Dead Politician Society

Chapter 13: Annabel

Annabel sipped from the Styrofoam cup on her desk. As foam crunched in her teeth, she imagined toxins releasing into the peppermint tea and poisoning her slowly.

Or quickly, if Utopia Girl was on the scene.

Annabel glanced around the obituary department. The intern was buzzing around with her twenty-year-old self-importance, guzzling her third giant coffee of the day—and it was only ten a.m. The editor’s skinny, plaid-claid back was hunched over his desk. The phone was ringing non-stop—mostly senior citizens who couldn’t or wouldn’t use the online order form.

Annabel didn’t blame them. If she had a husband who died and left her all alone in her seventies or eighties, she’d want a voice at the end of the line, not a computer telling her thank you, her credit card had been approved and her husband’s abridged life history would run in the next paper. She’d had many conversations with the phone staff, asking them to spend more time with each caller, be a bit more sympathetic in their tone. But they were college kids, students at George Brown or Ryerson, in training to be hot-shot journalists. Death wasn’t real for them yet.

Annabel dug her coral pinknails into the side of the Styrofoam cup, careful not to puncture all the way through to create a geyser of tea. For the millionth time, she pictured the email leaving her computer and flying through the night until it landed in Utopia Girl’s inbox.

What the hell had she done?

Maybe nothing. Maybe it was a dummy address and there wouldn’t be a response.

Her chest relaxed. Of course a killer wouldn’t keep an email address alive after using it to take credit for a murder. “Utopia Girl” was a one-shot identity. Used and discarded, like Matthew with his undergrads.

And sure, yeah. There was the possibility that there had only been that one undergrad. Diane Mateo. Annabel had never asked Matthew about Diane—that would involve admitting she’d Googled his name and found the articles in The Varsity and The Newspaper, U of T’s two student papers, about a scandal involving Diane’s allegations and the question over whether Matthew would keep his job.

He kept his job—of course. Claimed no involvement and no evidence was found. Since it wouldn’t have been a crime—Diane never alleged rape; only a consensual relationship that the university would have frowned upon—the police were never brought in.

Then there was Elise Marchand—the other Google hit involving Matthew and a student. That reference had been more oblique. A student of Matthew’s had been convicted of a strange crime, and Matthew had spoken at length with a Globe reporter about the tragedy of how one misguided decision had ruined such a promising young life. No sexual link was reported between Matthew and Elise, but his interview words held a warmth that even Annabel had rarely seen a glimpse of.

But Matthew wasinvolved in this new situation. How could he not be? Political utopia for the real world wasn’t an expression you heard more than once.

She sipped more Styrofoam tea. Her brain ached from lack of sleep. She’d gone back to bed after she sent the email to Utopia Girl, but every time Matthew twitched, she jolted awake. She’d lain there for hours, petrified that the email would either land her in jail or the morgue.

But now in the light of day, or the rainy gray that passed for light, jail was laughable. And the morgue seemed less likely, too.

Ugh. Here came Penny. Annabel had been feeling attractive today, despite the bags under her eyes. But watching Penny glide along in her tailored beige pantsuit made Annabel feel about as polished as if she’d been climbing trees and making mud pies.