Murder as a Fine Art Read online

  “Were you there tonight?”

  “Yes. I painted until eleven or so, then relaxed in the whirlpool and took a swim. And then... well, you know what happened after that.”

  “Do you always use the stairs instead of the elevators?”

  “Most of the time. I do it for the exercise.”

  Jeremy’s studio, a round tepee-like structure, built of logs and designed by the celebrated Canadian architect Douglas Cardinal was at the far end of the cinder path that circled the colony. It was dark, as Laura expected it to be. It wasn’t Jeremy’s style to toil late into the night. However, there were times when he would sit in his studio at night, sipping wine and listening to classical music.

  Now that they knew Switzer wasn’t in his studio, Peplinski was in a hurry to get back to the scene of the crime. He picked up the pace and they soon left the colony behind them. As they rounded the music huts and stepped onto the parking lot, they saw an ambulance parked by the side entrance of Lloyd Hall. Because of the slope in the ground, the parking lot was level with the third floor. Out of consideration for the sleeping residents, the ambulance’s lights were turned off.

  Peplinski left Laura at the door of her room, thanked her for her help, and disappeared through the stairwell door. Laura stood for a moment looking up and down the hallway. All the doors on the floor remained shut. The fire door that led to the stairwell effectively sealed off all sound from that direction, and if any of the artists happened to hear footsteps in the hallway, they would have ignored them. They were experts at minding their own business.

  Or they would have simply assumed it was Marek Dabrowski on his nightly treks to Isabelle Ross’s room.

  chapter two

  Laura’s sleep was interrupted by vivid and frightening dreams. She would wake up and then drift back to sleep again, only to fall into another mini-nightmare. In the morning the only one she could remember was a bulging eye spouting blood while its owner leered malevolently at her. In the bizarre way of dreams, the leering head was crowned with a top hat.

  Soaping herself in the shower, Laura felt the incurve of her waist and smiled. Thanks to the Centre’s bland cuisine, she had lost five pounds since her arrival. She had weighed herself yesterday at the pool, and 135 pounds at five-foot-eight was just where she liked to be. Stepping out of the shower, she scrubbed herself vigorously as if trying to cleanse herself of last night’s gruesome discovery. Montrose had not endeared himself to her or to anyone else in the three weeks he had spent at the colony. She hated the way he had tormented Jeremy over the impending lawsuit, but in his own unpleasant way he had been enjoying life and didn’t deserve to have it snatched away. No one did. Life was too precious and fragile a gift.

  After towelling herself dry, she slipped into a terrycloth bathrobe, picked up the hair dryer and walked over to the window that overlooked the woods where the studios were located against the background of a snow-clad Mount Rundle. Richard Madrin was returning from his morning run. In his early forties, Madrin was fit and very good-looking. His handsome features were saved from being too preppie by the quizzical gleam of intelligent good humour in his grey-green eyes. And, so far as Laura knew, he was unattached. The break-up of his long-term relationship with a famous female television newscaster had been widely written up in entertainment and television guide magazines a few months ago. Laura was attracted to him, there was no denying that. But she had no intention of letting another man control her life. Her ex-husband was also an attractive man, but he had turned into a control freak as soon as they came back from their Caribbean honeymoon. He insisted on managing the household finances himself, refused to let her have a bank account, let alone a credit card, discouraged her from driving a car, and alienated her friends. In retrospect, Laura wondered why she had put up with it for five frustrating years. But she had been young — only nineteen — and unsure of how to assert herself against his self-confident and domineering personality.

  It had been art that finally freed her. Driven by an irresistible urge to paint, she had found the courage to defy him and enrol in an art college. When her paintings began to sell, she left him and later filed for divorce. Laura smiled at the memory of the scandalized look on the judge’s face when she said she wasn’t asking for any of the marital property or any financial support. All she wanted was to be free.

  Although it was pretty clear that Richard Madrin was interested, he had not made any advances. He would have heard the rumour — a rumour she had planted herself — that she had a lover back home in the Denver. There was no such person, but being taken for a “monogamous single” left her gloriously free to pursue her art without the distraction of dealing with would-be lovers.

  Turning away from the window, she began to dress, her firm resolve to remain unattached and independent somewhat shaken by the fact that Richard Madrin was an attractive and intelligent man who did-n’t come across as someone who was into control. On the contrary, he was easygoing and laid back. He could well afford to be laid back, since he had made himself independently wealthy by flipping office buildings. And his books, which he wrote as a sideline, were beginning to sell extremely well. Sideline or not, he took his writing seriously and was rumoured to have retained a public relations firm to keep his name and his books in the public eye. He couldn’t control the book reviewers though, and some of the “serious” critics took delight in putting down his thrillers. But none of them were a patch on Henry Norrington, Laura thought as she let herself out of her room.

  With her usual interest in people she liked and in what they were doing, Laura, after getting to know Richard, had gone to some trouble to familiarize herself with his books. The Centre’s library didn’t carry fiction, but she had bought the two that were still in print at The Banff Book & Art Den on Banff Avenue, and by phoning several second-hand bookstores in Calgary, located one which had three of his out-of-print books. The bookseller was cooperative and agreed to package the books and put them on the Banff shuttle bus. He also promised to look for Mission to Mykonos, the only one she was missing, and send it to her.

  Richard’s books were not the kind Laura would normally read, but she found them, if not earthshaking, at least entertaining and surprisingly informative about places and events. They certainly didn’t deserve to be savaged the way Henry tore into them in the reviews he wrote for the Associated Press newspapers. These thoughts occupied Laura on the short walk to the Banquet Hall in the basement of Donald Cameron Hall.

  The Banquet Hall was buzzing with the news about Alan Montrose. Kevin Lavoie had made the announcement to the members of the colony and the Centre’s graduate art students. He emphasized that it had been an accident and, while unfortunate, shouldn’t be allowed to interfere with their studies or their art.

  Laura joined the other colonists at the table where they usually sat. As always, John Smith sat at a table by himself, downing one large glass of orange juice after another. Today the tall, gaunt performance artist was dressed head-to-toe in black, complete with a bowler hat set squarely on his head. His face was smeared with white greasepaint. Reminded by his hat of her too-vivid nightmare, Laura gave a slight inward shudder.

  Kevin Lavoie was passing among the tables, answering questions about the fatality and assuring everyone once again that it had been an accident. As he approached their table, Henry Norrington declared, “Of course it was an accident. I’ve told you before that that low railing is an accident waiting to happen.”

  “It already has,” interjected John Smith from his nearby table.

  Ignoring the interruption, Norrington went on, “You really should do something about it, Kevin.”

  “We’re looking into it,” Lavoie assured him, knowing full well that months would pass before anything would be done about it. Fixing it now would amount to an admission of fault on the part of the Centre.

  All conversation at the table ceased when Jeremy Switzer joined them. “How come everyone looks so glum?” he asked blithely as he sat down, c
arefully arranging his breakfast tray in front of him.

  “Alan Montrose was killed last night,” Laura told him.

  “What? What do you mean ‘killed’? How did it happen?”

  “He fell down the stairwell on the sixth floor.”

  “I’ll be damned!” Jeremy’s fingers were combing his beard. He cleared his throat and looked around the table. “Well, as you all know, there wasn’t any love lost between Alan and me, but I’m sorry he’s dead.”

  “It was an unfortunate accident,” Lavoie said soothingly.

  “Murder will out,” John Smith chanted in his flat monotone as he put down his napkin and stalked out.

  “John Smith always hopes for the worst,” remarked Laura.

  “He had been drinking, I assume?” asked Richard Madrin as, freshly showered and shaved after his run, he sat down next to Laura. He had heard about Montrose from a student he met on his way to breakfast.

  Lavoie nodded glumly. “He reeked of the stuff. At first I was relieved because it could absolve the Centre from any liability, but then I realized it could backfire on us. As we all know only too well the provincial government is hell bent to make even deeper budget cuts, and we’re a prime target. Montrose falling down the stairs dead drunk in the middle of the night is going to give them some great ammunition. A lot of politicians think of artists as parasites living high on public funds and this will only confirm it.”

  As he replied to Madrin’s question, Lavoie’s tone was deferential. The wealthy speculator in commercial real estate was a potential donor to the Centre, which depended on private donations to supplement the steadily shrinking public funding.

  Erika Dekter got to her feet. “It may sound callous, but I’ve got work to do.” Erika was only five-foot-two and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on her diminutive frame, but she had an appetite out of proportion to her size. The breakfast she had just finished included fruit juice, three fried eggs, bacon, sausage, and several slices of toast. Erika was slightly hyper and had the metabolism to go with it. Her creative energy must burn up a lot of calories too, Laura thought. The two women had become fast friends during their stay in the colony.

  “I’ll go with you,” Laura said and drained the last of her coffee. As they climbed the Banquet Hall staircase to the ground floor, she said, “Isabelle looked absolutely devastated, I didn’t realize she and Montrose were close.”

  “It wasn’t because of Montrose,” replied Erika dryly. “Isabelle’s family is coming to visit her.”

  “Oh no!” breathed Laura. Visits from “outside” were regarded as disruptive influences and were not encouraged. But this went far beyond that. Isabelle Ross and Marek Dabrowski had been carrying on an intense love affair for weeks. A coup de foudre was the way Henry Norrington, in his own pedantic fashion, had described the first meeting between the pianist and the dark-haired composer. Everyone on the sixth floor of Lloyd Hall was aware of Marek’s nightly excursions down the hall to Isabelle’s room. The attitude of the other artists toward the star-struck lovers was nonjudgemental and even protective. It was the sort of thing that was almost inevitable in the hothouse atmosphere of the colony.

  “She’ll have to put her rings back on,” Laura murmured. “You said her ‘family’. What family does she have?”

  “Her husband. He’s a doctor. And a young daughter.”

  On the way out Erika picked up the box lunch she had ordered. They walked the short distance to Lloyd Hall and remained chatting together for a few moments on the front steps. Erika was going directly to her studio, while Laura was going to take a break in her room to sort out her thoughts and mentally prepare herself to resume painting. “How’s the book coming?” asked Laura. “You’re certainly putting in some incredibly long hours.”

  “I can’t seem to stay away from it. A couple more chapters and I’ll have finished the first draft.” Erika was about to say something more, but broke off as John Smith suddenly appeared before them. Doffing his bowler, his painted face devoid of expression, he executed a more than passable tap dance, ending it with a low bow.

  Laura clapped her hands, while Erika remained stony-faced.

  “That’s very good, John Smith,” said Laura, using, as he insisted upon, his full name. She very much doubted it was the name he had been christened with; it was the kind of stripped-down name performance artists often choose for themselves. John Smith produced two pink carnations, seemingly out of the air, presented them with a flourish, and skipped away, whistling to himself.

  Laura fingered her carnation. It was plastic. Typical of John Smith. With him, you never knew what was real and what was false.

  “I bet I’ll find him hanging around my studio,” Erika muttered. “He’s beginning to seriously annoy me.”

  “He certainly has fixated on you. I’d like to think that he’s harmless, but I’m not at all sure he is.”

  “I’ll go along with it for now,” said Erika as she began to walk away. “But if it keeps up, I’ll tell him where to get off.”

  “Which would probably be just fine with John Smith,” said Laura. “It would add a note of tension to his ‘art’. That’s the problem in dealing with performance artists. They stand everything on its head.”

  If only Geoff were here, thought Erika as he headed for the colony. He would know how to handle John Smith. But Geoffrey Hamilton was history, she reminded herself sternly. She would have to deal with John Smith on her own.

  As the Banquet Hall emptied, Kevin Lavoie made his way up to the small office in the administration building that had been assigned to Corporal Lindstrom for the purposes of her investigation. From past experience he had some reason to hope she could be prevailed upon to handle the investigation into Montrose’s death with discretion. She had been gratifyingly discreet about that bizarre business of the poison pen letters and the bearded poet. But the Mountie quickly disabused Lavoie of the notion that an investigation into a death under suspicious circumstances could be handled in the same low-key fashion.

  “We’re dealing with a possible homicide here, not a gay lovers’ tiff,” she said. “You might as well brace yourself to deal with the media.”

  Lavoie found out how right she was as soon as he returned to his own office. His secretary informed him that both a newspaper and a television reporter were downstairs in the reception area, requesting an interview.

  “I’m told you wish to see me.” Jeremy Switzer stood in the open doorway.

  Corporal Lindstrom looked up and closed her notebook. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Switzer.”

  “I didn’t realize I had a choice,” he murmured as he sat down on a chair facing her across the desk.

  She responded with a wintry smile and took a moment to size him up. Laura Janeway had described him as a professional art colonist and he certainly looked the part. He was wearing a thick woollen sweater over an open-necked denim shirt and faded blue jeans. His thinning brown hair was tied back in a sparse ponytail, and the lower half of his face was covered with a salt-and-pepper beard. He seemed blithely unconcerned as he waited for her to speak.

  “You know, I’m investigating the death of Mr. Montrose?”

  “Yes. But I don’t know why,” Jeremy said with a shrug. “Montrose topples over a railing and breaks his neck. End of lesson.”

  “No one seems to know what he would be doing on the landing at that time of night. Apparently he never used the stairs.”

  Jeremy snorted. “The old fart was probably so pissed he didn’t know where he was.”

  “I understand he was suing you for libel?”

  “So you’ve heard about that load of crap.” As always, when the lawsuit was mentioned, Jeremy was defiant, but the Mountie saw his fingers tugging at his beard, as if to distract his thoughts by the self-inflicted discomfort.

  “You weren’t in your room last night. At least not at the time it happened.”

  “No, I wasn’t.” Although it was hard to tell with his beard, Jeremy seemed to be smirking.
“I was in a much more romantic place.”

  “And where was that?” Karen picked up her pen.

  “Oh, I can’t tell you that! It wouldn’t be fair. My lover has a reputation to protect.”

  “You’re saying you were with someone last night?”

  “It was heavenly. The start of a wonderful new relationship.”

  “With who?”

  “I’m not prepared to tell you. The age of chivalry may be dead, but some of us still have a code of honour.” Jeremy frowned. “You’re acting as if this was a murder. Lavoie said it was an accident.”

  “It’s a death under unexplained circumstances. It’s our duty to investigate such cases and part of that investigation is to interview people who knew the deceased and to establish their whereabouts at the relevant time.”

  “I’ll tell you this much, Corporal,” Jeremy said, leaning back in his chair. “I have an iron-clad alibi. If push comes to shove, I’ll trot it out. But not until then. Okay?”

  “Definitely not okay, Mr. Switzer. I could charge you with withholding evidence. But since the investigation is still in its preliminary stages, I’ll just put you down as an uncooperative witness.”

  “I’m doing my best to be helpful,” Jeremy said with a pout. “Don’t waste your time on me, Corporal. I can prove I was nowhere near the residence last night any time I have to.”

  While Corporal Lindstrom was having her unsatisfactory interview with Jeremy, Laura was on her way to her studio. Snow drifted gently down through the lodge pole pines as she walked along the path. Her steps slowed as she approached the large music hut that housed the elegant Baldwin concert grand. Isabelle Ross was playing Rakhmaninov’s Second Piano Concerto with savage intensity. Laura had never heard her play Rakhmaninov before. Very likely this was Isabelle’s way of venting her feelings at the prospect of leaving her new lover’s ardent arms for those of her husband.