Murder as a Fine Art Page 11

  Remembering Erika and the horrible way she had died, Laura scolded herself for being selfish and self-centred. But, damn it, her art was important. She still felt a lingering resentment as she climbed the stairs to the floor where Karen had her office.

  Karen looked rested and fit, which did nothing to improve Laura’s mood. But her welcoming smile soon faded and her expression darkened as she said, “I just can’t seem to get anywhere with this case.”

  “It’s early days yet,” Laura remarked.

  “I know. But it’s the first few hours that are important. That’s your best chance of getting a break in the investigation.”

  When Laura made no reply, Karen began to flip through the pages of her notebook as if hoping to find an answer there. “I’m told Erika Dekter was very tense in the days prior to her death?”

  Laura nodded. “She was tense, but it was a creative tension. She was very excited about the way her book was going.”

  “Geoff Hamilton is the only one we know who had a close connection with Erika Dekter.” Karen was watching Laura’s face, trying to read her reaction.

  “He wanted to marry her.”

  “So he says. Would she have married him?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Laura surprised herself by saying. “I have the feeling that in the time she spent up here, she was beginning to distance herself from their relationship. To become whole again, if you like.”

  “He wouldn’t have liked that. Especially after the way he burned his bridges with his wife and family. He’s moved into a hotel in midtown Manhattan, by the way. The Algonquin. You don’t suppose,” Karen went on thoughtfully, “he could have called her from New York, perhaps proposed to her and been turned down. That could account for the stress she was under.”

  “I really think you’re wrong about her being under stress. It’s more a matter of her being totally wrapped up in her writing. And how can you get around the logistics? How could Geoff have done all that needed to be done in the available time?”

  “Difficult, but not impossible. There’s such a thing as preparing the ground beforehand. I’ve asked the Calgary detachment to go back to the Westin hotel and poke around some more. Check his outgoing calls. Something might turn up.”

  “Speaking of outgoing calls,” Laura said thoughtfully, “there’s a way you could put your theory about Geoff calling from New York to the test.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Erika didn’t want a phone in her room. That means that any calls for her would have to go through the central switchboard. You could talk to the operators and see if they remember any calls coming in for her.”

  Karen closed her notebook with a snap and got to her feet. “I’m on my way.” Opening the door for Laura, she added, “That’s why you’re so valuable. You know how this place works.”

  Galvanized by the need to make up for lost time, Laura put aside the nearly finished small abstract and attacked the largest blank canvas. An image had been festering in her subconscious since the night Erika died, and it was time to get it out of her system. With vigorous, confident strokes of charcoal she began to sketch in the outline of a male ballet dancer, wearing a mask, and dancing with Death as his partner. By early afternoon she had reached the stage where she could start to work with paint. She put on a CD that mixed bird songs with background music, humming content-edly to herself as she mixed colours in the empty yoghurt containers she favoured for the purpose. Five hours later, she knew that the painting would be powerful and also that it would demand a great deal of creative energy. Things that had been pent up inside her were now exploding on the canvas. Her stomach rumbled quietly, reminding her that she had worked through the lunch hour. It was also getting dark as the sun began its descent behind Sulphur Mountain, blocking the setting sun and shortening the hours of daylight at the Centre. She shivered and, after carefully cleaning her brushes, locked the studio door behind her and started down the path.

  Richard, accompanied by a young woman laden with a camera, tape recorder, and notebook, was standing on the path in front of the blackened patch where the boat studio had once stood. Was he giving an interview to the press about Erika’s murder? That would be too much! He waved at Laura, and he and his companion walked up to join her at the junction of the circular path. The young woman was a reporter all right, but she wasn’t there to do a story on the murder. Richard explained, with that air of ingenuous enthusiasm that Laura found so appealing, that The Crag & Canyon was going to do a profile on him and his writing. His attitude was a refreshing change from the jaded, why-do-I-have-to-put-up-with-all-this approach affected by some other writers Laura knew. He openly revelled in the attention his books brought him, and it was nice to see.

  The distant skirl of bagpipes made the three of them stare at each other and then look up the path. John Smith, with a plaid blanket wrapped around his waist as a makeshift kilt, and a ghetto blaster slung over his shoulder, was marching his motley crew down the path. As he came up to Laura and her companions he switched off the music and shouted, “Parade Halt!” Laura recognized three of his four assistants. The most striking was a long-limbed black woman whose name was Desiré. She was from Martinique and was studying modern dance. The other woman had taken a printmaking course and now worked in housekeeping. She had close-cropped blond hair and was known to be a lesbian. What was her name? Charlene. That was it. The young man, with the dark, slicked-back hair, glasses held together with tape, and a gold earring in his left ear, was a cashier in the Banquet Hall. His name was Justin; Laura couldn’t recall his last name, if she had ever known it. He had an amusing line of patter and aspired to be an actor. Laura didn’t know the other man, but was pretty sure that he too was studying drama.

  When John Smith learned that the woman with Richard was a reporter, he immediately handed her a notice of his upcoming recital and pressed her to attend. “You’re free to take as many pictures as you like,” he assured her. “Remember it’s the Walter Phillips Gallery on April Fool’s day.” Then he switched on his tape machine and his little band marched off to the strains of “Scotland the Brave.”

  Staring after them, Richard muttered, “If there isn’t a medical term for that guy’s behaviour, there should be.”

  The reporter gave an appreciative chuckle as she folded the notice and placed it in her notebook. “I just might take him up on his invitation. It sounds as if there could be a story in it.”

  “I can almost guarantee that,” Richard grinned. He turned to Laura. “That Phillips guy must be a pretty generous donor to have a gallery named after him.”

  The reporter made a small choking sound and Laura quickly interjected, “Walter Phillips was a famous Alberta artist. He made wonderful woodcuts. But there’s no reason for you to know that.”

  “I confess that I’m not very well informed on the local art scene. But,” he smiled cheerfully at Laura, “you’ve got to admit I’m doing my best to catch up!”

  They walked the reporter to her car and, as she drove away, Richard turned to Laura. “Your painting went well. I can tell from the look in your eyes.”

  Laura nodded happily, and put her arms around him as they kissed. Hand in hand, they walked into Lloyd Hall.

  “Listen to this one!” Jeremy exclaimed gleefully. One of his plays had been produced in New York and a friend had sent him the reviews. Jeremy had attended the opening night, but had left for Banff long before the reviews appeared. It was remarkable that the play was reviewed at all. The fact that they were so scathing is what probably led to their finally being printed. Laughing uproariously, he was regaling his fellow artists with them.

  “‘Never was the famous advice Run, don’t walk to the nearest exit more fitting than in the case of Jeremy Switzer’s self-indulgent excuse for a play, The Function of Ten.

  “And how about this one? ‘Stay home and do yourself a favour.’”

  Carefully folding the press clippings, Jeremy picked up his friend’s letter and read fro
m it. “I ran into Anita Goldstone, your wealthy socialite friend from East Hampton during the intermission. She was absolutely livid and was shouting ‘someone will pay for this’ as she swept out the door.”

  Hooting with laughter, Jeremy spluttered gleefully, “The best part is that she’s the one who will pay. She financed the whole production!”

  Even Henry Norrington was amused; his heavy shoulders shook with laughter as he asked, “I take it this production is off-off-Broadway?”

  “Not only is it off-off-Broadway. My friends had to travel to the wilds of Queens to see it.”

  Shaking his head, Richard said, “I don’t know how you can be so casual about those reviews. I admire your attitude, but...” He shrugged and let his voice trail off.

  Jeremy laughed. “I’ve got some real zingers from my previous plays in a scrap book. If I get enough of them, I’ll publish them in a collection.”

  “I’ve never met a writer quite like Jeremy,” mused Richard as he and Laura left the Sally Borden Building. Mount Rundle’s sharp peak was biting a wedge out of the full moon. “He doesn’t seem to care what people think of his plays.”

  “And what about you?” Laura turned to face him. “I recall reading some reviews of your books that weren’t exactly flattering. But it doesn’t seem to bother you.”

  “Maybe not outwardly. Besides, I don’t think it’s quite the same. In my case, the unfavourable reviews are really directed at the thriller genre, not at me specifically. Book review editors delight in giving the kind of books I write to academics who can be counted on to trash them. That I have learned to accept and live with. But I couldn’t stand the personal humiliation and ridicule that Jeremy seems to revel in.”

  “I don’t think his plays are all that important to Jeremy. I have this theory that they’re just an excuse to allow him to live the kind of life he wants to live.”

  “That explains a lot about his attitude. Anyway, the book I’m working on now will knock their socks off.”

  On the steps of Lloyd Hall he took her by the arms and turned her to face him. “As I have said before, and will again, you are very beautiful in the moonlight,” he whispered and kissed her gently.

  When they broke apart, she took a step back. “Remember what I said about the painting. I started it today and, as I expected, it’s going to take every ounce of energy I can muster.”

  Brushing his lips against her forehead, Richard murmured, “I will wait. How long?”

  “Depends. Maybe only a couple of days, if I can maintain the pace.”

  chapter eleven

  “What are you staring at?” demanded Laura.

  “It’s Corporal Lindstrom. She’s in civilian clothes.” Richard was giving a rapid-fire commentary like an on-the-scene reporter at a news event. “She’s wearing a skirt, would you believe? Her legs are gorgeous, by the way. I was wondering about that.” With his instinctive courtesy, Richard stood up as Karen, carrying a tray with nothing on it but a cup of coffee, approached their table and asked if she could join them.

  “It’s my day off,” she announced somewhat defensively as she sat down. “I’m not going to take the whole day off,” she added as if this would be unpardonable. “But I’m entitled to spend a few hours at least with my daughter.”

  Richard looked around as if expecting the daughter to suddenly materialize before them, while Laura realized with a mild sense of shock that it had never occurred to her to wonder about Karen’s home life. Somehow one didn’t associate public functionaries like the police and firefighters with such ordinary impediments as spouses, children, and all the domestic concerns that go with them. Karen stirred her coffee as if unsure of what to say next. Richard, sensing that it was Laura she wanted to talk to, piled his dishes on the tray and excused himself.

  “I talked to the telephone operators as you suggested,” Karen said.

  “And?”

  “In all the time she was here, Erika received only one phone call. It was a man. The operator remembers that he had a sexy voice.”

  “That could be Geoff.”

  “It was. I called him in New York. He admitted making the call.”

  “Did he tell you what it was about?”

  “He wasn’t all that forthcoming. He said they talked about her book and their possible future together. He said it was after that phone call that he decided to come here.”

  “Sounds pretty close to what we talked about. She could have turned him down.”

  “True.” Karen didn’t seem to want to pursue the matter any further. It was obvious she had something else on her mind.

  Changing the subject, Laura said, “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

  The policewoman seemed uncharacteristically unsure of herself. She took a deep breath before saying, “She’s the reason I’m here. Knowing how busy you are, and how precious your time is, I would never ask this favour on behalf of anyone else. I’ve told Ingrid, that’s my daughter’s name, all about you and she is dying to meet you. She’s only seven but she’s taking art lessons at school and they tell me she has real talent. From the drawings that she brings home, I think so too. I know she loves it. She’s never met an honest-to-God artist and talking to you would be a real inspiration. So I was wondering if you could possibly take the time to come to my apartment and have lunch with us. I know it’s an imposition, but....”

  This was precisely the sort of intrusion that Laura resented. But she had become fond of Karen and, as a professional artist, she had some obligation to encourage a gifted child. Besides if she painted as vigorously as she planned to this morning, she would probably be powered-out by noon anyway. “I have a better idea,” she said. “Why don’t you bring the lunch, and you and Ingrid meet me at my studio around noon? That way she can see the paintings and also get an idea of what an artist’s studio looks like.”

  “That’s more than I dared hope for. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “If I minded, I wouldn’t do it.” Laura smiled, then went on, “I’m a little surprised you haven’t mentioned your daughter before. Especially since she’s interested in art.”

  “I’ve wanted to. But police personnel try to keep work and family life as separate as possible. I’m sure you can understand why. But I like to think you and I have become pretty good friends. Maybe this being my day off had something to do with it as well. Makes me feel more like a civilian, I guess.”

  “I understand.” Laura gave a tentative cough before going on. “Please excuse my curiosity, but I’ve always thought how perfectly your name suited you. It’s so classically Nordic. But now I guess Lindstrom may not have been your maiden name? I know it’s none of my business...”

  “You’re right about Lindstrom not being my maiden name. But it was something equally Nordic. It was Finnsdtter, no less. Pure Icelandic. My ancestors came over from Iceland and settled in Gimli, Manitoba, way back in 1875.” She paused for a moment, and then added, “While we’re on the subject of me and since you’ll be meeting Ingrid, you should know that her father is dead.”

  “I’m so sorry. How long ago did he die?”

  “Two years next month. Larry was a policeman, too. He was a member of Calgary’s Tac-Team and he was killed in the line of duty. He and his partner went into the basement suite of a house where a suspected killer was living. The neighbours told the Tac-Team that there were two young children sleeping in the basement. The police wanted to get them out before they stormed the house so the killer couldn’t use them as hostages.”

  “What an incredibly daring thing to do.”

  “They almost made it. But the three-year old boy Larry was to bring out woke up and started to yell before Larry could put his hand over his mouth. The killer ran to the top of the stairs and shot him just as he reached the window. Larry was wearing a flak jacket, but the guy was a handgun expert and shot him at the base of the skull where he had no protection. But he managed to push the kid out the window to his partner before he went down.”

/>   Laura reached out and squeezed Karen’s hand. There was nothing to say.

  “I sometimes used to wonder if the reason I’m so enthused about Ingrid’s artistic bent is that it means she won’t become a cop. It does run in families, you know. Larry’s father was one.” It was as if Karen was thinking aloud. “But then I realized it wasn’t that at all. If Ingrid really does have a talent, then I want her to have the opportunity to take it as far as she can.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting her,” Laura said with a smile. “Why don’t you have her bring along some of her drawings?”

  Ingrid was a paler version of her mother. Tall for her age, she had Karen’s wide shoulders and narrow hips. Her flaxen hair was parted in the middle and braided in a long ponytail. Her pale blue eyes seemed to have no depth, until she smiled. Then they came alive with a cool, composed intelligence. She was, thought Laura as she welcomed the child, the obverse side of the mirror to little Jessica, Isabelle’s dark-eyed daughter.

  Ingrid, holding a leather portfolio in front of her, stood silently in the middle of the floor, raptly gazing at the paintings that were stacked and hung everywhere. Laura had turned the big painting she was working on face to the wall. It was becoming steadily more macabre as it progressed and it would be deeply disturbing to a sensitive child. Ingrid breathed deeply, inhaling the mixture of paint and cleaner as if to draw the essence of the studio inside herself.

  “I’ve never seen anything like these before,” she murmured finally. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything,” replied Laura. “Just look. We’ll talk later.”