Murder as a Fine Art (7 page)

Richard pulled into the parking lot, shut off the ignition, and blinked in surprise as a deer stuck its head in through the Ford's open window.

“Meet the famous Upper Hot Springs tourist-friendly deer,” said Laura as she climbed out of the car. “Every day, as soon as the pool opens, they gather in the parking lot to mooch food from the tourists. People aren't supposed to feed them, but of course they do.”

The deer stood stock still as she petted it. Its coat was surprisingly coarse and bristly and felt something like a doormat. Seeing that no food was forthcoming, the deer nudged the rolled-up bathing suit Laura was carrying under her arm, then wandered off in search of easier pickings.

“It's much colder here.” Richard tugged at the zipper of his jacket.

“It's because we're a lot higher up.”

As they drew near the bathhouse the smell of sulphur permeated the air, leading Richard to mutter that
he now understood how Sulphur Mountain got its name. A blackboard outside the entrance to the bathhouse informed them that today's water temperature was 41° C or 106° F. After changing into their bathing suits, a short flight of steps protected by a glass wall led them from the changing rooms down to the pool.

Standing up to his neck in the water, his head enveloped in sulphurous steam, Richard felt the moisture on his hair begin to freeze. It crackled when he touched it, and he grinned and shook his head. “I've got to admit it's different. Bathing outdoors while the hair on your head freezes!”

Laura smiled. “It's even more wonderful during a snowstorm. I used to come up here a lot at night. You can look right down the valley and see the lights of Banff. It's magical.”

There were other bathers in the pool, but the swirling clouds of steam made them virtually invisible. Now and then a breeze would gently blow the steam curtain aside and they could catch a glimpse of their fellow bathers, mostly members of a Japanese tour group, their faces wreathed in blissful smiles. They stayed in the hot pool for the recommended maximum of twenty minutes then climbed back up the stairs to the changing rooms. Laura told Richard she used the same time limit for the whirlpool at the Banff Centre.

“We definitely must do that again!” declared Richard as they drove back down Sulphur Mountain to Banff. They stopped for lunch and then Laura wanted to visit the bookstore on Banff Avenue. There was a book — a tome, really — on Matisse that she particularly wanted. It wasn't in the Centre's library, although in her opinion it should have been. She had a copy back in Denver, but it wasn't one of the books she had brought with her. Now she needed it. Oddly enough, it
wasn't the paintings themselves but the written descriptions of the artist's approach to painting that never failed to inspire her. And inspiration was what she needed now.

Although famous for its selection of art books, The Banff Book & Art Den did not have the volume she wanted. However, to Richard's immense pleasure, it did have paperback copies of his two most recent thrillers in stock, as Laura already knew. Laura introduced the store manager to Richard. The visit of the well-known author caused a ripple of excitement. A clerk was dispatched up the circular staircase to fetch another clerk who was an ardent fan of Richard's books. A customer bought a copy of
The Blue Agenda
and asked Richard to autograph it for him. Several others, seeing that Richard was happy to oblige, followed suit. Before they left, he had signed all the remaining copies of his books and shaken hands with every member of the staff. The manager promised to move the autographed books to a prominent position just inside the entrance and invited him to drop in whenever he felt like it.

“You handled that beautifully,” smiled Laura as they regained the street.

“I enjoy it. It doesn't happen often enough to become a nuisance and I like talking about my books. I can see how movie stars get to hate it, though. But book people are considerate; they don't try to tear the clothes off your back the way some movie fans do.”

As he talked, Richard glanced down at the sidewalk. The breeze was sending a tiny glittery object scuttling along just in front of them. By some fluke of the wind, its pace was the same as theirs.

“It's a feather,” Laura told him. “It looks like the breast feather of pigeon.”

“It's almost as if we were taking our pet insect out for a walk,” murmured Richard.

“What a wonderful image! And I love the idea of locomotives being turned loose on the countryside. You should put more little touches like that in your books.”

They smiled at each other as a sudden gust of wind picked up the feather and sent it twirling above their heads.

“Are you prepared for the great debate?” she asked, wondering if she was doing the right thing by reminding him of it. Maybe that was why he had taken the day off — he could be too nervous and keyed-up to concentrate on writing.

But the TV show was obviously not preying on his mind, because he looked at her blankly for a moment before his expression cleared and he said, “Debate? Is that what they're calling it? They may be right at that. I expect old Henry will do his best to put me down. But I'm going to try and keep it on a higher plane. Take the high road as the politicians like to say—although they never do.”

“When do you leave for Edmonton?”

“We'll drive down to Calgary first thing in the morning and catch a shuttle flight. We'll have to stay overnight in Edmonton as the program doesn't start until 10 p.m. and they're doing it live.”

Although she was still upset by the flounder incident, Erika forced herself to go back to the studio right after lunch. As she walked along the path, she was so absorbed in thinking about her book that she didn't see the elk until she was almost upon it. Elk roamed freely in the colony woods, as they did throughout the Banff townsite: browsing on trees, helping themselves to
whatever flowers and vegetables took their fancy, stopping traffic as they jaywalked across the downtown streets, and lazing about on front yards like giant lawn ornaments. Although their size was intimidating, Erika had accepted them as part of colony life. But now as a full-grown elk stepped out of the trees and advanced on her, tales of elk attacks came flooding back. After years of relatively peaceful cohabitation with their human neighbours, the elk had suddenly and inexplicably become aggressive. Some blamed it on the floods that had inundated their traditional calving grounds, others blamed it on the golf course that was constructed across their migration route, and still others thought it was the ever-increasing number of tourists that put pressure on the animals. Laura, who seemed to know about these things, said it was because of the fences that Parks Canada had built to keep them off the highway. According to her, the fences had the effect of funnelling the elk right into the Banff town site. Whatever the cause, the fact was that the number of attacks by elk was steadily mounting.
The Crag & Canyon
, Banff's local newspaper, carried stories of people having their noses broken and their legs slashed by the once peaceful animals. Since the colonists had to run the gauntlet of elk in order to get to their studios, these accounts were the subject of much mealtime conversation. On occasion, security personnel were called upon to escort the more timorous artists to and from their studios.

Now it very much looked as if Erika was about to become a statistic — the first elk victim in the colony. The cow elk — she assumed it was a cow because it had no antlers — was pawing the ground and pumping its head up and down in a way that said it meant business. Erika took a step back and looked over her shoulder, wondering if the elk would chase her if she ran back up
the path. To her horror she saw that the rest of the herd had silently filed across the path behind her, completely blocking it. They stood there motionless, chocolate brown heads all pointing in her direction. Erika retreated a few more steps but the cow elk kept coming on. If only Geoff were here! With his understanding of animals he would know what to do. The elk made a curious whistling sound and lowered its head as if to charge. Petrified, Erika got ready to jump to one side.

And then suddenly, with a wild yell, John Smith was at her side. He was wearing his admiral's costume and he waved his three-cornered hat at the elk as he fearlessly walked toward the animal, yelling at the top of his voice. The elk stamped her forefeet at the apparition bearing down on her, then snorted, wheeled, and trotted back into the woods. With a sweeping bow, John Smith offered his arm. “Allow me to escort you to your studio, fair lady.”

Erika took it gratefully. “Thank you, John Smith. You were very brave.”

“Yes, I was, wasn't I?” Adjusting his hat so that it sat squarely on his head, he said, “It's too bad I wasn't properly attired for the occasion. My cowboy outfit would have been perfect. Or better still, I should have been dressed as a matador. That's what I was. A matador!”

Safely inside her studio, Erika wondered if she would be able to concentrate on her writing. The elk incident was a perfect excuse to put off once more dealing with the scandal. Did she have the right to invade people's lives and expose them like this, she asked herself for the hundredth time. She knew
that
was the real reason she kept postponing the moment when she would commit the story to paper. But the encounter with the elk had sent adrenaline coursing through her, giving her a sense of almost reckless well-being. Yes,
she would write it, and now was the time to tackle it. She pressed the power switch on her computer.

After four hours of furious, non-stop writing, the first draft of the explosive chapter was almost finished. With it went all Erika's doubts about whether she should publish it. Seeing the words on paper made it seem more like an exciting game, complete with delightfully recherché clues. And it hung together beautifully. They would never dare sue her. Or would they? There were big reputations at stake here and they would undoubtedly deny her story outright. Then the pressure to put up or shut up might compel them to launch legal proceedings. Just like with Jeremy Switzer. But, unlike Jeremy's allegations, hers would stand up in court. Once the vital clues were pointed out, everything else fell into place. Erika banged the pages on the desk to straighten the edges and placed them in the manuscript box.

She glanced out one of the square portholes as she stood up. Night was fast overtaking the brief mountain twilight. It was the time of day, Geoff used to say, “when swallows turn into bats.” Except that there were no swallows or bats in the Rocky Mountains in March. Her lips twisted in a bitter smile as she switched on the outside light. Once her stay in Banff was over, she would get on with her life.

Someone was sitting on the bottom step of her studio stairs. She almost groaned aloud when the figure sprang lithely to his feet and turned to face her. It was John Smith and he had changed out of his admiral's uniform into what she presumed to be his civilian clothes — black turtleneck sweater, black jacket and pants. His pale face gazed down at her as he fell into step beside her. Appalled, she heard him asking her to have dinner with him in town. Sure, it
was only a dinner invitation, but the anxious look on his face told her it was much more than that. She had to put a stop to this before it got completely out of control.

Turning to face him, she said, “Look, John Smith, I am perfectly happy to be your friend, but I want you to understand that's all I can be. As everybody knows, I'm trying desperately hard to finish my book, and I don't have time for anything else.” After a moment's hesitation, she added, “I'm involved with someone back in New York.” It wasn't exactly a lie — she
was
still emotionally involved with Geoff.

John Smith, who had put his hand on her arm, snatched it back as if the contact burned him. “I should have known better,” he snarled. “You bitches are all alike!”

Stunned by his outburst, Erika remained rooted to the path. After the “nut-cracking” scene, Laura had told her she should talk to Kevin Lavoie. She had put off doing it, but the time had come. Poor Kevin would-n't appreciate being put in a position where he would have to deal with John Smith.

Erika was right about the colony coordinator's reaction. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair as she told him about her increasingly alarming encounters with the performance artist.

“You certainly are being harassed,” he said when she had finished. The bureaucrat in him seemed to take comfort from that categorization of John Smith's actions. Harassment was an officially defined offence and could be dealt with on that basis.

Two hours later Kevin Lavoie reported back to Erika in her room. “Well, I've had my little talk with John Smith.”

“And?”

“I don't think what I had to say made any impression on him whatsoever. He seems to have an ability not to hear what he doesn't want to hear.”

“You don't suppose he's got one of those fixations you read about in the papers — you know, where a man gets the wild idea that a movie star is madly in love with him and writes her letters and follows her everywhere. Not even the threat of being sent to jail can convince him he's wrong about her secretly loving him.”

“Something like that. It's as if he can't bring himself to admit that you really object to what he's doing.”

“But he knows that I complained to you.” Erika bit her lip. “That could have been a mistake. It might make him worse.”

“I doubt it.” Lavoie said reassuringly. “If he's convinced himself you really don't mind what he's doing, he'll have to ignore the fact that you spoke to me. I know it's annoying, but I don't think it's serious enough to worry about.”

“It's more than annoying,” Erika told him as he got up to leave. “It's goddamn dangerous.”

Lavoie had decided there was no point in telling Erika that as John Smith exited his office he was muttering, “The little bitch! She's no better than the rest.”