Murder as a Fine Art (12 page)

Laura nodded. “She's taken her rings off again.”

The bottle of wine was finished. Norrington, who had consumed most of it, excused himself.

“You're amazingly patient with Henry,” Laura said as they watched Norrington's troll-like figure heading for the door. His malformed hips made him walk with a slightly rolling gait. “Some of the things he says about your writing are completely outrageous.”

Richard shrugged. “It's just one man's opinion. Actually, I like the old guy. And in many ways I admire him. Fate, in the form of genetics, played a cruel trick by inflicting that ungainly body on him. But he does what he can to overcome the handicap with his daily swimming regimen. And he's used his brilliant mind to turn himself into a celebrity.”

“You're very understanding,” murmured Laura, surprised and pleased with Richard's reply. His usual manner was casual, almost flippant, but there were times when he displayed an acute perceptivity about people. “I will admit, however,” he was saying with a laugh, “that there are times when the way he dumps on my books does get under my skin.”

“That reminds me. With everything that's been happening, I keep forgetting to tell you I finished
The Blue Agenda
. I enjoyed it. It's a real page turner.”

“That's what I like to hear,” Richard said, and then sat back in his chair with a bemused smile. “I didn't know you were reading it.”

“I've read all your books except
Mission to Mykonos
. I just received a second-hand copy of it and I'll read it as well.”

“I'm flattered. And a little surprised. In the first place, I don't know how you managed to get copies of the earlier ones. They've been out of print for several years.”

“I have my sources,” Laura said, hoping to sound mysterious. “I'm quite good at research, you know.” She leaned forward slightly. “When all this is behind us, I could discuss them with you, if you like.”

“They're just entertainment,” he said with a slight shrug. “I don't expect them to be taken seriously.”

“I realize that. But there are times when they seem ready to break through to another level.” Laura paused as she saw he was frowning. “You needn't worry that I'm out to change your style, or anything like that. I just thought it might be useful to have some input from an interested third party. But if you don't want to ...”

Richard looked uncomfortable. “I'm not sure how I feel about that, to be honest with you. You're a genuine artist with your own aesthetic. I'm not sure I could ever write at the level you would expect. Or that I would want to, if it comes to that.” He looked at her. “I'm sorry, Laura. It's not that I don't appreciate your offer. I do. But ...”

Laura leaned forward and took his hand in hers. “There's no need to explain, or apologize. I understand. Consider the subject dropped.”

T
he front-end loader, its scoop filled with sodden ash and charred bits of wood, snorted its way along the path, heading for a waiting dump truck. They were cleaning up the debris that had once been Erika's studio. Laura knew there would be no painting for her today. She turned her back on the noisy machines with their stinking diesel fumes and retreated back up the path. She still could salvage something from the day that stretched before her by doing what she had intended last Sunday, when she and Richard ended up going to the Hot Springs — look at some art books in the library.

The Centre's library had an impressive collection of art books. Laura roamed among the shelves, not looking for anything in particular, waiting for inspiration to strike. She paused as her eye fell on a familiar title,
Art and The Law
by Milstein. There was a copy of the legal text in her Denver studio; she had purchased it after a New York art dealer had sent her a twenty-page
contract, heavily weighted in his favour. The final document that they signed was three pages long and heavily weighted in
her
favour. As she stared at the textbook, something that had been niggling at the back of her mind suddenly clicked into place. She remembered it because at the time she read it, it had seemed totally wrong. Picking up the text, she seated herself at a table and turned to the chapter on libel.

There it was. In black and white. The paragraph was short and to the point. “A libel action is extinguished with the death of the plaintiff.” The statement was backed up by a number of judicial decisions, one of which was
Drake v. The Sacramento Times
, which meant that the legal principle applied in California where Montrose had brought his suit against Jeremy. The paragraph went on to say that a libel action was so personal in nature that the courts had held it should not survive the death of the defamed plaintiff. As it had when she first read it, it struck Laura as not being right somehow. It seemed unfair that a family couldn't defend a departed member's honour and reputation. But there it was.

What an incredible piece of luck for Jeremy! His fortune and self-indulgent lifestyle were safe.
If
it was luck. This was definitely something that Corporal Lindstrom should know about. She found Karen in her temporary office. She was on the phone, but she waved Laura in through the open doorway.

“That was Mr. Hamilton letting me know he has checked in to the Banff Springs Hotel,” Karen said as she replaced the receiver.

“Look at this.” Laura placed the legal text, open at the passage on libel, on the desk in front of Karen.

“It's a textbook motive, if you'll forgive the pun,” Karen said with a low whistle after reading the paragraph.

“That book is kinda old. We should make sure it's still the law,” Laura said. “I know. Let's give Geoff a call. He's a hot shot Wall Street lawyer and he should know the answer.”

It turned out Geoff didn't know the answer. He specialized in securities and SEC work. But he would call one of his partners who did a lot of libel litigation and get right back to them. He did so within five minutes. The passage in the text was a correct statement of the law. He went on to say, maybe to excuse his own lack of knowledge, that it was such an obscure and little known rule that only a specialist in the law of libel would be expected to know about it.

“Jeremy would have consulted libel lawyers as a result of Montrose's lawsuit,” Laura pointed out after Karen had hung up.

“That's true. But that point might not have come up—Montrose being alive at the time. But if Switzer
did
know about it beforehand, it gives him a picture perfect motive.”

“Why don't you check it out with Jeremy's lawyer?”

“Won't do any good,” replied the corporal with the air of one who has been there. “He'll just give me a run-around about solicitor-client privilege. Except I guess in the States it would be attorney-client privilege.” Closing the textbook, she said, “I haven't managed to have my talk with Mr. Switzer since we found out about the bruises on Montrose's ankles. He's gone downtown shopping, according to Dr. Norrington who had breakfast with him. You know,” she went on thoughtfully after a slight pause, “I think I'll have him picked up for questioning. That should attract his attention. If he's got an alibi, as he claims he has, now's the time for him to trot it out.”

Leaving Karen to corral Jeremy, Laura pressed the elevator button in the hall outside the Mountie's office.
The door slid open and she gasped and took an involuntary step back. The cloaked figure inside the elevator wore a black eye-mask and broad brimmed black hat. It took her a moment to realize it was only John Smith in his Lone Ranger costume. He was taping a notice on the elevator's rear wall. She knew it would be pointless to tell him he shouldn't be going around scaring people like that. To him, it was all part of the ongoing performance that was his life. She entered the elevator and rode down to the ground floor of the Donald Cameron Hall with him. The crudely printed notice announced that John Smith would be giving a performance in the Walter Phillips Gallery at 8 p.m. on Tuesday, April first.

“Nice touch that, don't you think?” said John Smith as they got off. “Having it on April Fool's day, I mean.” He had a thick sheaf of notices along with a roll of tape and a box of thumbtacks. It was clear that he intended to spread word of his show far and wide.

“Having the police around asking stupid questions is going to detract from my happening,” he grumbled as he tacked a notice to a bulletin board inside the main entrance. “People won't be able to concentrate on it.”

“Maybe everything will be cleared up by then. Let's see. Today is Thursday, the twentieth. That gives you what? Twelve days. A lot can happen in twelve days.”

“The way they're stumbling around, hell will freeze over before they solve it. You'll be there, of course?”

“At your performance? I wouldn't miss it!”

“There's one.” Laura pointed to a sheet of cardboard tacked on a telephone pole. She and Richard were on their way back to their respective studios after having lunched together in the dining room. He hadn't mentioned the good luck kiss Laura had given him the
night before he went to Edmonton, but it was obvious his interest was aroused. Now he stopped and read the notice announcing John Smith's performance. His studio was directly across from the Thom studio that had been assigned to the performance artist, so he couldn't help but see the comings and goings.

“That promises to be quite a performance,” he muttered. “He's enlisted some of the housekeeping staff to help him act out whatever it is he's got in mind.”

Laura nodded. It was quite common for young actors, musicians, and artists whose grants had run out, or whose courses were completed, but who wanted to remain at the Centre, to take jobs with the housekeeping department. It was a pool of talent that was often tapped for bit parts in plays, extras in operas, and to augment visiting orchestras.

“It'll be interesting to see what he comes up with,” murmured Laura.

“Not to mention bizarre. His assistants look pretty strange when they come out of that studio.”

“That's all we need!” the Centre's president groaned as he looked up from the poster on his desk.

“I talked to John Smith and tried to get him to postpone his performance,” said Kevin Lavoie, “but he refused. Said that doing it on April Fool's is an important part of the performance. I suppose we could always force ....” He stopped when he saw Fraser shaking his head.

“We can't do that,” said the president. “That would go against everything the Centre stands for. Our role is to foster and encourage art in all its many forms. We're not censors. I would like to steer Benson and the minister well clear of it, but I'm sure that won't be possible. Did I tell you that Harvey is going to bring his wife?”

“No, you haven't told me. Have you met her?”

“No.” Fraser's smile was ironic. “I hear she's devoted to good works and is a pillar of her church.”

“Beautiful! With police all over the place and John Smith doing his thing!”

As the dinner hour approached, Karen waited for Laura on the footbridge. “But I didn't want to interrupt your painting,” she said as they fell in step together, “but I wanted to tell you about my little chat with Mr. Switzer. I think he rather enjoyed being picked up by the police on Banff Avenue. He said it saved him the taxi fare.”

“Sounds like Jeremy. What did he have to say for himself?”

“He admits knowing that the death of the plaintiff puts an end to a libel action. He claims that he only learned of it after he talked to his attorneys and told them about Montrose.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I'm still trying to make up my mind about that. He's so offhand about things that he's very hard to read. But it may not matter. He seems to have an unshakable alibi for the night Montrose was killed.”

“Which you're not going to tell me about.”

The policewoman shot the artist a sideways look. “There are times when you are positively uncanny. You're right, I'm not going to tell you what his alibi is. Not now, anyway. But it's fully corroborated.”

“Which means he was with someone whose word you are prepared to accept.”

The policewoman laughed. “Next you'll be telling me the name of the person.”

“Not yet. But maybe it'll come to me.” They stopped outside the side entrance of Lloyd Hall.
“What does this do to your theory about Montrose's death?”

“If it weren't for those subcutaneous bruises, I'd be inclined to put it down as an accident. The trouble is that the bruises could have been caused in any number of ways. He could have backed into something, for example.”

“Knowing Alan, he could have bruised himself banging his heels against the footrest of a bar stool down at the Rose & Thorn.”

“That's what I mean. They're just not conclusive, one way or the other.” She paused, then added quietly, “But the evidence is pretty conclusive that your friend Erika Dekter
was
murdered. The results of the preliminary autopsy are in and it appears she must have been dead before the fire. They were able to determine that she hadn't breathed in any smoke.”

Laura was silent for a moment, then said, “From the rumours I've heard about the condition of her body, I'm surprised they could tell.”

“The pathologists have their little ways. If you want the gory details, there was no trace of soot in her trachea, and no carbon monoxide in her blood.”

“Is this to be public knowledge?”

“No. I want to keep the murderer in the dark as much as possible.”

Jeremy was in high spirits that night at dinner. Now that he knew the police were aware that the libel action against him had collapsed, he openly crowed over what he chose to regard as a great legal victory. As a final turn of the screw, he had instructed his attorneys to try to recover the costs of the action from Montrose's estate. They had advised him that successful litigants
weren't entitled to recover costs under California law, but he had told them to go ahead anyway. Laura got the impression that if they didn't succeed, they would wait a long time for their account to be paid. Jeremy was a rascal, but a rather engaging one. In a way, it was sort of reassuring that there were people who could trip blithely through life the way he did.