Death in Cold Type

by C. C. Benison

  Begged, actually.

  Fuck you, he had wanted to say. But he liked the idea of himself as compassionate, as gracious, willing to hear an argument. He said he was just on his way to the Citizen. Meet me in the newsroom, he said.

  Guy ran his fingers over the keyboard like it was a piano. Gibberish burned onto the screen. He frowned. Glanced at his watch. Cocked an ear toward the door to the newsroom.

  Had she chickened out…?

  Michael hadn’t answered the bell to his door, but it had been open anyway, so he walked in. He called out, but there was no reply. He should have known there was something wrong. The open door. The silence. He had walked around, looking into different rooms, admiring the stuff, repeatedly calling Michael’s name to disguise the unwarranted intrusion when he had caught a glimpse of something human through a sliding panel. He had poked his head in and there, glistening red in the dwindling light seeping through windows opposite, was a patch of blood. Michael’s face was in it.

  It had been a shock. He could admit it to himself now. He had never seen a dead body before. He hadn’t felt nauseous or physically revolted, but he had felt for a moment a loss of strength, a wobble in the knees. Of course, they didn’t let him see his father after the accident, or even his mother in the hospital—her injuries had been too severe. He had begged to see her but his grandmother wouldn’t let him. He was too young, she said. And then his mother had died. After he cried over that, he never cried again…

  He had turned from the sight of Michael Rossiter’s fallen body toward the desk to look for a phone. It was an automatic response. Then he noted an open appointment book, with his name clearly inked in. A kind of paranoia swept over him at that moment. Might the cops make something of the accidental connection between his family and the Rossiters? Accuse him of exacting some sort of delayed revenge? Or would Merritt say Michael had intended to read him the riot act?

  They had argued. There had been a fight.

  He thought only long enough to tear the page away from the coil binding without leaving a print. Now there was no proof Michael had been expecting his visit. Merritt wasn’t around. Clearly she had not parked. She had driven on. Why get involved? And just in case anyone had seen him in the neighbourhood, he would hop over to the Kingdons’. Martin would give him an alibi. No question.

  He had retraced his steps through the house. He hadn’t touched anything, didn’t touch anything, and there would be no footprints. The weather had been too hot and dry for that.

  But when he got outside and gulped the fresh air, an almost giddy feeling of happiness surged from somewhere deep inside, surprising him. Sick, maybe—he thought that now, almost guiltily—but in that moment he found Rossiter’s death weirdly satisfying. The son of the man who had killed his parents had himself been killed. A rough symmetry. Crude justice, but justice nonetheless.

  Into this reverie, the insistent burr of an electronic doorlock barely penetrated. Some mechanical function of the subconscious duly noted the sound and sent a delayed message to the cerebral cortex, but by the time Guy paid attention, the sound had died and silence had again closed in. He turned to look. Probably one of the sports reporters in to file a late story. Sports had its own room down the hall, in the opposite direction from the newsroom. Or it was one of the cleaners, although cleaners didn’t usually work on Saturdays. Or perhaps security, or what passed for security—one skinny Filipino with a flashlight.

  He tapped out a few more words and thought again of Merritt. He couldn’t help himself. He was sure she was seeing someone else. She wasn’t the kind of woman who was long without a man. But who? Hell, she’d been with Dale-fucking-Hawerchuk briefly, and hadn’t there been some record producer when she’d lived in New York? And some nightclub owner? Visions of Merritt and anyone else made him pigsick with jealousy. Even if she talked to some other guy in the newsroom, he could feel a cold rage begin to wash along his nerves. The intensity of his feelings for her dismayed him; he would feel his self-control begin to slip its mooring.

  God, she was hot. Even her druggie history was alluring. But there was this other attraction—the link between their families. He had been fascinated by her ignorance of the connection. She presumed he knew all about her parents, and she never asked about his. Not ever. In the end, their affair had been brief. It had taken some work to get her attention in the first place. Being Go! editor helped—she had to talk to him; he was her boss, even if Martin had basically foisted her on him in the first place. He dared himself to ask her out, just to see if she would. She’d looked faintly amused, but condescended to say yes. Okay, basically, she had just been playing with him. And he had enjoyed playing. There was no reason it couldn’t go on. But then she ended it. On a whim. By then he was lost, besotted. Her action stunned him. Made him furious. It was hard to keep decorum in the newsroom but after work…

  He would run into her in a grocery store and she would look so surprised. He would show up at the same clubs and bars. He phoned again and again, but she never picked up. He got tired of talking into her answering machine. Finally he got her to agree to meet him. His grandmother had only just died. He had never felt so low, and Caitlin had her own grief to contend with. He had to admit he had got a little weird with Merritt that day in his apartment. He’d done a bad thing. But afterwards, for a time, the obsession seemed to fade. She didn’t show up for work for a long time. He covered for her, told Martin she was viewing the fall fashions or spring fashions or whatever in Dallas or Paris or Milan or somewhere. And then in late August she turned up again in the newsroom and treated him with all the disdain that seemed to be in her blood, but still flipping that long, red, actressy hair in his face.

  So absorbed was he that he didn’t hear at first the faint rustle of clothing or the short quick intake of air behind him. When he did, it was much too late. The hands were already around his throat, crushing him with a surprisingly strong, steady grasp, the unexpected odour of warm rubber assailing his nostrils as he instinctively threw open his mouth to fight for air. Foolishly he reached up to try and tear apart the alien pair of hands but his fingers, damp with sudden sweat, fumbled along a slippery surface. Gloves. The thought ripped through his fevered mind as he tried to struggle out of the chair, gagging and gasping. But the full weight of this other grunting creature was forcing his head down, down toward the keyboard of his computer while with waning strength he fought to retain his position, to clutch some part of his chair, the desk, anything to achieve the leverage that would allow him to throw off his assailant. But everything, papers, books, pencils, flew out of reach. He could feel himself shooting backward down a long tunnel. The blood roared in his ears. The computer screen shrank to a microdot before his fading eyes. And then, suddenly, his head was right against the cool thick glass of the screen and the brightest whitest diamond flashed in his brain.

  30

  Design is Everywhere

  “I remember,” Stevie said to Nan Hughes, “the very first words you

  wrote on the blackboard in first year.”

  “‘Design is Everywhere.’”

  “That’s it.”

  “I still write it on the board every year.”

  “It was sort of a revelation to me at the time,” Stevie continued, looking across the sunken courtyard, past the musicians who were returning to their seats to start another set, toward Tickles ’n Giggles, a store that sold overpriced children’s wear on the other side. Waiting for Leo to get her coat, she had been mentally evaluating the design of Galleries Portáge.

  How visually exciting are the spaces?

  How interesting is the sequencing of space?

  How original is the design?

  How visually literate was the architect?

  How honest are the material choices?

  How careful was the construction?

  To each she had ticked off “not very.”

  Nan, her shoulders wrapped in a shawl, had joined her. “Doing a crit?” she had asked.
<
br />   “Can’t help it.”

  Nan, too, let her eyes travel over the interior surfaces. “Too bad they didn’t hire a local architect,” she sighed. “The designers are from Baltimore. I guess they don’t know any better.”

  “I’ve an aunt and uncle in Baltimore,” Stevie responded, apropos of nothing. But she had been reminded of her own self-exile in the Maryland capital, which made her think of her conversation with Caitlin Clark about Michael’s son before Caitlin had taken her unscheduled plunge in the water feature. Which made her think about Michael. Which made her ask Nan about her interview with the police the day before.

  “Not much I could tell them,” Nan had responded, shrugging.

  “Well at least we know now the Guarneri wasn’t the motive.”

  “Yes, I read it in today’s paper. Perhaps, sadly, it was just some random act of violence after all.”

  Which had made Stevie think of Nan’s introductory epigram in first year interior design. “At the time,” she said, “it made me consider the interconnectedness of life, all the circumstances that seems like chance, but suggests design. Heavy stuff for the teenaged mind.”

  “I think Kerr used to teach something along those lines in his philosophy courses—somebody or other’s proof for the existence of God based on the notion that the great complexity of creation could only be explained by the existence of some cosmic designer—God, in other words. Design, in effect, is everywhere.”

  “Including Michael’s murder.”

  “I believe Kerr referred to this—in capital letters—as the Problem of Evil.”

  “I wasn’t going that far.” Stevie folded her arms over her chest. “I was just thinking that there is a motive for Michael’s death and that someone planned it. It was designed.”

  Nan glanced at her watch.

  “Had enough?” Stevie asked.

  “Of our philosophical discussion?”

  “No. Of the mall.”

  “Oh, I think so. I only came out of curiosity. Roger had the invitation. No one at the school got one. They probably sensed we wouldn’t be wild about it.”

  “Where is Roger?”

  “He thinks something in one of the appetizers is off. Have you noticed how few toilets they’ve incorporated into the design? And poor signage, too. Where’s Leo?”

  “In the same place, probably. He’s supposed to be getting my coat, but he’s taking a long time.”

  “Have you thought any more about our conversation yesterday?”

  “About joining the department. A little.” She flicked a glance at Nan. “I guess I should make up my mind soon, shouldn’t I?”

  Nan nodded. “Come over and talk again if you like. I think I have your umbrella, by the way.”

  Stevie thought back to the morning. She had been so fed up when she’d left Johns Mayhew, she barely knew what she was doing. Only when she had deposited a fulminating Merritt at her house and driven instead to Leo’s rather than immediately face her mother with evidence of Michael’s obtuseness did she realize what she had to have, what she needed, and what she needed to give.

  Well, it had been a while. And Leo was—why did this surprise her?—good. Goody, goody, good. Pyrotechnics, shooting stars, thunderbolts, steamy passages from Jackie Collins novels—that sort of good.

  Here was a reason to stay in Winnipeg.

  “How about if I let you know early next week?” she said to Nan.

  “You’re looking very flushed suddenly, dear.”

  Stevie started. “Am I? Oh. Warm in here.”

  Nan gathered her shawl about her and raised an eyebrow. “You’re much too young for the change. Anyway, I think I’ll go and loiter around the men’s. If I can find it. Oh, and here’s Leo. Have you been to the washroom?” she asked him.

  Leo looked like an offended five-year-old. “No, I—”

  “Never mind,” Nan interrupted airily and disappeared into the milling crowd.

  “Was there a line-up at the coat check?” Stevie asked.

  “Not bad. But I was looking around for Axel.” Leo held up her coat. “I wanted to talk to him about something.”

  “What?” Stevie turned and put an arm in one sleeve.

  “He was wondering why the Clarks got bequests in Michael’s will or whatever-it-is. Or does Merritt know now? I haven’t seen either of them since the swim-athon. Did Caitlin tell her, if she could get a word in edgeways?”

  “Caitlin didn’t even know.” Stevie turned and began to button up. “The lawyer hadn’t called her yet. So she had two poolside surprises.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Caitlin? She’s fine. Her dress isn’t. Hopefully, she didn’t swallow any of the water.”

  With the onlookers standing around useless as stones, Stevie had taken a dripping Caitlin to the washroom and emptied the paper towel dispenser trying to dry her off, which didn’t endear either of them to the rest of the women in the toilet with wet hands. She then took some of Caitlin’s soggy money and appealed to a salesclerk in a Bathtique store to sell her an enormous beach towel, even though officially the shops weren’t open to trade during the gala opening. Caitlin had remained surprisingly composed after the attack, despite the humiliation of a public dunking. Stevie thought at first news of Michael’s gift was working as an emollient, but while they waited for a taxi, a towel-wrapped and teeth-chattering Caitlin said she was more numbed by it all than anything. Guy will be delighted, she allowed, rolling her eyes. Have you talked with your brother recently? Stevie had probed, wondering if Caitlin knew Guy was under some suspicion. No, she’d replied sharply. And, she added, anger surfacing for a single instant, “the little shit was supposed to meet me here and hasn’t shown up.”

  “So, did you find Axel?” Stevie asked as Leo pushed the door open for her.

  “No,” he replied as they stepped outside onto the mall’s rear plaza, which abutted the Citizen’s back parking lot. “Maybe he took Merritt home before she turned the event into a wacky pool party.”

  A wind had arisen in the time they’d been in the mall, drying the pavement so that water remained only in places where poor workmanship and the whims of nature had left depressions.

  “What was it you wanted to ask Caitlin about in the first place?” Leo asked, hopping over a puddle, feeling in his jacket pocket for his car keys.

  “About Michael’s son,” Stevie replied, going around, rather than over. She put a hand over her eyes. Bits of wind-blown newsprint, binder twine, and dead leaves were whipping around her.

  “What would she know about it?”

  “They were at the Curtis together, remember?”

  Leo stopped suddenly. “Would you mind if we went up to the newsroom for a few minutes?”

  “Sure, let’s just get out of this wind.” She rubbed a dirt particle from her eye.

  “This way.” Leo gestured to what in the faint light looked like a black hole cut into the centre of the Citizen’s backside. “What did you learn?”

  “The mother was from some ultra-conservative German family. She insisted on studying in the States. Probably so she could have some fun. And she did, according to Caitlin. So when it happened, the family came and got her and locked her up in a tower. Where she could let down her hair no more.”

  “Name?” Leo pushed open what looked to Stevie like something out of the days of ice-wagons and street cars, a crudely constructed wooden door with chipped green paint that had set within it yet a smaller door. It was this one they stepped through.

  “Dankmar, I think,” Stevie replied, hiking her skirt, sensing her pantyhose shredding on the chipped wooden frame.

  She found herself in a storage room illuminated by a single lightbulb. In the shadows were battered blackened newsboxes, squat and ponderous, crowded like tombstones in a midnight cemetery. Her nostrils filled suddenly with the odour of dust and something chemical.

  “It’s ink,” Leo responded to her bout of sniffing. “And anxiety.”

  They moved down a s
hort passage toward an interior door, then stepped from the gloom into the front lobby’s blaze of light. The torch-shaped wall sconces and the vaguely Egyptian design of the lobby reminded Stevie of a mausoleum. Past the revolving door to the street, it was pitch. Their footsteps echoed hollowly on the marble floor.

  “The kid goes by his mother’s name,” Stevie continued, noting the skirl of the ancient elevator as Leo pressed the button.

  “But if this Dankmar woman was such a party girl, how do we know Michael was even the father?”

  Stevie watched the red indicator light over the elevator flash 4, then 3, then 2.

  “Well, I guess Michael was satisfied that he was,” she replied.

  “Mmm.”

  The elevator thumped to a halt and she stepped in. “I’ve never been in the Citizen newsroom before.”

  “Well, you’re in for a treat.” Leo pressed 4. “Believe me.”

  Stevie sniffed the air in the confined space. A new, but familiar, scent assaulted her nostrils. A perfume. She couldn’t place it. “So why did you want to come up here?” she asked, flicking a glance at Leo.

  “I want to check one of the files for background. I have an interview tomorrow.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  “A reporter’s work is never done.”

  Stevie frowned. “Something to do with Michael?”

  The door opened. Leo ushered her out into a tiny lobby space with a plate glass door opposite. “Sort of. Yes.” He gave her a funny look.

  “What?”

  “I’m going out to the country.” She watched him press a sequence of buttons on the door lock. “I’m going to visit a monastery.”

  “A monastery? But—”

  Her words drowned in the lock’s noisy rasp. Leo pushed the door open.

  “But—”

  Her words were drowned again. Only this time, they were drowned in the din of a bone-chilling sequence of screams. Stevie knew where she had smelled that perfume before.

  31