Murder as a Fine Art Read online

  John Smith, white with fury, stood up. “May I go now?”

  “Yes. But if it’s true that you really don’t know anything about the murders, I’d advise you to make that known as soon as possible.”

  “But who would believe me?” John Smith asked as he quietly closed the door behind him.

  Carrying the lunch the kitchen staff had packed for her, Laura was determined to remain in her studio all day, working on the structure of the first panel of a large triptych she was planning to paint. The problem was what object to put below the open window with a view of the mountains in the background. Seated at her desk, Laura penciled in several designs in her sketchbook. None of them worked.

  Her subconscious must have continued to mull over the problem, because, as Laura ate her lunch, she suddenly knew it should be a wooden stool with a violin and bow lying across it. Hastily finishing her fruit salad, she began sketching in the outline with rapid, confident strokes of the charcoal pencil.

  She drew the bow in several positions before deciding it worked best lying beside the violin. Late in the afternoon, she put down the charcoal. The colours she would decide on tomorrow. Colour was never a problem for her. It was the composition that had to be thought through, a process that could sometimes require her to spend hours studying a painting, lying on the floor or climbing a stepladder to look at it from all angles.

  Exhilarated by the breakthrough she had made, Laura locked her studio and headed back to the residence. Looking to her left she saw Henry Norrington trudging with that rolling gait of his up the path from his studio, and decided to wait for him. The depth and clarity of his perceptions had both astonished and impressed her, and she wanted to tell him so. As an artist, she knew how rewarding it was when someone responded to one’s work, and understood and appreciated what it was about. Norrington’s ego was inflated enough already, but like all art, his work had a value and an existence of its own, entirely apart from himself as a person.

  “I was reading one of your books last night, Henry,” she said as he came up to her.

  “Oh. Which one?”

  “Demystifying Deconstructionism. It’s fascinating.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” said Norrington, visibly preening himself. “I, of course, wrote about deconstruction in writing, but much of what I said could also apply to painting. The proponents of that misguided doctrine would have it apply to all the arts.”

  “I agree with them on that, at least. There should be no boundaries in art.”

  “‘In my Father’s house are many mansions’,” Henry quoted gravely. “And so it should be with art.” He paused as if to allow time for the thought to sink in, then said, “Your own paintings, I am glad to say, are the very opposite of deconstructionist. If I read them correctly, they themselves are the object, and not some hidden, underlying agenda. Incidentally, they are, to my untutored eye, quite beautiful.”

  Laura smiled to herself as she thought of the recently completed Dance With Death. But that was an aberration, altogether apart from the mainstream of her art.

  “Thank you. It pleases me to hear you say that. And you’re not fooling me with that business about an ‘untutored eye’.” Laura smiled, at him, then went on thoughtfully, “I think that the creation of a beautiful image, is, as you say, what I am really out to achieve. In my recent paintings I’m trying to capture not so much the thing itself, but the effect of the thing on the viewer. Some of my fellow artists criticize what I’m doing, saying that my work is irrelevant and that I should be seeking to reveal the great unifying principles that underlie everything. Your comment that instead of unifying, the deconstructionists only succeed in putting everything asunder, was a revelation to me.”

  “Hmm. Yes.” Norrington’s glance fell on one of John Smith’s ubiquitous posters tacked, against all the rules, to the side of a music hut. “I have become quite wearied of that word recently.”

  “I know what you mean. But his promise of a revelation seems to be working. I hear they expect to fill the theatre. Listen.” Laura stopped abruptly at the edge of the service road. Music, glorious music, was pouring out of the large music hut across the way. Someone, it could only be Isabelle, was playing a piano with verve and great virtuosity.

  “That has to be a concerto,” she said as the music soared and thundered out through an open window. “And I bet I know whose it is. Let’s see.”

  The curtain had been pulled aside and the window was wide open. It was as though the pianist wanted everyone to hear this magnificent music. Isabelle was seated at the Baldwin concert grand, her trained fingers flying over the keys. Marek, eyes half-closed in concentration stood beside the piano, his right hand conducting an imaginary orchestra.

  Laura and Norrington lingered on the cinder path and let the music wash over them. Ordinarily, Laura would have felt uncomfortably like a voyeur, but not this time. The two lovers were so wrapped up in the music that it wouldn’t have mattered to them if the whole world stood outside their window. Concertos are designed to showcase the soloist, and Marek had provided ample scope for his beloved to display her virtuosity. Isabelle had been right when she predicted it would quickly become part of the standard repertoire. Concert pianists would fall upon it with delight, recognizing it as a perfect vehicle to show off their talents. They would vie with one another as to who could decorate each phrase most elaborately.

  The music thundered to a crescendo, then abruptly ceased. Norrington started to applaud, but Laura grabbed his hands and jerked her head to indicate they should move on. Intent on getting Norrington out of there before he did or said something that would break the spell, Laura failed to notice John Smith standing motionless in the trees at the far end of the hut.

  But there was no overlooking Veronica Phillips. The beautiful young cellist, hidden from the music hut by a curve in the path, stood as if transfixed. Seeing the tears glistening in her eyes, Laura murmured a greeting and kept on walking. But Veronica put a hand out to detain her.

  “Wasn’t that beautiful, Laura? I’m so proud of him.” Veronica’s attitude thrilled Laura. It was art at the highest level; an act of creation transcending personal considerations and being hailed as the masterpiece it was. She smiled at Veronica. “The world of music is a much richer place today. I feel privileged just to be here.”

  “I’ll wait for you in the parking lot,” Norrington said gruffly, seeing that Veronica wanted to talk to Laura.

  “Is it finished?” asked Laura. “I don’t know enough about music to know.”

  “Not quite. There are some missing passages in the andante, and he still has some of the third movement to write. But he has plenty of time to finish it before he leaves.” Veronica’s lip quivered at the thought of Marek leaving and she dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. “When it’s finished I’m going to ask him to transcribe it for the cello.”

  “That would be nice,” Laura murmured diplomatically, knowing it would be the last thing Marek would want. The piano concerto was his song of love to Isabelle and he wouldn’t want to dilute it in any way.

  “That’s what’s so wonderful about this place,” said Laura as she joined Norrington in the parking lot. “There’s always something to inspire you.”

  “That was truly inspiring,” he agreed. “An epiphany, if you like.”

  “Well, my dear,” he said with a courtly little bow as they rode the elevator to the sixth floor. “I greatly enjoyed our little talk. Perhaps we could continue it after dinner. I suppose Richard will tag along with you, but I doubt that a discussion of deconstructionism will be of much interest to him.”

  “You shouldn’t underestimate Richard,” she chided Norrington. “He’s a very intelligent man. And I like his books. I’ve got them right beside yours on my bookshelf. I was thinking last night that there was plenty of room in the literary firmament for both of you.”

  “Humph,” sniffed Henry, opening the door of his room. “If that’s so, his would be a mighty dim star.”


  “I thought you told me Charlene was a lesbian.” Richard nudged Laura as they walked into the lounge and pointed to Jeremy and Charlene chattering animatedly at a table overlooking the pool.

  “She is. And Jeremy is bisexual. Maybe she is too. Anyway, gay people are often the best of friends with the opposite sex.” As if to confirm what Laura was saying, Charlene threw her head back and shook with helpless laughter.

  “Maybe he’s telling her about the reviews of his play,” grinned Richard. “Whatever it is, she’s eating it up.”

  But there’s somebody who isn’t, thought Laura. Kevin Lavoie was standing just inside the entrance, a strange, almost bewildered, look on his face. Laura waved at him, but he didn’t seem to see her. He turned on his heel and left.

  “Your usual, Dr. Norrington?” The barman asked as the trio passed by on their way to a table.

  Norrington nodded, and Richard said, “And we’ll have a bottle of Chambertin.”

  “Have you seen this?” Laura held up a copy of the Centre’s newsletter as Richard pulled out a chair for her. When both Richard and Norrington shook their heads, she showed them an item headed “Colony Resident Accepts University Post.”

  “Dr. Marek Dabrowski,” it read, “has accepted an appointment to the prestigious Indiana School of Music. He will take up the appointment in September. Dr. Dabrowski, a resident artist in the colony since January 15, said in an interview that he will have a light teaching load and will be able to devote most of his time to composing. While at the colony, Dr. Dabrowski finished writing a sonata in C-minor and is currently at work on a concerto for piano and orchestra.”

  “That is, indeed a very prestigious appointment,” murmured an impressed Norrington. “It will do much to further his career. Not,” he added, “that he is not already well established and highly regarded in the world of music.”

  “That could give Marek and Isabelle the perfect opportunity to begin a new life together,” said Richard.

  “Marek is going to dedicate his concerto to her,” Laura told them. “It will be called the ‘Isabelle Concerto’ and she will give its premiere performance. According to her, every orchestra in the world will want to make it part of their repertoire.”

  The drinks arrived and Norrington, in a tone of voice that brooked no denial, changed the subject to the philosophy of deconstructionism.

  “Many deconstructionists believe that depicting something monstrous and deformed by itself amounts to a philosophy,” he intoned.

  “That explains some paintings I’ve seen,” murmured Richard.

  “Just so,” agreed Henry, taking an appreciative sniff of his brandy. “They purport to believe that rational discourse, such as we are enjoying tonight,” he added benignly, serene in the knowledge that virtually all of the rational discourse would be his own, “obscures the real meaning of life.” He shook his massive head at such heresy. “Instead of rational discourse, they treat words as ‘constructs’ that must be decoded in order to discover their true meaning. I admit there is the occasional instance when this seems to work. Take ‘menopause’, for example. It doesn’t require all that much imagination to interpret that as the time when a woman may ‘pause’ in her relations with ‘men’. It’s not hard to see why the philosophy of deconstruction is so popular with feminists. In fact, they have virtually taken it over.”

  “That sounds like an exception that doesn’t prove the rule,” Richard interjected.

  “An apt way of putting it.” Norrington raised his brandy snifter as if to salute the felicity of the phrase.

  “But if you carried this idea, or philosophy or whatever it is, to its logical end, wouldn’t it lead to the deconstruction of deconstructionism itself?” asked Laura.

  ‘Precisely,” Henry beamed at her. “I addressed that very point in an article I wrote called The Paradox of Deconstruction. It did not endear me to the deconstructionists,” he added with a complacent smile. “Incidentally, that article is the last thing I wrote or intend to write about deconstructionism. I have turned to larger, grander themes.”

  “As in How The Post Modern Novel Challenges The Boundaries of Art,” murmured Laura. “A subject like that should give you all the scope you could possibly want.”

  “And I am taking full advantage of it. That is the opus I want to be remembered for. As I am sure I will be.”

  “Still, it was your early work on deconstruction that originally got you tenure at the university, wasn’t it?” asked Richard.

  “And I am duly grateful. But deconstructionism is only an insignificant blip in the literary panorama I am dealing with now.”

  “I’m here to paint, and you’re here to write,” Laura reminded Richard when he made as if to follow her into her room. She let him hold her close for a moment, then gently pushed him away.

  “I never realized before that making love and making art were mutually exclusive activities,” he grinned. “In fact, I had the impression it was just the opposite.”

  “Maybe for some people. But with me it’s a matter of energy. I need to conserve it in order to paint at the level I want to achieve. That doesn’t mean I don’t like you, though,” she added in a subdued voice.

  “I know.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “You go to bed and conserve energy and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Laura, stimulated by Norrington’s ideas and also, she admitted to herself, by the brief physical contact with Richard, knew she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep right away. She smiled to herself as she looked at the collection of Richard’s titles on the shelf. Taking The Blue Agenda down, she opened it at random. Although she had read it before, she was soon caught up in the action, the pages seeming to turn of their own volition. From time to time she paused, silently mouthing the words as if to capture the rhythm of the passage.

  A sudden yawn made her glance at the clock radio on her bedside table. Nearly one o’clock. This was no way to store up energy for painting. Worse, when she did slip between the cool sheets, her mind refused to switch off. Words and phrases kept tumbling about in her head.

  chapter fifteen

  The next morning Norrington intercepted Laura on her way to her studio and insisted that she join him in his studio for a cup of coffee.

  “Wasn’t that incredible yesterday? Hearing Isabelle playing Marek’s new concerto?” asked Laura, taking a careful first sip of coffee. “Those two seemed made for each other. Musically and romantically.”

  The portly pundit folded his hands across his middle and smiled like a benevolent toad. “Dabrowski will drop the delectable Mrs. Ross as soon as his stay in the colony is over.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying. They’re madly in love.”

  “I know perfectly well what I’m saying. Don’t forget I’m a veteran colonist. I’ve stayed in art colonies all over North American and Europe. So has Dabrowski. Our handsome composer has quite a track record. He invariably enlivens his stay with a passionate affair, complete with all the romantic trappings — vows of eternal love, jealousy, ardent looks, the whole gamut. Maybe it inspires him to compose. Maybe he just likes the drama of it all. I don’t know. But I do know there is a consistent behaviour pattern. When he takes up his post at the Indiana School of Music, he will have an affair with some student. And then break her heart. And then another. And another. I know of one woman who committed suicide when he dropped her.”

  “That’s appalling.” Laura wanted to deny the shocking things Norrington had said but he spoke with an air of such calm conviction that she knew he was telling the truth. What should she do about Isabelle? Should she try to warn her? Try to prepare her in some fashion for the shock she was in for?

  Norrington was speaking again, breaking into her thoughts. “It would not surprise me if we have another death in the colony.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It would be designed purely to cause confusion. Maybe even to suggest there’s a homicidal maniac at work. It would have to be completel
y motiveless, to divert attention from the real motive for killing the real victims. Like Jeremy’s motive for wanting Montrose dead.”

  “The police haven’t arrested Jeremy,” Laura pointed out, without mentioning that Jeremy claimed to have an unbreakable alibi.

  “Ah, but there’s the motive. And I’m sure if the police dig deep enough into Erika’s background they will find a motive for killing her. That’s why I say the next murder will appear to be completely random. To throw the police off the track.” Henry paused, “I see it being made to look like a suicide at first but with enough clues to show it was murder.” He paused and gave her a quizzical look. “Why are you smiling at me like that. I didn’t think what I said was particularly amusing.”

  “You know, Henry, you’re a bit of a fraud,” she chided him playfully. “An entertaining fraud, but a fraud nonetheless.”

  “What do you mean?” he demanded huffily.

  “You make a big fuss about not reading Richard’s books. How you only managed to get part way through one of them. You claim they’re completely beneath you. And yet that scenario you’ve just described comes right out of It Stalks By Night. And it wasn’t revealed until near the end.”

  Norrington shrugged. “There’s nothing original about the idea of a red herring murder. It’s been used countless times. In fact, because of its lack of originality, I’m not surprised that it found its way into one of Richard’s books.”

  “If you say so, Henry.” Laura rinsed her mug in the sink. “Thanks for the coffee.” She refrained from thanking him for the troubling conversation.

  Men! Seething with anger over Marek’s self-centred duplicity, Laura closed her studio door with unnecessary force, vowing to never again let herself fall into the trap that was about to snap shut on Isabelle.

  Her anger gradually subsided as she mixed paints and began to add colour to the design she had drawn on the canvas yesterday. The predominant colour was a soft shade of blue with the reddish brown of the violin providing the contrast. Satisfied with the morning’s work, she decided to take the afternoon off to do some shopping in town.