Murder as a Fine Art (23 page)

“Would you mind telling me what's going to happen?” he said as he straightened up. “So I can get out of harm's way, you know.”

“There won't be any danger. It will just
look
like there is.”

“Uh, huh,” said Jeremy dubiously, eyeing the two identical containers on the storeroom floor. “What are these cans for?”

“They're not cans, they're urns. Sacred urns.”

Jeremy nodded gravely. He could image the obscene rites that would have sanctified the urns.

“Aren't you worried someone will smell the kerosene?” he asked.

Charlene shook her head. “Nobody will come in here until just before the performance. This place is just for storage. Here take this.” She handed him one of the urns and picked up the other herself. “Come on, or I'll be late for rehearsal.” Taking Jeremy by the arm, she propelled him out of the storeroom, locking it behind them.

“Don't worry about me,” said Jeremy casually. “I'll go down to the work shop and touch up a few things.”

But Jeremy didn't go to the workshop. Instead, he made his way backstage and watched the rehearsal that was underway. The performance was only one day away and John Smith was still improvising, but the main structure was in place. If nothing else, it was going to be a long drawn-out affair, Jeremy discovered, as he shifted uncomfortably on his hard backed chair. John Smith finally called a break for lunch, warning everyone to be back on stage in half an hour.

When the rehearsal resumed, Desiré began to dance, this time holding one of the urns over her head. This was more like it. Jeremy's flagging interest picked up as he watched the leotard-clad dancer leaping lightly about the stage. When her performance was over, Jeremy slipped away to the workshop where he spent an hour working on the props. Another hour in the morning and everything would be finished in plenty of time for the performance. Jeremy smiled with satisfaction as he put away his tools; working in a theatre once again was turning out to be a very enjoyable experience.

On his way to the lounge for a beer, he saw Kevin escorting a middle-aged couple. From the obsequious way Kevin was behaving, they could only be the Bensons. Benson was the chairman of some foundation that was going to donate a pisspot full of money to the Centre. The story was that Alec Fraser had been courting him for months. Kevin would be giving them a royal tour of the campus. But he would undoubtedly bypass one of the most interesting exhibits. With a gleeful grin, Jeremy changed course to intercept them.

Kevin eyed him warily as he came up, but introduced him effusively as a playwright who was working on a new play. The Bensons seemed agreeably impressed, and smiled politely as he fell into step with them. Kevin began to relax as Jeremy chatted away, extolling the unique
virtues of the Centre. But he stiffened with alarm when Jeremy began to talk about the “fascinating” exhibit in the Walter Phillips Gallery, calling it a “must see” display.

“I'm sure they wouldn't be interested,” Kevin protested.

Mrs. Benson shot him a glance. She obviously was not accustomed to being told what would or would not interest her.

Jeremy looked surprised. “But Kevin,” he said in a sweetly reasonable tone, “this is the Banff Centre for the Arts and that's the only major art exhibit on display. I think they have to see it.”

“Mrs. Benson and I are very fond of art,” Harvey Benson said. “We'd like to see it.”

Kevin cast a despairing glance heavenward and followed in their wake as Jeremy, chatting away to the increasingly charmed Bensons, led them over to the gallery.

“Interesting. And quite attractive,” Mrs. Benson paused in the doorway to survey the gleaming white plastic shapes on the floor. “What are they, do you suppose? Some type of fungus, possibly?”

“You're very close,” Jeremy complimented her. “This sign explains it all.”

He led her over to the sign that was headed
Urinary Garden
. There was a sharp intake of her breath as she read. Pointing to his name in the list of contributors, he said, “I was happy to do my bit for the cause.”

Mrs. Benson sniffed and turned away. “Come, Harvey. I think we have seen enough.”

“Thanks a bunch,” Kevin muttered as he followed them out of the gallery.

“I thought it would broaden their horizons,” Jeremy said, adding sanctimoniously, “After all, isn't it that what the Centre's for?”

As she was doing more frequently now that the weather was deliciously spring like, Laura was taking the long way back from the colony. Her pace slowed as she thought about her relationship — if that's what it was — with Richard. He was undeniably attractive, wonderful company, and he was more than satisfactory as a lover. But did she love him? No. Not yet certainly, and probably never. But that didn't mean they couldn't have a mutually rewarding relationship.

Having reached this decision, Laura paused on the footbridge and let her thoughts roam back over the events of the past two and a half weeks. Were the killings behind them, or was there more to come? Were they purely random with no linkage between them? It certainly seemed that way. Maybe somebody with a grudge against the Centre, somebody who had been rejected or was jealous of the artistic success of the colonists. Like the student who had accused Montrose of plagiarism. Or like the frustrated composer Carl Eckart. If that was the case, she could be at risk herself. On the assumption that there was a rational motive behind the killings, Laura had not felt threatened because, try as she might, she couldn't think of a single reason why anyone would want to murder her. The divorce had been years ago, and her ex had remarried and had two young daughters. The few affairs she had allowed herself since then had ended amicably and she was on good terms with all her ex-lovers.

But what if the killings were motiveless, and were the work of a homicidal maniac? Laura shivered and hurried toward Lloyd Hall. Not that there was any safety there. The reality was that there was no safety anywhere.

Richard knocked on her door just as Laura was about to go down for dinner. His expression was easygoing as usual as he told her he had to drive down to Calgary to meet some people who were flying in with a proposal to purchase an office tower in Seattle. They were going to meet at the Calgary airport. “I almost feel like a traitor to this place,” he added with a grin, “to be talking crass commercial deals, but it looks like an excellent opportunity and it won't be on the market for long.”

He said that since it was only eighty miles he would drive back up after the meeting, but that it would be very late and he would see her tomorrow. “But not too early. I'll probably be bushed.”

“Make a million, darling,” Laura murmured as she kissed him.

He grinned. “I just might at that.”

He was plainly excited at the prospect of doing a deal. If you had the knack, as he obviously did, it must be a great way to make your living, Laura thought. You could earn a great deal of money without having to spend all your time at it, and without having to spend every day at the office.

After dinner, Laura retired to her room and read, this time making notes.

A
s Tuesday, the first of April, dawned, John Smith's performance loomed over the campus like a palpable, physical presence. Linked as it was to the mysterious deaths in the “campus in the clouds,” it had received extensive coverage in the local media, not only in
The Crag & Canyon
but the Calgary papers as well. The news stories speculated about the possibility that the promised “revelation” might reveal the identity of the murderer. From all accounts, it appeared that many, possibly hundreds, would have to be turned away.

At seven-thirty that morning, a worried-looking Kevin Lavoie and Corporal Lindstrom were standing outside the theatre, conferring on what could be done to control the situation. The police had persuaded several Calgary radio stations to broadcast messages warning people that the capacity of the theatre was limited to 959 people, and that many of those who
showed up were bound to be disappointed. Those from outside Banff were urged to think twice about coming.

“There will be closed circuit television screens and loud speakers outside the theatre,” said Lavoie. “That may placate those who can't get in.”

“It will help,” Karen agreed, but she was still frowning. “I don't like it. It could so easily get out of hand and turn into a major disaster.”

She bit her lip and looked uncertainly at the coordinator. “I don't suppose the Centre could be persuaded to cancel the performance? On the grounds that the theatre can't accommodate the crowd?”

Kevin shook his head. “There's nothing I would like better. For more reasons than one. But to cancel the show would violate everything the Banff Centre stands for. It would be seen as a form of censorship and, worse, would tell the world that we are not capable of providing an adequate showcase for the artists under our wing. Whether we like it or not, John Smith's performance is art and we have a responsibility to uphold and nourish art in all its forms.”

“I knew that's what you would say.” Karen sighed and gazed unhappily up at the immaculate Alberta blue sky. “What I wouldn't give for a good spring blizzard to keep people away. It's calving time and the ranchers are always complaining about there being a blizzard when their cows start to calve. So why isn't there a blizzard?”

“Now that's more like it!” Harvey Benson boomed as he and his wife stood in the middle of Laura's studio gazing at the vibrant paintings. Kevin, desperate to repair the damage done by the
Urinary Garden
— last night Benson had harrumphed that so far he hadn't seen anything remotely resembling art — had asked
Laura for permission to bring the philanthropist and his wife to her studio. Knowing how vitally important it was to her beloved Centre, she had agreed at once.

The visit went swimmingly. The Bensons were openly delighted with the still lifes and tolerant of the abstracts. Mrs. Benson's gaze kept returning to a small painting of a vase with a bouquet of flowers and three pears arranged in front of it. Finally, she ventured to ask if they could possibly purchase it.

Laura replied that it had to go to New York as part of her show, but if they really wanted it, she would make sure the gallery reserved it for them. The Bensons beamed at each other. Its being exhibited in New York would give their painting a special cachet.

“You've saved the day!” Kevin whispered gratefully as he ushered his charmed charges out the door.

As always, entertaining guests in her studio drained Laura's creative energy. Leaving the studio, she followed one of the animal trails that meandered through the woods up to the top of a ridge. Here in the woods, patches of snow still lingered, but most of it had melted, uncovering the elk and deer droppings that carpeted the ground so thickly it was impossible to walk without stepping on them. Scattered among the droppings was the twisted black scat of coyotes. A pair of mule deer eyed her warily, then lowered their heads and resumed grazing.

On her way to the studio that morning she had paused for a few minutes to listen to Isabelle practicing Marek's concerto. Artists were different from other people, Laura mused. They had totally different priorities. The average woman on finding out that she had been callously used by her lover would fling her hurt and fury in his face. But Isabelle was clearly determined to keep her emotions in check for fear of losing the concerto. Marek was equally determined that she
should be the one to introduce his masterpiece to the world. It would be interesting to see how those two would act toward each other during the rest of their stay. Isabelle might not be able to keep up the pretense that she knew nothing about Marek's womanizing. Laura knew that if it had been her, she would have confronted the deceiving bastard with icy disdain and sent him packing. But she could understand Isabelle's decision. Old Eckart would be disappointed, though, to see his spiteful act of revenge falling flat.

Laura's thoughts veered to John Smith's upcoming performance. Now that he had succeeded in creating all this interest, what was he going to do to live up to people's expectations? What if he had nothing to reveal? Or what if his great revelation was that he, John Smith, was the murderer? That would be a performance to end all performances. Laura tried to dismiss the idea as impossible, but it wouldn't go away. Not completely. Shaking her head, she began to retrace her steps down the trail.

Richard had spotted her and was waiting for her on the path. “How did the meeting go?” she asked, kissing him lightly on the lips. Drawing back to look at him, she said, “You don't have to tell me. I can see you're excited.”

He laughed. “Am I that transparent? You're right, it did go well. I'll have the lawyers check out a couple of things and then I'll probably sign on. I've got to admit,” he added, “it felt good to be back in that other world for a while. It's so fast moving and challenging. It's totally different from writing where you live with a novel for months or even years.”

“Yet you inhabit both worlds with great success.”

“I'm not complaining. Not at all. I enjoy the business world. Always have. But my books are more important to me. Much more.”

“We'll have to line up early for the performance tonight,” Laura said as they walked along the path. “I want to have seats right next to an emergency exit.”

“It's all arranged,” he told her. “Jeremy is going to let us in a side door just before they open the floodgates at seven-thirty.”

Alec Fraser took a deep breath as coffee was served. He and his guests were finishing dinner in a private dining room. Joseph Moore, the provincial minister of culture, had arrived that afternoon, and the Bensons were there, as was Kevin Lavoie. Kevin had suggested inviting Henry Norrington and that had worked out well. Both the Bensons and the cabinet minister were clearly impressed by the internationally known philosopher and comfortable with the views he expressed.