Murder as a Fine Art Read online

  “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.

  chapter nineteen

  As 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 Mare
k’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.

  The Bensons had positively glowed when they spoke of their visit to Laura’s studio and the painting they had acquired. “It’s going to be shown in New York first,” Mildred Benson informed them happily. Her husband smiled benignly at her. He had discreetly inquired of Kevin what price range Laura’s paintings usually sold for and was well content when he was told that since it was fairly small he could probably expect to get it for around four thousand.

  That had been a brilliant move on Kevin’s part, thought Fraser. If things would only stay the way they were right now! But they wouldn’t. He took another deep breath and coughed gently to get their attention.

  “I feel I should warn you that what we are about to see tonight might turn out to be somewhat upsetting,” he said. “Performance artists are notorious for pushing the envelope — if I may borrow a term — and the one who’s recital we are to attend is probably the most extreme of the lot.” He paused, then added hopefully, “It’s not really necessary for us to attend, you know.”

  “After what Mildred and I were exposed to yesterday, we’re ready for anything,” Harvey Benson replied.

  That’s where you’re wrong, thought the president as he resignedly rose from the table and told them there was time to freshen up before going to the theatre.

  A double line of people snaked its way from the main entrance to the jammed parking lot where they stood packed between the cars. “How many do you think there are?” Laura looked back over her shoulder as she and Richard headed for the steps that led to the rear of the building.

  “There must be damn close to two thousand.”

  “That’s double the capacity of the theatre. There’s going to be a lot of disappointed people.”

  The air buzzed with excitement as people talked about the deadly events in the colony and speculated about what they might learn tonight. As they waited for the doors to open and the outdoor screens to light up, they were entertained by members of the opera program who had decided to take advantage of the captive audience. Costumed singers sang familiar arias and were warmly applauded. Before descending the steps, Laura turned to look back at the crowd. She spotted Marek and Isabelle near the head of the queue, clapping enthusiastically as the singers took a bow. Veronica was standing a few rows behind them, chatting animatedly with a charmed Carl Eckart.

  Jeremy opened the outside door as soon as Richard knocked. Cautioning them to be quiet, he led the way to the main floor just below the stage, and they slipped into the three seats in the front row nearest an exit.

  Then the president’s party came in. Escorted by two young female ushers, they were seated four rows up on the centre aisle. Turning around in his seat, Jeremy caught Kevin’s eye and blew him a kiss. Kevin turned away and Norrington, who was sitting next to him looked affronted.

  “You’re bad, Jeremy,” Laura whispered. Jeremy merely grinned in reply.

  “I thought you’d be helping out backstage,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Nope. My usefulness came to an end when the props were finished. John Smith may not want to admit it, but he’s damn lucky I was around to lend a hand.”

  The theatre rapidly filled as the main doors were opened and people streamed in and took their seats. The house lights dimmed and a spotlight picked up John Smith alone on the stage. The right side of his face was covered with white greasepaint, and he was wearing a baggy black suit that might have been meant to represent a clown costume—one of the lachrymose, mournful school of clowns. Bathed in a blue spotlight, he launched into a long monologue in a flat, uninflected voice. Some members of the audience began to stir restlessly as he droned on. As is not unusual with performance artists, much of what he was saying was incomprehensible — to make sense would be showing disrespect to the words themselves. At some point, however, a garbled social comment began to emerge for those who listened carefully. It had something to do with slavery; of men and women being enslaved by an uncaring, monolithic society.

  As he spoke, the spotlight was switched off to be replaced with a pale, diffuse light that slowly expanded to fill the entire stage area. On the catwalk high up in the flies, stagehands lifted counterweights from the arbours and a cage began its smooth descent. In the cage were five half- naked mannequins, shackled and bound the same way they were that afternoon in John Smith’s studio. Jeremy leaned forward. “Charlene has an interesting bod. Too bad it’s going to waste.”

  “I doubt if Charlene thinks it’s going to waste,” replied Laura.

  A stagehand crossed to centre stage carrying a chair and a naked mannequin. He arranged the mannequin on the chair, spreading its legs suggestively apart, and walked off. Clever, thought Laura. That will reinforce the impression that all the figures are lifeless mannequins. John Smith’s monologue was turning into an incantatory rant as he denounced society’s debasement of women. The mannequins were unmoved. Some people in the audience exchanged glances, not knowing whether to go or stay. At the end of his lengthy harangue, John Smith produced a huge wooden key and pretended to unlock the door of the cage. He made a magician-like gesture and the shackles dropped from Charlene. She stepped out of the cage and beckoned the others to follow her, but they remained frozen in place. Hands clenched at her sides, she gazed upwards to follow the ascending cage as it disappeared from sight and the lights dimmed.

  “They were going to do a voodoo show at this point, but John Smith cancelled it,” whispered Jeremy. “He said he wanted more time for his revelation, but the real reason is that Desiré was upstaging him.”

  After a few moments of almost total darkness, a spotlight picked up Desiré standing in the wings. A curious, almost animal-like sound went up from the audience. Hands on hips she stood before them, magnificently imperious. Her hea
d was crowned with a tiara, loops of gold hung from her ears and her defiant stance thrust her cape apart, exposing perfect, widely spaced breasts. A golden belt encircled her dancer’s waist just below the navel, and skin-tight leotards, the same tan colour as her skin, encased her lower body. She was womanhood at its most magnificent.

  “She’s a living work of art,” murmured Laura.

  Desiré stared haughtily down at the audience and slowly removed her gold-collared cape. Handing it to an unseen someone behind the curtain, she began to dance.

  John Smith entered wearing a dark business suit. As Desiré flashed by, he reached into a pail and flung something at her. It might have been red dye or it might have been blood. Desiré stumbled as if wounded, then recovered and went on dancing, her naked back streaked with red. On her next pass, John Smith lobbed a plastic bag at her. It struck her on the chest and broke apart, sending up a cloud of pink powder. Desiré pretended to stagger, then danced more slowly, trailing one arm like a wounded bird. John Smith gave a cry of triumph and stepped in front of her, smearing her body with white chocolate, screaming a polemic on society’s institutionalized debasement of women.

  Listening to his harangue, Richard muttered in an aside to Laura, “Is there a point to all this?”

  “It’s meant to be a catharsis, not a solution,” she whispered back.

  Desiré was now standing motionless on the stage, arms pressed to her sides while John Smith continued to slather her with white chocolate that stood out against her brown skin. Then he began to lick it, bringing a hiss of indrawn breath from the audience.

  There was a rustle in the audience as Mildred Benson, her husband and Alec Fraser trailing in her wake, marched up the aisle and out the door.

  “That tears it,” said Laura. “Damn.”

  On stage, John Smith flung Desiré contemptuously aside and she collapsed in a crumpled heap. Electric lights flashed on, outlining a crucifix at the rear of the stage. Two men, both wearing business suits, marched over to the fallen Desiré and dragged her inert form over to the electric crucifix. She offered no resistance as they strapped her to it. There was a flash, accompanied by a crackling, sizzling sound, and the crucifix was obscured with a dense cloud of blue smoke. The curtain came down and the house lights came on for intermission. There was no applause, just an excited buzz of conversation.