at home very nearly crackled with tension. They had avoided confrontation for so long—she could barely remember the last time they had argued—that they had no resources for managing it. Now they were on the other side of the wall from indifference into uncharted territory of acrimony and recrimination. She wondered whether she should move to a hotel for a while so she could think.

  She wondered, too, if she would find the sympathy she craved from Paul. Since Tuesday, he had been remote, disengaging himself from any lengthy phone conversation at the symphony, pleading work as his excuse. In the beginning she had expected nothing enduring to come of her affair with him. She had entered into it casually, with a kind of devil-may-care attitude—a strong signal, though unacknowledged, that she was again tempting the fate of her marriage. But, more recently, she had discovered sprouting within herself the dangerous but not wholly unwelcome feelings of caring deeply for Paul. Meanwhile, his ardour seemed suddenly to be cooling. Perhaps, she thought, he had sensed her feelings and sought to ease his way out of anything that might slip from his control. Yet she couldn’t imagine him not confronting her, not telling her that it was over, unless, like hers, his manoeuvres in love contradicted his manoeuvres in work. She could easily enough confront Guy Clark if she had to, yet how easily she had let her relationship with her husband fester.

  And Clark. How had he learned of her affair with Paul? She had confided in no one. Did Paul blab to someone? It hardly seemed likely. But then she thought back to the murderous glance Else had dispatched at the Kingdons’ dinner. Did she know? She and Paul had been married for so long, yet she assumed Paul had been unfaithful many times in the past. He seemed so unruffled, so practised and charming. So European. Perhaps Else condoned his liaisons. Liz had no idea. Paul always deflected any discussion of his wife, describing his time with her, Liz, as precious and secluded—romantic talk whose charm persuaded her even while she recognized it as nonsense. At least Paul did not bore her with banal justifications that Else did not understand him, or satisfy him. But even if Else was aware of his infidelity, how would it ever get to Guy’s ears? The only other person who had probably guessed at her relationship with Paul was the caretaker at Paul’s downtown apartment. But Paul had assured her he was unfailingly discreet. It was worth his while to be.

  She couldn’t believe Guy would pass along his knowledge to Spencer. He had nothing to gain, unless he was so perverse as to find satisfaction in her humiliation. Her marriage would likely end as a result. Did it matter anymore? Liz sighed. Her head was beginning to spin. She seemed to have thought of nothing else in the last two days.

  She looked over the top of her computer terminal and glanced around the newsroom. Everywhere, reporters were hunkered down in front of their terminals, racing to meet the Friday deadlines for the early Saturday edition. Here and there a few other reporters circled the room like hungry buzzards waiting for the first available terminal to open up. In recent months, terminals had had a habit of disappearing in the night, allegedly for repairs but in reality for the growing needs of the advertising department. None had returned. With supplies meagre, demand had raged. Arguments flared over possession, on occasion just short of battle. Friday afternoons were worst. Liz realized her reverie in front of a blank screen would be interpreted as pure selfishness. Feeling a pair of eyes on her back, she rose, smiled at the familiar face, and travelled around to the other side of the bay of desks and sat down at her own. There was still a small pile of mail retrieved from the box earlier in the afternoon but left unopened in the rush to complete stories before deadline. Judging from the logo, an artfully entwined “G” and “P,” Galleries Portáge bumpf was enclosed in at least some of the envelopes. Liz tossed them in a nearby bin. She had been saturated with the topic of Galleries Portáge. If there was anything newsworthy in the envelopes—which she doubted—it was too late now. Other envelopes contained a variety of announcements and communiqués from various arts groups, many with “For Immediate Release” typed urgently at the top. They were usually days late and inconsequential. Anything truly urgent was communicated over the telephone. Liz opened the envelopes anyway, but quickly added their contents to the garbage.

  The final envelope in the pile was large, brown, and thicker than most to cross her desk. It had also been addressed by hand, which gave Liz pause. Hand-addressed envelopes often contained the work of complainants or cranks or people possessed by the news value of their dubious artistic accomplishments. Sometimes they contained complimentary letters, but not often. People were rarely compelled to express their pleasure over something written in a newspaper.

  She tore the top from the envelope and tugged at a file folder contained within. A paperclip pinning a letter to the file cover came away in her hand. The folder was jammed in. She yanked harder. Finally, it shot out of the envelope and, as it did so, part of its contents slipped from the bottom and she caught a glimpse of writing in a foreign language.

  She straightened the file with a sharp tap on her knee and then looked at the cover letter. “Dear Liz,” it began. The letter was two pages, typed. She turned to the last sheet to look at the signature. A flutter of surprise came over her as she read the name: Michael Rossiter.

  Quickly, she flipped through the contents of the file. It made no immediate sense. There were photocopies of what appeared to be old documents and affidavits, a lengthy transcript, and one aged grainy photograph, a reproduction, the subject of which filled her with disquiet. She turned back to the letter.

  “Dear Liz,” she read again. “I think the enclosed material will shock you. It shocked me when I came across it this summer. But the evidence it contains is, I think, irrefutable. I thought about ignoring it, but then I decided I couldn’t. I can’t let another injustice go unpunished. However, for private reasons I can’t follow through. So I’m sending it to you with the expectation that you can give it the treatment it deserves. I realize I may be placing a burden on you, but from our past associations I know you to be thorough, fair-minded, and unafraid of a challenge. And it is, in press parlance, a ‘good story.’ (I guess there’s one drop of family ink in my veins.) Let me explain…”

  Liz continued to read. As she did, the sounds of the newsroom—the click of the keyboards, the whir of the computers, the jangling telephones and barking reporters—slipped into oblivion. In the dreadful silence, she was aware only of her heart crashing in her chest, her breath quickening and gasping as her eyes passed over the words again, and then again. Grotesque images raced through h
er mind, the black and white clichés of the cinematographer’s art, for what she had read she had never experienced, never could experience. But the images were sufficient. She felt weak and sickened. “Oh, Michael, you’re wrong, you’re wrong,” she whispered to herself. “I can’t be fair-minded, or thorough, or anything with this. I can’t do it. I can’t do what you ask.”

  She closed the cover of the file with great weariness. She didn’t need to look at the documentation. Only a deranged mind would make a false accusation of such enormity, and Michael, she knew, wasn’t crazy.

  Across the bank of desks a concerned voice inquired: “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” she replied. “Just a bit cold in here.”

  She opened a bottom drawer in her desk and bent over to tuck the file into a stack of forgotten papers. She hesitated, running her thumb along the blunt edge of the manila tag. A frisson of panic gripped her. What would she do? She couldn’t leave it in the drawer with the hope that it would slip from her memory the way so many other papers had. And she couldn’t suppress her memory. She couldn’t imagine going about her business with the knowledge that this thing was pulsating in her desk drawer like some malevolent animal. It had to be uncaged. Yes, goddamn it, it was a good story. Horribly good, frighteningly good. Properly handled it would make someone’s career.

  But not hers.

  She rustled some papers with the pretence of searching for something, then quietly returned the file to her lap. Everyone was concentrated on his or her end-of-shift task. She looked across the room at Guy, who was sitting in profile, frowning at something on his screen. She made up her mind. Behind her was a series of small rooms, one of which was used by the Zit’s cartoonist, who, typically, finished his work by noon and headed for the bar. It contained one of the few typewriters left in the building, an old Remington, occasionally used by reporters who wished to type a message, or sneak the time to write a personal letter. Liz slipped into the room with the file and partially closed the door to signal a desire for privacy. She sat at the typewriter, contemplated its ancient keys for a moment, then pulled the letter from the file and started to type with determination. Twenty minutes later she had produced a new version, leaving out her name, and Michael’s name and address, but retaining all the pertinent information. She put the facsimile letter into the file, and then returned to her desk where she stuffed the original in her overstuffed file drawer. At some point soon, she knew, Guy would leave his desk to fetch coffee or go to the toilet. She would have her opportunity.