Murder as a Fine Art (8 page)

As he let himself out a side door of the residence, Lavoie saw an RCMP cruiser pulling away. Christ. Were the police still looking into Montrose's death? Drunks falling down stairwells and a weirdo harassing a female writer. What had he ever done to deserve a job like this — nurse-maiding a bunch of adult delinquents? So far, the media had treated Montrose's death
as an accident. There had been no follow up to the initial story. But if it turned out not to be an accident …! And if John Smith actually attacked Erika—which was how these things often turned out!

It didn't bear thinking about, and it couldn't be happening at a worse time. After a long courtship by Alec Fraser, the Centre's charismatic president, it looked as though the Chinook Foundation was finally ready to come through with a munificent donation. Alec was hoping for three million. The chairman of the Foundation was due to visit the Centre in a little more than a couple of weeks, and the provincial minister of culture was coming down from Edmonton at the same time. Everything would be in place for the big announcement. Somehow he would have to keep the lid on until then. The Chinook board of directors were notoriously conservative.

While Kevin was thinking these gloomy thoughts, Laura stepped back from a canvas and slipped out of her paint-smeared apron. Assailed with a mild case of guilt from taking the day off, she had gone to her studio directly after an early dinner. Instead of working on the painting she had begun to block out, she retouched a still life, deepening the green of the leaves to put them more in the background.

She wondered what the art world would make of her new works. Isaac, her excitable New York dealer, would have a bird when he saw the still lifes instead of the abstracts he was expecting. And the critics would probably say she should have stuck with the abstracts for which she was so well known. To hell with it. She needed a change of pace and the colony was the place for new beginnings. Laura checked her watch. There was plenty of time for a swim before the pool closed.

The pool, along with other athletic facilities, was in the Sally Borden Building — the Banff Centre, with its world-wide reputation and glamorous setting, attracts many benefactors and honours the most generous of them by naming buildings, theatres, and halls after them. Laura recognized the Tchaikovsky Second Piano Concerto thundering down from the speakers as she emerged from the locker room. That meant Michel was the lifeguard on duty — he had a passion for Tchaikovsky, particularly the three concertos, and liked to turn the volume up late at night when the pool was mostly deserted. Light from a late-rising moon streamed in through the glass roof.

Laura settled into the whirlpool with a grateful sigh, letting the powerful water jets work their wonders with her fatigued painting muscles. Then she dove, with a considerable splash, into the pool. At night she liked to swim on her back, looking up at her reflection in the sloping glass roof. By some trick of light, any part of a swimmer's skin that was not completely submerged, turned black. It was like swimming while wearing a black mask. The illusion never failed to delight her, and she was quite happy not knowing its cause.

Climbing out of the pool, she exchanged a few words with Michel, a graduate music student who was studying the violin, and continued on to the women's locker room to change. When she came out, Richard was standing at the counter getting a towel and locker key from the attendant. Impulsively, she went up to him, kissed him lightly on the lips, and whispered, “Thanks for today, and good luck tomorrow.”

Startled, he reached for her. But he was too late. She slipped out of his grasp and ran laughing up the stairs.

T
he TV lounge on the third floor of Lloyd Hall was rapidly filling up as colonists and art students streamed in just before ten o'clock on the following night. Marek Dabrowski was waiting for Laura and intercepted her as she was about to enter the TV room. Erika, who had ridden down in the elevator with her, said she would save Laura a seat. Instinctively, Laura looked around for Isabelle Ross but there was no sign of her. Her husband and daughter had left for home that morning, and, according to the grapevine, Dennis Ross had the look of a man in shock.

Drawing Laura to one side, Marek said, “Since you were the one who alerted me to what Eckart was up to, I think you should know what I have decided to do.”

He paused as if expecting Laura to say something. When she didn't, he went on, “I called him down to my studio and told him that I had decided not to report him, much as he deserved it. I also told him that I
would be monitoring everything he published and that if I heard so much as a single bar of my music in one of his compositions, I would... blow the whistle.” It was obvious from the careful way he pronounced it that Marek had learned the idiomatic phrase especially for the occasion.

“I think you made the right decision.” Inwardly, Laura was relieved. If Marek had decided to report Eckart to the chair of the music department, she would inevitably have been drawn into the affair in the role of a corroborating witness. “I trust Carl was properly grateful?”

“Grateful? No, I wouldn't say he was grateful. At first, when he didn't know what I was going to do, he was humble, almost servile. When he knew he was off the...”

“Hook,” supplied Laura, and Marek went on, “Thank you. I always have trouble with your English idioms, much as I enjoy them.” He paused and then said with a frown, “When Eckart realized I was not going to report him, he became his usual belligerent self again. It was as if the whole thing was somehow my fault.”

“Hey, you two.” Erika was waving at them from inside the television room. “The show's about to start.”

The program opened with a close-up of the host, Kate Lewis — a good-looking woman in her late thirties, with straight dark hair framing a pale complexioned face and lively blue eyes. In some ways, she reminded Laura of Erika. She glanced sideways at Erika to see if she had caught the resemblance too, but her friend's face was expressionless as she watched the screen. Erika looked absolutely exhausted. She had told Laura that she had been writing in her studio since early that morning. To Laura's surprise, Erika had come equipped with a clipboard and ballpoint pen.

The talk show host began by introducing Norrington, describing him as a literary guru whose books of literary criticism and philosophy were required reading in every literature course in North America. The camera zoomed in for a close-up of Norrington's face, dominated by that large nose, which seemed to lead his head around. The rest of his face looked as if it had been assembled from disparate parts. His small mouth was pursed in a deprecating smile, but behind his thick glasses his eyes glinted with self-satisfaction.

The camera switched to Richard as Kate Lewis began to talk about his books. There was no hint of the reverential tone she had used to introduce Norrington as she described Richard as a writer of thrillers “that some reviewers have been known to call lurid.” The introduction was insultingly offhand, but Richard appeared completely unruffled. His good-natured smile never wavered.

“Now, Dr. Norrington.” Kate Lewis paused and looked archly at Norrington. “It is ‘doctor', isn't it?”

Norrington smiled with false modesty. “I do have a doctorate in literature, and two universities have been gracious enough to confer honorary doctorates on me, so, yes, I think I can fairly be called doctor.”

“I think so, too. Can you tell us something about the project you're currently working on?”

Again Norrington smiled, but this time the false modesty was replaced by condescension. “It's quite an ambitious undertaking. In fact, once it is completed, it will be my major opus. It has, I'm afraid, a rather formidable working title —
How The Post-Modern Novel Challenges The Boundaries Of Art
.”

“I'm impressed,” smiled the TV host, leading him on. “What does it mean?”

Norrington launched into a lengthy discourse, replete with words like “self-reflexivity”, “taxonomic categories”, “genre distinctions”, and similar jargon.

Erika was scribbling furiously, like a college student taking notes at a lecture. Once or twice she made a small sound as if agreeing with a point Norrington was making. The two of them were in the same field, so what Henry was saying was probably fascinating to her, thought Laura.

While Norrington droned on, the camera switched briefly to Richard. He appeared to be listening with keen interest. He was obviously following his game plan to stay on the “high road.”

“I can understand why you have won so many awards for your scholarship,” said Kate Lewis when Norrington finally wound down. Trying to inject some life into the program, she turned to Richard.

“I've heard people describe some of the sex scenes in your books as lurid.”

Richard grinned. “Surely you don't expect me to let all the research I've done go to waste, do you?”

This brought a smile from the host and a hastily suppressed laugh from one of the camera operators on the floor.

Still smiling, Kate Lewis asked, “Have you won any awards for your books, Richard?”

Richard shook his head. “I don't write to win awards. The only award I'm interested in is that my books are read and enjoyed by a lot of people. Being on the bestseller list is good enough for me.”

“Fair enough.” The interviewer seemed to like that answer. “Do your books regularly make the bestseller list?”

“The last two have. In fact,
The Blue Agenda
got as high as fifth.”

The camera followed him as he leaned forward, his handsome face animated. “My editor and I are really excited about the novel I'm working on now. I have the feeling it could be headed for a respectable run at the top of the list.”

Norrington sniffed audibly, and Kate Lewis turned to him. “I gather you don't think too much of the thriller genre.”

“Let's just say my sympathies are with the trees.”

“Say, that's good!” Richard threw back his head and laughed. “I'll remember that one! But Henry is being too hard on the thriller genre. I think it's a versatile literary vehicle. You can explore almost any theme you want with it. For example, the book I am working on now is more psychological than anything else, and I like to think the main protagonist is a character with considerable depth.”

“That's an intriguing thought. Let's explore it a little further.” Richard's unaffected good humour was winning the host over and she knew it was having the same effect on the audience. The director of the show saw it too, and, to Norrington's obvious chagrin, the relaxed, likeable author received the lion's share of attention for the rest of the program.

When the credits rolled, saying that tonight's guests had been flown to Edmonton courtesy of Air Canada and would be staying at the MacDonald Hotel, there was general agreement in Lloyd Hall that Richard had clearly won the day.

“Henry's his own worst enemy,” said Jeremy as he pressed the off button on the remote control. “He's so used to lecturing to a captive audience of students that he can't see how stiff and formal he comes across to the average viewer.”

“I find that hard to believe,” replied Laura musingly. “After all, he's not a stranger to television and
should know what works and what doesn't. Maybe he just had an off night. I think Richard's casual attitude about things, including Henry's opinion, throws him off stride.”

“Well, it's back to the studio for me,” said Erika, as she stood up. Her air of fatigue seemed to have been replaced by one of excitement. There must have been something in Henry's monologue that I missed, thought Laura. Maybe to his peers old Henry was pretty hot stuff.

She looked at Erika with concern. “It's late. Why not get some rest? You've been going awfully hard.”

“My book is almost finished and I can't stay away from it.”

“That's wonderful,” Laura congratulated her.

“I'll walk you there.” John Smith swung a cloak around his narrow shoulders and fastened the clasp. “In case of an elk attack.”

Tired and edgy, Erika snapped, “I'll take my chances with the elk, thank you.” As soon as the hurtful words were out of her mouth, she wanted to call them back, but John Smith was no longer there.

Laura slept with the drapes pulled back so she could see the dark mass of Mount Rundle as she fell asleep. She could not remember if it was the faint orange glow or the need to go to the bathroom that woke her. But something did. Still half asleep, she turned her head on the pillow and watched as the ominous glow grew steadily brighter. Throwing aside the covers, she leapt out of bed and ran to the window. There was a fire in the colony! She tried to phone security but the line was busy. In the distance she heard the rising wail of the sirens as the fire engines raced through the sleeping town.

It must be one of the eight studios in the woods! Dear God, it might be hers! The flames lit her way as Laura, wearing a terrycloth robe over her pyjamas, rounded the first music hut and ran across the service road. With a whooshing roar, a towering pine exploded into flame. The path was filled with running figures shouting instructions to each other. Laura hurried across the footbridge and then stopped dead in her tracks. The boat studio was on fire. Except that it wasn't just a fire, it was a roaring, orange inferno that was literally vaporizing the dry, weathered hull. If Erika was trapped inside that holocaust she was beyond hope.

Laura scanned the gathering crowd for a glimpse of her friend. The flames leaping skyward lit the scene as if it were high noon. With growing desperation, she darted from person to person, searching each face. But none was the one she was looking for. A gasp went up as another tree burst into crackling flames like a giant firecracker. Erika must be sleeping in her room at Lloyd Hall. After all, it was two-thirty in the morning and she had been exhausted to begin with. Clinging to the thought, Laura headed back toward the residence, running against the tide of excited people, most of them with coats or jackets hastily thrown over nightclothes, streaming toward the fire. With a wailing crescendo of sirens and urgent blatting of horns, three fire trucks turned down the service road and ground to a halt. Firefighters, bulky in their yellow fire resistant gear, jumped down and ran toward the fire, unreeling hoses as they went.